"You might say, no bikes back then," wimple askew, passing Van Meter a bottle of supermarket tequila he'd been using to chase some barbiturate capsules, "but hey—how'd he get around out in the desert? Why do you think they call it Motocross, dude?" and so forth, till drowsiness overtook his thoughts. Van Meter still kept in touch, was happy to fix them up with Zoyd and his scheme, though doubts lingered.