welfare line； Wendy was right。 Pounding this
machine to death would be the height of folly； no matter how pleasant an aspect
that folly made。 It would almost be tantamount to pounding his own son to death。
〃Fucking Luddite；〃 he said aloud。
He went to the back of the machine and unscrewed the gascap。 He found a
dipstick on one of the shelves that ran at chest…height around the walls and
slipped it in。 The last eighth of an inch came out wet。 Not very much； but
enough to see if the damn thing would run。 Later he could siphon more from the
Volks and the hotel truck。
He screwed the cap back on and opened the cowling。 No sparkplugs； no battery。
He went to the shelf again and began to poke along it； pushing aside
screwdrivers and adjustable wrenches； a one…lung carburetor that had been taken
out of an old lawnmower； plastic boxes of screws and nails and bolts of varying
sizes。 The shelf was thick and dark with old grease； and the years' accumulation
of dust had stuck to it like fur。 He didn't like touching it。
He found a small； oil…stained box with the abbreviation Skid。 laconically
marked on it in pencil。 He shook it and something rattled inside。 Plugs。 He held
one of them up to the light； trying to estimate the gap without hunting around
for the gapping tool。 Fuck it； he thought resentfully； and dropped the plug back
into the box。 If the gap's wrong； that's just too damn bad。 Tough fucking titty。
There was a stool behind the door。 He dragged it over； sat down； and installed
the four sparkplugs； then fitted the small rubber caps over each。 That done； he
let his fingers play briefly over the magneto。 They laughed when I sat