Whish! Brrr! Whoosh! Splash!
Suddenly—silence.
Slowly, Revanche rose. He could not believe it. He looked over the ledge. Only the bare and boiling sea. He turned and glanced up the tube. Silence and shadows, and the gleaming greasy symbol for zero.
Understanding melted the glacier on his brain. He broke into a wild dance, wept tears for gladness, whistled three times, and shouted, "I've won! Revanche has won! And I've beat them!"
Clippety-clop! Clippety-clop!
The unbelievable ring of iron horseshoes jumped out of the tube's mouth.
Revanche froze in a pirouette, stood poised, then seemed to collapse into a strange loose creature that shambled over to the funnel and leaned backward to look up, like a dazed and stiffnecked Neanderthal.
The liquid film of joy glazed over his mind again, grew white and cold and lumpy.
A mount and its rider were coming out of the darkness and into the brimstone glare. The horse was a nightmare black, its eyeballs burning tiger-yellow bright. It stretched back cruel and foaming lips, and revealed teeth sharp enough to rend him.
A ghost horse, it cried for blood while its magnetic shoes clung briefly to the metal floor before lifting again.