He sees himself standing on the far hills of her mind.She laughs aloud then, and in her room somewhere highaway a hand is laid upon her and her wrist is taken between fingers and thumb as she rushes toward him suddenly grown large. His great black wings sweep forwardto fold her wordless spasm of life, then are empty.

Milt Rand stiffens within his power, puts aside a copyof Holiday and stands, to leave the hospital, full andempty, empty, full, like himself, now, behind.

Such is the power of the power.

Returning home late one night, I was almost hit by aspeeding car which crashed a red light three blocks frommy apartment in Baltimore. By the time I reached home,I had this entire story in mind and I finished writing itbefore I turned out the lights. I sold it to Harlan Ellisonfor Dangerous Visions. I'm very fond of it.

Still do I remember the hot sun upon the sands of thePlaza de Autos, the cries of the soft-drink hawkers, thetiers of humanity stacked across from me on the sunnyside of the arena, sunglasses like cavities in their gleaming faces.

Still do I remember the smells and the colors: the redsand the blues and the yellows, the ever present tang ofpetroleum fumes upon the air.

Still do I remember that day, that day with its sun inthe middle of the sky and the sign of Aries, burning inthe blooming of the year. I recall-the mincing steps of thepumpers, heads thrown back, arms waving, the whitedazzles of their teeth framed with smiling lips, cloths likecolorful tails protruding from the rear pockets of theircoveralls; and the homs—I remember the blare of athousand horns over the loudspeakers, on and off, off andon, over and over, and again, and then one shimmering,final note, sustained, to break the ear and the heart withits infinite power, its pathos.Then there was silence, I see it now as I did on that day so long ago... .He entered the arena, and the cry that went upshook blue heaven upon its pillars of white marble."Viva! El mechador! Viva! El mechador!"I remember his face, dark and sad and wise.Long of jaw and nose was he, and his laughter was asthe roaring of the wind, and his movements were as themusic of the theramin and the drum. His coveralls wereblue and silk and tight and stitched with thread of goldand broidered all about with black braid. His jacket wasbeaded and there were flashing scales upon his breast,his shoulders, his back, His lips curled into the smile of a man who has knownmuch glory and has hold upon the power that will bringhim into more.

He moved, turning in a circle, not shielding bis eyesagainst the sun.

He was above the sun. He was Manolo Stillete DOSMuertos, the mightiest mechador the world has ever seen,black boots upon bis feet, pistons in his thighs, fingerswith the discretion of micrometers, halo of dark locksabout his head and the angel of death in his right arm,there, in the center of the grease-stained circle of truth.He waved, and a cry went up once more."Manolo! Manolo! DOS Muertos! DOS Muertos!"After two years' absence from the ring, he hadchosen this, the anniversary of his death and retirementto return—for there was gasoline and methyl in his bloodand his heart was a burnished pump ringed 'bout withdesire and courage. He had died twice within the ring,and twice had the medics restored him. After his seconddeath, he had retired, and some said that it was becausehe had known fear. This could not be true.

He waved his hand and his name rolled back uponhim.

The homs sounded once more: three long blasts.Then again there was silence, and a pumper wearingred and yellow brought him the cape, removed his jacket.

The tinfoil backing of the cape flashed in the sun asDOS Muertos swirled it.Then there came the final, beeping notes.The big door rolled upward and back into the walLHe draped his cape over his arm and faced the gateway.

The light above was red and from within the darknessthere came the sound of an engine.

The light turned yellow, then green, and there was thesound of cautiously engaged gears.

The car moved slowly into the ring, paused, crept forward, paused again.

It was a red Pontiac, its hood stripped away, its engine like a nest of snakes, coiling and engendering behind the circular shimmer of its invisible fan. The wingsof its aerial spun round and round, then fixed upon Manolo and his cape.

He had chosen a heavy one for his first, slow on turning, to give him a chance to limber up.

The drums of its brain, which had never before recorded a man, were spinning.

Then the consciousness of its kind swept over it andit moved forward.

Manolo swirled his cape and kicked its fender as itroared past.

The door of the great garage closed.

When it reached the opposite side of the ring thecar stopped, parked.

Cries of disgust, booing and hissing arose from thecrowd.

Still the Pontiac remained parked.

Two pumpers, bearing buckets, emerged from behindme fence and threw mud upon its windshield.

It roared then and pursued the nearest, banging intothe fence. Then it turned suddenly, sighted DOS Muertosand charged.

His veronica transformed him into a statue with a skirtof silver. The enthusiasm of the crowd was mighty.

It turned and charged once Jnore, and I wonderedat Maoolo's skill, for it would seem that his buttons hadscraped cherry paint from the side panels.

Then it paused, spun its wheels, ran in a circle aboutthe ring.

The crowd roared as it moved past him and recircled.

Then it stopped again, perhaps fifty feet away.

Manolo turned his back upon it and waved to thecrowd.

—Again, the cheering and the calling of his name.

He gestured to someone behind me fence.

A pumper emerged and bore to him, upon a velvetcushion, his chrome-plated monkey wrench.

He turned then again to the Pontiac and strode towardit It stood there shivering and he knocked off its radiatorcap. A ]'et of steaming water shot into the air and the crowdbellowed. Then he struck the front of the radiator andbanged upon each fender.

He turned his back upon it again and stood there.

When he heard the engagement of the gears he turnedonce more, and with one clean pass it was by him, butnot before he had banged twice upon the trunk with hiswrench, It moved to the other end of the ring and parked.Manolo raised his hand to the pumper behind thefence.

The man with the cushion emerged and bore to himthe long-handled screwdriver and the short cape. Hetook the monkey wrench away with him, as well as thelong cape.

Another silence came over the Plaza del Autos.The Pontiac, as if sensing all this, turned once more and blew its horn twice. Then it charged.There were dark spots upon the sand from where its radiator had leaked water. Its exhaust arose like a ghost behind it. It bore down upon him at a terrible speed.

DOS Muertos raised the cape before him and rested me blade of the screwdriver upon his left forearm.

When it seemed he would surely be run down, bishand shot forward, so fast the eye could barely follow it,and he stepped to the side as the engine began to cough.

Still the Pontiac continued on with a deadly momentum, turned sharply without braking, rolled over, slidinto the fence, and began to bum. Its engine coughed and died.

The Plaza shook with the cheering. They awarded DOS Muertos both headlights and the tailpipe. He heldthem high and moved in slow promenade about theperimeter of the ring. The horns sounded. A lady threw hima plastic flower and he sent for a pumper to bear herthe tailpipe and ask her to dine with him. The crowdcheered more loudly, for he was known to be a greatlayer of women, and it was not such an unusual thing in the days of my youth as it is now.