Mylor

`Mylor's faster than any horse you've ever seen.' `Then prove it,' the rider challenged. `Actions speak louder than words.' `All right, I will.' `You won't, Angel' I murmured, looking at Boff. `The snot-nosed goon is trying to force Angel into a speed test.' He thought about that for a second, and then said, `I can't see the harm. It could be fun.' Angel was tapping her heels against Mylor's flanks, clicking her tongue, and making every noise possible for encouragement. When he didn't respond she let her breath hiss through her teeth and shouted, `Oh, Alfie, don't be such a pig!' `Alfie?' Grogan's eyes narrowed. `I thought you said he was called Mylor?' `H-he is,' Angel swallowed hard and thought quickly. `Alfie's a sort of nickname… I sometimes call him that when he's… Well when he's stubborn.' `Asleep, more like,' the rider sniffed. `I ain't seen him move for the last five minutes.' `Come on, Alfie!' Boff shifted in his seat. He was starting to get worried. `You'll have to do something soon or they might get suspicious.' `It's two miles round that circuit,' I pointed out. `Two miles is nothing. The Grand National's four and a half.' I clenched down hard on my teeth. I didn't know what to do for the best. It was a nasty remark from Grogan that finally helped make up my mind. `Next time you come to the trainin' track, girlie,' he grated, `bring your L-plates with you.' `Blasted bonehead!' I said angrily, feeling my neck muscles tighten at his words. I hit the pace-selector and slid the power forward - Hard. Mylor cut between them, the power pushing him into a scorching gallop. Grogan scattered from the screen and the sour-faced rider nearly lost his seat as his horse shied and whinnied in alarm. `Take the speed up to fifty, Alfie.' Angel's hot voice burst from the speakers. `Let's give our Mr Grogan a real show!' The curved ribbon of training track lay ahead. I took a firm grip on the aircraft-style steering grips, and ran careful eyes over the computer settings. I knew only too well that if there was a slight error on my part and Angel could be in real trouble. The digital speed-indicator flashed and climbed rapidly to thirty. I held it steady as we took the first left-handed bend. The ground was very firm and Mylor swung too wide. The T-shaped steering grips shook beneath my fingers as for a fraction of a second his stride seemed to falter. `That damn stabiliser is playing up,' Boff cursed. `These left hand bends are putting a terrific strain on Mylor's right legs. The microprocessor will help us but you'll have to make allowances until I get the chance to strip the stabiliser down.' `Will it hold?' I asked, increasing power as the track ahead straightened. `He won't collapse, if that's what you mean. Just go easy on the bends.' The digits flashed and climbed up to forty. I held it there, waiting for the next left-handed curve to appear on the screen. When it did I powered back to twenty and Mylor took it without a trace of vibration. `Faster!' Angel was saying. `Am I riding a racehorse or a beach donkey?' I glanced at Boff. `Your sister's nutty,' he said, but his lips quirked into a smile as he added, `Still, I suppose you've got to like her guts. Give it all you've got when we reach the home straight.' We cruised steadily on the long uphill climb to the final bend. Mylor took the angle without so much as a murmur from the dodgy stabiliser and we turned smoothly into the strength-draining five furlong run-in. Strength-draining, that is, is you're a living, breathing, flesh and blood racehorse. It was sometimes easy to forget that Mylor was none of these things. He didn't have to rely on strength to get him home. That was the job of a pilot, a microprocessor, hydraulic units and a solar generator. I nudged the throttle slider all the way, hearing the rhythm of hooves quicken as they pounded the turf beneath my seat. The speed digits flashed madly, almost jumping into the red sector of the instrument. We were clocking fifty-five miles an hour. `Look at Grogan's face,' Boff pointed a finger at the right hand corner of the screen. `He's standing by the rails. I don't think he's leaning on them, I think they're propping him up.' I grinned. `Where's the rider… Charlie or whatever Grogan called him?' `I can't see him, Alfie. Everyone seems to have left, including the Major.' Apart from one solitary horse-box the boundary did appear deserted. It had to be lunch time, I reasoned, snatching a glance at my watch. My stomach was starting to rumble, and I reckoned we ought to be making tracks for Parkway Grange. I eased Mylor into a canter and kept a careful eye on the laser distance-indicator as I turned our horse towards Grogan. The invisible beam from the laser would bounce off his body then bounce back to the circuits in the computer to give an accurate distance reading. This way there was no chance of bashing into him - although the thought of Mylor knocking him over made me grin. I watched the distance-indicator flash ten metres then coasted Mylor to the rails. The slightly open-mouthed face of Grogan filled the screen. The dead-stop mechanism jerked us to a standstill. `Well,' Angel said breathlessly, `do you still think I tell lies?' `S-sorry, kid,' Grogan's voice was shaky. `I ain't never seen an 'orse that could run so fast. 'E's a marvel all right. Do you know 'e ain't even sweatin'?' Grogan was stroking Mylor's muzzle and chuckling to himself. `That's my beauty, Rusty will take care of you… we're going into business, you and me… we're gonna be rich… ' `I don't like the sound of this.' My fingers moved towards the pace-selector. `I think we should - ' Grogan suddenly pulled something black and floppy from the inside of his anorak. With a quick, expert movement he threw it over Mylor's head and tucked it into the bridle. A warning light flashed and beeped as the screen flickered and went blank. `The swine has hooded Mylor!' Boff burst out. `Oh, hellfire, Alfie, we're blind!'