That made her . . . Jane Eyre. Well . . . well. Jane was courageous. Cathy was a wild headstrong child and a tearful emotional adult. He was Edward. . . .
She took another swallow. But in some ways he was more like Heathcliff. . . .
* * *
Again, the tractor was rolling down the hill, bats following in its erratic wake. In the stillness of the night she heard Chip swear. But there was still no ignition. She followed the pack down the hill.
There was a small rise on the downhill road, before it plunged steeply again. The tractor had paused just short of the top. Chip was off and examining it.
Well . . .
Off and kicking it.
“What’s wrong?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, ‘lady,’ ” he snarled, “it hasn’t started. And Fal was right. Neither of those two pedals work as a brake. Maybe they’re not connected, or maybe they only work when the engine’s running.”
He walked around the little tractor, poking and prodding in the eternally hopeful fashion of the nonmechanical. Must be sumkinda magic . . .
“I’m sure these wheel things should be joined. Attached to this propeller thingy. At least I think so.”
“A fan belt?” offered Virginia
He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. A fan belt! I remember. We broke one when I did that trip to collect coalfish with Dieter. He was our mechanic. He took a pair of panty hose off Alette. Alette cried. She only had the one pair. Um. I don’t suppose you have . . .”
“They’re rather laddered,” Virginia said.
She saw the flash of teeth. “I don’t care if they have escalators. Gimme.”
She blushed fiercely. “I, um, I’ll go back up and get out of them.”
“Just go around the other side of the tractor,” Chip said impatiently. “We haven’t got time.”
She could swear she could feel herself bathed in infrared torchlight. Then there was a clatter up behind her, and something fell onto the roadway. She whirled, undergarments in hand, between anger and fright.
“What the hell do you stupid bastards think you’re playing at?” Chip had scrambled halfway up the front cowling. He was wrestling a bottle from the grasp of a portly rat-form. Pistol was trying to help Fal pour liquor into the air filter.
“We’re only giving it a drink, Chip,” protested Pistol.
“Tis true. We just wished to give it something to live for.” Fal’s ratty voice was full to overflowing with generosity. He pointed at Virginia, who was trapped in Chip’s instinctive follow of the headlight. “I mean, isn’t that what you’re doing?”
“Methinks it would have preferred a stripshow from another tractor,” said Pistol, leering as only a one-eyed rat could leer.
“Will you dumb, oversexed, drunken bastards get the hell out of here!” snarled Chip.
“We were only trying to help,” they protested, in a mutual chorus of insincere innocence and affront.
“Did you pour any of this muck into it?” demanded Chip, withholding the bottle.
“Barely a stoup for a miserly knave,” insisted Fal virtuously, reaching for it.
Chip pondered the matter. The bottle really didn’t seem to have much out of it, and he had other things to do besides fight with them. He gave it back. Forgetting that Virginia was there, Chip came hunting the top section of the air filter. Fortunately, she’d finished, and was able to give the metal plate to him, along with her pantyhose. In tight-lipped silence.
To find the wingnut which had fallen off the top of the air filter took the rats’ senses of smell, however. For which arduous self-created labor they extorted another swallow from the bottle.
* * *
A few minutes later, the makeshift fan belt was in place. Now, they considered another small technical problem. With five yards of slight uphill, Virginia and the combined rat-weight couldn’t budge the tractor with Chip on it. It was going to take both of the humans to push it again.
“Fal! Front and center!”
“Oh no. Never ever again, Chip! Thou whoreson knave! You can thrust me into base durance and contagious prison first. You can even take away my drink.” The portly rat backed off with a surprising turn of speed.