The Dark Tower

“May it do you fine, sir,” Moses Carversaid, and blew across his coffee cup. “Over the teeth, over the gums, look outguts, here it comes! Hee!”

“Dad and I have a house on Montauk Point,”said Marian, pouring cream into her own coffee, “and we were out there thispast weekend. At around five-fifteen on Saturday afternoon, I got a call fromone of the security people here. The Hammarskjöld Plaza Associationemploys them, but the Tet Corporation pays them a bonus so we may know… certainthings of interest, let’s say… as soon as they occur. We’ve been watching thatplaque in the lobby with extraordinary interest as the nineteenth of Juneapproached, Roland. Would it surprise you to know that, until roughly quarter offive on that day, it read GIVEN BY THE TET CORPORATION, IN HONOR OF THE BEAMFAMILY, AND IN MEMORY OF GILEAD?”

Roland considered this, sipped his tea (itwas hot and strong and good), then shook his head. “No.”

She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “And whydo you say so?”

“Because until Saturday afternoon betweenfour and five o’clock, nothing was sure. Even with the Breakers stopped,nothing was sure until Stephen King was safe.” He glanced around at them. “Doyou know about the Breakers?”

Marian nodded. “Not the details, but weknow the Beam they were working to destroy is safe from them now, and that itwasn’t so badly damaged it can’t regenerate.” She hesitated, then said: “And weknow of your loss. Both of your losses. We’re ever so sorry, Roland.”

“Those boys are safe in the arms of Jesus,”Marian’s father said. “And even if they ain’t, they’re together in theclearing.”

Roland, who wanted to believe this, noddedand said thankya. Then he turned back to Marian. “The thing with the writer wasvery close. He was hurt, and badly. Jake died saving him. He put his bodybetween King and the van-mobile that would have taken his life.”

“King is going to live,” Nancy said. “Andhe’s going to write again. We have that on very good authority.”

“Whose?”

Marian leaned forward. “In a minute,” shesaid. “The point is, Roland, we believe it, we’re sure of it, and King’s safetyover the next few years means that your work in the matter of the Beams isdone: Ves’-Ka Gan.”

Roland nodded. The song would continue.

“There’s plenty of work for us ahead,”Marian went on, “thirty years’ worth at least, we calculate, but—”

“But it’s our work, not yours,”Nancy said.

“You have this on the same ‘goodauthority’?” Roland asked, sipping his tea. Hot as it was, he’d gotten half ofthe large cup inside of him already.

“Yes. Your quest to defeat the forces ofthe Crimson King has been successful. The Crimson King himself—”

“That wa’n’t never this man’s questand you know it!” the centenarian sitting next to the handsome black womansaid, and he once more thumped his cane for emphasis. “His quest—”

“Dad, that’s enough.” Her voice was hardenough to make the old man blink.

“Nay, let him speak,” Roland said, and theyall looked at him, surprised by (and a little afraid of) that dry whipcrack. “Lethim speak, for he says true. If we’re going to have it out, let us have it allout. For me, the Beams have always been no more than means to an end. Had theybroken, the Tower would have fallen. Had the Tower fallen, I should never havegained it, and climbed to the top of it.”

“You’re saying you cared more for the DarkTower than for the continued existence of the universe,” Nancy Deepneau said.She spoke in a just-let-me-make

-sure-I’ve-got-this-right voice and lookedat Roland with a mixture of wonder and contempt. “For the continued existenceof all the universes.”

“The Dark Tower is existence,”Roland said, “and I have sacrificed many friends to reach it over the years,including a boy who called me father. I have sacrificed my own soul in the bargain,lady-sai, so turn thy impudent glass another way. May you do it soon and do itwell, I beg.”

His tone was polite but dreadfully cold.All the color was dashed from Nancy Deepneau’s face, and the teacup in herhands trembled so badly that Roland reached out and plucked it from her hand,lest it spill and burn her.

“Take me not amiss,” he said. “Understandme, for we’ll never speak more. What was done was done in both worlds, well andill, for ka and against it. Yet there’s more beyond all worlds than you know,and more behind them than you could ever guess. My time is short, so let’s moveon.”

“Well said, sir!” Moses Carver growled, andthumped his cane again.

“If I offended, I’m truly sorry,” Nancysaid.

To this Roland made no reply, for he knewshe was not sorry a bit—she was only afraid of him. There was a moment ofuncomfortable silence that Marian Carver finally broke. “We don’t have anyBreakers of our own, Roland, but at the ranch in Taos we employ a dozentelepaths and precogs. What they make together is sometimes uncertain butalways greater than the sum of its parts. Do you know the term ‘good-mind’?”

The gunslinger nodded.

“They make a version of that,” she said,“although I’m sure it’s not so great or powerful as that the Breakers inThunderclap were able to produce.”

“B’cause they had hundreds,” the old mangrumped. “And they were better fed.”

“Also because the servants of the King weremore than willing to kidnap any who were particularly powerful,” Nancy said,“they always had what we’d call ‘the pick of the litter.’ Still, ours haveserved us well enough.”

“Whose idea was it to put such folk to workfor you?” Roland asked.

“Strange as it might seem to you, partner,”Moses said, “it was Cal Tower. He never contributed much—never did muchbut c’lect his books and drag his heels, greedy highfalutin whitebread sumbitchthat he was—”

His daughter gave him a warning look.Roland found he had to struggle to keep a straight face. Moses Carver might bea hundred years old, but he had pegged Calvin Tower in a single phrase.

“Anyway, he read about putting tellypathsto work in a bunch of science fiction books. Do you know about sciencefiction?”

Roland shook his head.

“Well, ne’mine. Most of it’s bullshit, butevery now and then a good idear crops up. Listen to me and I’ll tell you a good‘un. You’ll understand if you know what Tower and your friend Mist’ Dean talkedabout twenty-two years ago, when Mist’ Dean come n saved Tower from them twohonky thugs.”

“Dad,” Marian said warningly. “You quitwith the nigger talk, now. You’re old but not stupid.”

He looked at her; his muddy old eyesgleamed with malicious good cheer; he looked back at Roland and once more camethat sly droop of a wink. “Them two honky dago thugs!”

“Eddie spoke of it, yes,” Roland said.

The slur disappeared from Carver’s voice;his words became crisp. “Then you know they spoke of a book called TheHogan, by Benjamin Slightman. The title of the book was mis-printed, and sowas the writer’s name, which was just the sort of thing that turned old fatty’sdials.”

“Yes,” Roland said. The title misprint hadbeen The Dogan, a phrase that had come to have great meaning to Rolandand his tet.

“Well, after your friend came to visit, CalTower got interested in that fella all over again, and it turned out he’dwritten four other books under the name of Daniel Holmes. He was aswhite as a Klansman’s sheet, this Slightman, but the name he chose to write hisother books under was the name of Odetta’s father. And I bet that don’tsurprise you none, does it?”

“No,” Roland said. It was just one morefaint click as the combination-dial of ka turned.

“And all the books he wrote under theHolmes name were science fiction yarns, about the government hiring tellypathsand precogs to find things out. And that’s where we got the idea.” Helooked at Roland and gave his cane a triumphant thump. “There’s more to thetale, a good deal, but I don’t guess you’ve got the time. That’s what it allcomes back to, isn’t it? Time. And in this world it only runs one way.” Helooked wistful. “I’d give a great lot, gunslinger, to see my goddaughter again,but I don’t guess that’s in the cards, is it? Unless we meet in the clearing.”