"Yes, Colonel," said the soldier, looking scared.
"Let's leave ordinary civilians out of it," said Dugan. "Which is the nearest regular Red Army post?"
"Not your own Special Troops, Colonel?"
"Hell, no," snarled Dugan, affable no more. "You blockhead, do you think I would use half-wits like you if I weren't simulating emergency conditions?"
The soldier was not good at talking, but he was miraculous on a motorcycle. He said the one word, "Arkhipovka," and let Dugan get on the rear saddle. Then he took off.
Dugan could not see where they were going. Neither, so far as Dugan could tell, did the soldier. That didn't slow the cyclist any. They idled along a level walk for several hundred yards. The cyclist had cut his muffler out so that the motor made plenty of noise and Dugan had the impression that the sentries and passersby, drilled in this routine, flattened themselves against the hillside when they heard the motorcycle approaching. Even at that, it was a pure miracle.
What followed was worse. The soldier said, "Hold tight, Colonel."
Dugan did. He needed no prompting. The cycle almost stopped, turned sharply, and then roared.
So far as Dugan could tell, they had gone off a precipice. Nothing like this had happened to him since he had tried to land a burning glider over Port Swettenham in 1938. It was the original ancestor of all roller coasters, made out of a Siberian hill. Dugan kept his eyes opened, with great effort, and saw that the driver was aiming his machine at two lights. They seemed to be in boxes, since they were curiously framed. While he watched, one light rushed madly up toward them, increased in size enormously, and then vanished. The cycle, ending the descent, started uphill without slackening its pace. Dugan felt his weight increase to about three gravities.
The other light was at a hillcrest. They had swooped down to the valley floor and up to the opposing hill — a mile and a half or two miles — on an arrow-straight paved path through the forest.