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ver poles - all heading to the west? Yes. What are they? Power lines - heading toward California. California virtually ate electricity, mostly for wasteful purposes. The Indian lands were cunningly seized by the lawyers of the big utilities and sacrificed to the white mans god - Sacrificed to Mammon. Greed. And the world lost one balancing point. The next pictures show the result of that imbalance . . . Rockson walked on, his bootheels echoing down the stone floor. The next pictures were war photos. Bodies, mushroom clouds. Ruins. One picture was from a space satellite. A water-filled crater on a coastal plain. New York? Chicago. Thats Lake Michigan, Rockson. Rockson sighed. If only it could be undone. And yet the world is threatened again, this very day, by one mans madness. Rockson spent some time explaining their urgent mission and the danger that Stafford presented. Rockson, Smokestone held his arm at the bicep, please take me with you to this Eden. I want to be in on stopping Stafford from laying waste to the world. I want to succeed where my ancestors failed. I want to help to create the new balance. Please let me come with you. Rockson had already gauged the man to be a worthwhile companion should he choose to come along. You may come with us. The Doomsday Warrior thanked the Indians for their hospitality and said the Freefighters and Danik must be off, for their mission was of utmost urgency. Smokestone had made arrangements for the dogs and sleds. He had specially souped-up old Harvey 900 motorcycles assembled near the elevator. They rode up the elevators with the Harleys in shifts. One at a time. The elevator was sturdier than it looked, but it creaked. Rockson had decided to keep one dog with them. They were superb sniffers - and Rockson swore he could teach Class Act, his lead dog, to be quiet. Especially after the dogs saved our asses from those damned voracious gophers, I think it would be a good idea to bring Class Act. She can run like hell - Im sure she can keep up with our dirt bikes. If not, she can drop behind and catch up when we stop for rest. So it was that they started up the big motorcycles with a tremendous roar at the rim of the inhabited canyon. The Indians below filled the Arizona air with wild whoops and yips as the bold chief and the Freefighters set off for Eden. Rockson really opened up his big Harley, the engine sang out a song of power, cutting the desert air, slashing over the inch-deep snow like a dream of speed and energy. Smokestone, waving his huge stone-head tomahawk over his head, steering with one hand, pulled alongside at 135 mph, daring Rock to go faster. The race was on, leaving the others behind in the dust and thrown snow. 160, 170, 175 mph. Rockson had handled cycles like this before, he was sure he could surpass the chief. But the Indian just kept a-comin, kept up, then sailed past, screaming out taunts and waving that tomahawk. Still with one hand - ye gods, Rock thought, Im just an amateur compa.