Did that enigmatic realm humble those officers, those crusaders? Not at all. The HLA options menu met them where expected, and the rope trick worked as well there as it had on the other end. The crusaders set about ordering surplus motorcycles and extra UTASes to convert into rope-bearing Ogres, and the officers ran home only to run back again with loads of boards and nails as fast as the Rares could dash in and get yanked back out.

Has ever a base been built faster? Yes, many times, by Roman legions among others. Theirs had no landing pads though, or signs the size of Crocodile Launchers pointing toward Commandment of Hero and Holy Legend Army, not to mention a stack of unlabeled boards which waited upon future discoveries. Some colored rugs spread around the outpost prevented the monotonous blue floor from causing outbreaks of apathy, depression, and flat affects. Red, blue, brown, yellow of course, and silver too.

“What color is Corporeal?” The crusaders who had brought their new UTASes to the outpost had trouble understanding Gaelvry's question, but Dungeon Express Re:Development had no trouble accepting loads of buman shavings and luman clippings in exchange for white rugs, black rugs, green, gold, and purple rugs. “Metatron is purple and Ivar likes gold,” Gaelvry reasoned, and the officers congratulated themselves for placing that decisive queen of West Beruvia in charge of the rugs when later, back home, they watched pigeons bring them in.

They were less sure about their choice to have Trainer Eumorsedio manage statuary affairs. “They're excellent statues,” Eten said as he examined a man captured in stone mid-throw, discus in hand, the hips swiveling, a perfect translation of lively action to dead granite. “As far as taste and quality I have no complaints, but . . .”

“But why are we buying statues! I realize that wasn't a question even though it should have been!” Luerre Voine handed his cane to a bronze of a striding man whose physique shamed the gods, did three jumping jacks to calm down, and reclaimed his cane. “The claim I would like to make is that we are wasting time and Rare-power for no benefit. The only game we have plundered is ours. Also, none of these figures are posed so as to suggest intellectual pursuits. Although I am sure the models trained their minds as well as their bodies.”

Trainer Eumorsedio protected his turf. “I agreed with you back when I was assigned this job. Didn't know what I was going to do. Statues for a forward base to decorate gas cans and piles of booty? Ridiculous, I thought, but me and Fafnir got to talking, and he told me to pick out statues that riches wouldn't be ashamed to be around. And that made me realize that really, since we're the ones putting in the decorations and all that, they represent us, and our excellence, and our will. Then skimping was out of the question.”

Kint N. Bredle's suggestion that recommendations from Fafnir might not be the most dependable met clarifications from Vainamoinen, whose big, floppy hat and impractical robes marked him as an sage who understood every topic. “Worry not, never worry about that. The writers, 'tis true, made use of names fraught with mythic weight, yet had no regard for matching us to those figures, those ancient figures. Why I tell you Merlin and Nimue never so much as met in the story, when I would swear we had a story, which I would never do now.”

Regardless of whether they ought to have imported a marble depicting a man who had finished an intense workout wiping sweat off his forehead, or as the crusaders called it, brow, they had, and while perhaps Furious Galaxy or Modern Incidence Record owned time machines, they did not. The future alone deserved their consideration, and a future where their purchased statues stood on carved columns and pedestals suitable to uphold the majesty of the human body appealed more than the one where they used big blocks of styrofoam instead.

Soon twin copper bodies stretched and touched fingers over employee entrances to the garage (wheeled), garage (non-wheeled), supply storage, and treasury. That last had been prepared to accept tribute, ransoms, and plunder by the addition of shelves, cushions, racks, and glass cases. The floor size had been kept modest. An officer at the entrance could see the far wall, unless that officer was Reginald after having his glasses stolen, if indeed he needed those glasses to see. The builders had embraced the possibility of expansion by giving the treasury a flat roof that could transform into the floor of a second story with nothing but a change in attitude.

Four statues marked the corners of the landing pad, which comprised square mats spread out to cover the area of a backyard swimming pool. Lunacy Bike vehicles operated by a single person, or perhaps a few jammed together in a highly comical fashion, could land there two at a time according to the most cavalier estimates, and who knew more about riding and stabling than cavaliers?

Some talk about erecting walls swirled around before being flushed by experts on defensive operations such as Heartful Azalea and Kojiro. They wanted to know what army was going to attack them and what sort of treasure could ever compensate them for their loss of the ability to peel out of the garage at maximum acceleration in order to show the realm of options the beauty of speed. Characters evaded their aggressive questioning techniques by wondering hey, when was that Michael guy going to come across with the wheels and whatnot, eh?

They heard the honks before they viewed the vehicles. A racket, or since it came from Holy Legend Army's direction, a cacophony! No other messenger, or rather harbinger, did the base builders and base enjoyers need to alert them. They dodged the columns or knocked them over in their haste to greet Michael, caring for machines more than sculpted bodies, and more for running around in a throng than for standing around alone. When those crusaders and officers passed the limits of their new outpost, what did they see? A need for a network of signs and beacons to prevent their becoming lost in the barren landscape outside. But also.

A motorcycle with wings on the sides and a sword blade that jutted out front like a winged land narwhal! A miniature submarine rolling on four wheels! A corn cob capable of supporting a person's weight, also on wheels! A Dalmation! A really big one. Motorcycles of cheaper manufacture on account of forgoing the sword and wings, one-man trains, horses dragging an Ogre wearing water skis, and an ice cream truck drove toward the outpost. Of course Captain Lunacy's rocket flew with them, and a gyrocopter, an air whale, a dirigible, and all the flying machines familiar to Lunacy Bike regulars.

Those same regulars noticed the scratches, the patches, the replaced parts, and the parts that could use replacing. A racing game with unsafe courses and less safe weapons produced wreck after wreck which some enterprising inhabitants had refurbished to be sold to weirdos in Holy Legend Army, the rest melted down and recast as plates, bowls, and statues. The realization that riders could total a few Captain Lunacy one-man rocket ships but still have plenty left cheered characters who perhaps ought not to have been cheered.

The UTASes that ferried the vehicles there were moved to the Dalmations and sidecars while officers and crusaders grabbed the handlebars and equivalents. Crews emptied the trucks of ice cream, a quick process since they had none, and filled them with paint for passengers to throw out the back to mark the terrain traveled and break up all that blue.

“Where are we going? I can't wait to find out!” Smidgen exclaimed, not alone, but loudest.

“At last has come the time for our ways to delight you,” Nimue said before she divulged Holy Legend Army's latest divination techniques. Soon a dense circle of crusaders and officers loosed arrows, javelins, and any other projectiles they could find at a column till the statue on it fell. And the direction it pointed, that way rode the host.