John Barth - Giles Goat-Boy

I was at once unspeakably relieved, for though I'd seldom actually seen motorcycles, I understood them well enough. As they drew nearer, the firelight revealed a party of humans in black leather jackets, variously ornamented with silver studs and bright glass jewels. Goggled and helmeted, each was mounted upon a gleaming black machine with sidecar attached. They drew up in a rough half-circle around us, engines guttering: piled up, rather, for there was no precision in the maneuver. The lead cyclist — a bearded, sooty fellow — braked abruptly with a spray of sand and no prior warning; the second missed striking him only by good luck and instant reflexes, which those behind seemed not to share, for they bumped one another, perhaps even intentionally, with curses, shouts, and laughs. One who had no sidecar attached fell over onto the sand, his wheels roaring and racing; another made as if to run over him — skidded close to his head, sounded a siren, and was sprung upon a moment later by a third, in sport or anger. "Knock it off!" their leader bawled, and the man beside him — long-nosed, thin-toothed, and dapper, the only one of their number both sootless and unwhiskered — repeated or enlarged upon the order in some snapping other language, hectoring the squabblers with some difficulty into line.

Anastasia sighed loudly. "It's just Maurice." She stood up and brushed sand from her shift.

I was nonetheless far from easy, what with the formidable ring before us, Croaker growling and turning beneath me as if at bay, and all I had heard of Maurice Stoker crowding to mind. The men on either end of the arc sprang off their machines now, put up their goggles, and advanced towards me, carrying what I guessed were pistols: the others shouted encouragement or raced their engines, ignoring the sootless one's command to be silent. Croaker moved at the nearer of the two, who raised his weapon and ordered us to halt. I had only an instant to think what to do, and not sure I could stop Croaker or that to do so would spare us a shooting, I chose instead to lash out with my stick: it cracked against the pistol and sent it flying. Anastasia cried out; the man swore an oath and sprang back to his fellows, several of whom jeered at his dismay; there came just behind me a deafening bang, which crashed and rattled up the gorge, and as Croaker spun about I saw smoke still issuing from the leader's pistol, aimed at the sky. I raised my stick again, though the fellow was well out of reach and might easily have brought us down had he chosen to. But unlike his companion, whose expression had been first threatening and then frightened, this man had a fierce grin on him and a sparkle in his eyes; he seemed delighted either by the sight of me perched on Croaker's shoulders or by our little initial victory, and he neither retreated nor aimed his gun at us when Croaker came towards him.

"Whoa down!" I said, uncertain how to proceed, and was gratified at least to see Croaker obey. With pounding heart I regarded our adversary, who had removed his helmet and goggles and was calmly blowing the smoke from his pistol-barrel: ruddy-cheeked, short-statured, and heavy-set he was, but not fat, with black curls on his head, hands, and finger-tops. Shags of the same bushed over his eyes and upper lip; he had a sharp beard, like a black spade, and one vertical ridge from the front of either temple up to his hairline — a not unhandsome face withal, and the more striking for the clear eyes that flashed from so swart a field.

"I'm George the Goat-Boy," I said distinctly. Someone whistled, and was told by someone else to shut his mouth. My antagonist merely scrutinized me, arms akimbo. His grin was a plain challenge, to which I rose with some heat.

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm a Grand Tutor."

The man replied with a raucous fart ("Hear hear!" his cohorts cheered), raised his pistol again, and with incredible smiling calm aimed it at my heart. I understood then that he himself was Maurice Stoker.

Whether in fact he meant to shoot me dead or merely try my boast I was not to discover, for Anastasia hurried between us at this point. There were whistles and improper comments from the ring of cyclists.

" Don't, Maurice, for pity's sake! He doesn't know what he's saying. He really is the Goat-Boy!"

He lowered his weapon and grinned at her. "Had yourself an ape; now you want a billy goat." His voice was only teasing; I was chagrined to see Anastasia lower her head and touch his leather jacket.

"You shouldn't have let that happen," she complained. "You could have stopped Croaker in time."

He clouted her lightly aside the head with his helmet: it was a left-hand swat, and at too close range for injury. But the mean insinuation, the unreasonableness of the blow, Anastasia's small cry and the way she clung to her abuser — these so enraged me that I dug my heels into Croaker's ribs, raised my stick, and charged him, heedless of the pistol. But several of his men had dismounted by this time, armed with what looked like electric cattle-prods; they held us at bay while the long-faced officer put a hollow pipe to his lips, gave a puff, and sent a little dart into Croaker's buttocks. With a bellow Croaker swiped at the wounded ham and brushed the dart away; he made to spring at the blow-pipe man, who retreated a step but then stood ground instead of running; half a second later Croaker dropped to his knees, and I barely managed to scramble off as he pitched face-forward onto the sand. Instantly I was myself hemmed round by cattle-prods. Anastasia ran from her husband to examine Croaker, whom four laughing men already were dragging, dead unconscious, towards one of the sidecars. They paused to let her look at him, and ogled her the while.

"Just a little nap," Stoker called. "We wouldn't kill a friend of the family." Then to me he said, "You care to sleep awhile too, Billy-buck? Why not park your shillelagh and join the party?"

Stick in air I had been about to have at the cattle-prods, but hesitated at his odd approximation of my former name. In that instant I heard Max (who had stood helpless by the fire this while, wringing his hands) say, "Don't fight, Georgie. That don't Graduate anybody."

I lowered my stick, though my heart beat hard still with attack. My guards gave way, their prods however held yet at the ready, and Anastasia slipped between them to my side.

"Give her a goose," I heard one man mutter; he was answered by a jab in the backside from another, and at once the two went rolling in the sand, their comrades calling encouragement from the sidelines.

"Croaker's all right," Anastasia assured me. "He'll wake up in an hour or so. Please don't mind Maurice and the others; they always carry on like this. Let us drop you and Dr. Spielman off somewhere."

I merely frowned, uncertain what to think and distracted both by the riotous men and by Stoker's now approaching Max, with a look of joyous disbelief.

"I will be flunkèd!" he cried. "Is it Max Spielman under all that hair?" He opened his arms to embrace him, but Max shook his head and raised a warning hand.

"It is Max Spielman, the fingerless proctologer! Who're we going to EAT this time, Maxie?"

"Dean o' Flunks!" Max cried.

A new and delightful idea seemed to occur to Stoker; he turned to Anastasia, face alight. "Did you know it was your own daddy watching you with Croaker?" And to Max again, not waiting for reply: "Wait till Virginia Hector sees you in that Old-Syllabus get-up: she'll swear off forever!"

Bounding from us he directed his men then to see to it Croaker's arms and legs were secured against revival; dashing back, he bade us all climb into sidecars for the trip to the Powerhouse, where, he declared, we would carouse the night away while he and Max recalled the grand old days when they had EATen ten thousand Amaterasu undergraduates at the cost of one Moishian forefinger.