The Dark Tower

“Yar, I suppose many do.” He opened themedicine cabinet and brought out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from Rexall.

“It’s your fault for putting it in front ofme,” Finli said. “Not that such stuff is bad for us, ordinarily; it’s a naturalsweet, like honey or berries. The problem’s Thunderclap.” And, as if his bosshadn’t gotten the point, Finli added: “Too much of what comes out of it don’trun the true thread, no matter how sweet it might taste. Poison, do ya.”

Prentiss dampened a cotton ball with thehydrogen peroxide and swabbed out the wound in his cheek. He knew exactly whatFinli was talking about, how could he not? Before coming here and assuming theMaster’s mantle, he hadn’t seen a blemish on his skin in well over thirtyyears. Now he had pimples on his cheeks and brow, acne in the hollows of histemples, nasty nests of blackheads around his nose, and a cyst on his neck thatwould soon have to be removed by Gangli, the compound doctor. (Prentiss thoughtGangli was a terrible name for a physician; it reminded him both of ganglionand gangrene.) The taheen and the can-toi were less susceptible todermatological problems, but their flesh often broke open spontaneously, theysuffered from nosebleeds, and even minor wounds—the scrape of a rock or athorn—could lead to infection and death if not promptly seen to.Antibiotics had worked a treat on such infections to begin with; not so wellanymore. Same with such pharmaceutical marvels as Accutane. It was theenvironment, of course; death baking out of the very rocks and earth thatsurrounded them. If you wanted to see things at their worst you only had tolook at the Rods, who were no better than slow mutants these days. Of course, theywandered far to the… was it still the southeast? They wandered far in thedirection where a faint red glow could be seen at night, in any case, andeveryone said things were much worse in that direction. Pimli didn’t know forsure if that was true, but he suspected it was. They didn’t call the landsbeyond Fedic the Discordia because they were vacation spots.

“Want more?” he asked Finli. “I’ve got acouple on my forehead that’re ripe.”

“Nay, I want to make my report,double-check the videotapes and telemetry, go on over to The Study for a quickpeek, and then sign out. After that I want a hot bath and about three hourswith a good book. I’m reading The Collector.”

“And you like it,” Prentiss said,fascinated.

“Very much, say thankya. It reminds me ofour situation here. Except I like to think our goals are a little nobler andour motivations a little higher than sexual attraction.”

“Noble? So you call it?”

Finli shrugged and made no reply. Closediscussion of what was going on here in Blue Heaven was generally avoided byunspoken consent.

Prentiss led Finli into his ownlibrary-study, which overlooked the part of Blue Heaven they called the Mall.Finli ducked beneath the light fixture with the unconscious grace of longpractice. Prentiss had once told him (after a few shots of graf) that he wouldhave made a hell of a center in the NBA. “The first all-taheen team,” he’dsaid. “They’d call you The Freaks, but so what?”

“These basketball players, they get thebest of everything?” Finli had inquired. He had a sleek weasel’s head and largeblack eyes. No more expressive than dolls’ eyes, in Pimli’s view. He wore a lotof gold chains—they had become fashionable among Blue Heaven perso

Unless there was nothing. This was an ideaPimli denied with all his mind and heart, but he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit(if only to himself) that the idea sometimes haunted him in the watches of thenight. For such thoughts there were sleeping pills. And God, of course. Hisfaith that all things served the will of God, even the Tower itself.

In any case, Pimli had confirmed that yes,basketball players—American basketball players, at least—gotthe best of everything, including more pussy than a fackin toilet seat. Thisremark had caused Finli to laugh until reddish tears had seeped from thecorners of his strangely inexpressive eyes.

“And the best thing,” Pimli had continued,“is this: you’d be able to play near forever, by NBA standards. For instance,do ya hear, the most highly regarded player in my old country (although I neversaw him play; he came after my time) was a fellow named Michael Jordan,and—”

“If he were taheen, what would he be?”Finli had interrupted. This was a game they often played, especially when a fewdrinks over the line.

“A weasel, actually, and a damned handsomeone,” Pimli had said, and in a tone of surprise that had struck Finli ascomical. Once more he’d roared until tears came out of his eyes.

“But,” Pimli had continued, “his career wasover in hardly more than fifteen years, and that includes a retirement and acomeback or two. How many years could you play a game where you’d have to do nomore than run back and forth the length of a campa court for an hour or so,Fin?”

Finli of Tego, who was then over threehundred years old, had shrugged and flicked his hand at the horizon. Delah.Years beyond counting.

And how long had BlueHeaven—Devar-Toi to the newer inmates, Algul Siento to the taheen and theRods—how long had this prison been here? Also delah. But if Finli wascorrect (and Pimli’s heart said that Finli almost certainly was), then delahwas almost over. And what could he, once Paul Prentiss of Rahway, New Jersey,and now Pimli Prentiss of the Algul Siento, do about it?

His job, that was what.

His fackin job.

Two

“So,” Pimli said, sitting down in one ofthe two wing chairs by the window, “you found a maintenance drone. Where?”

“Close to where Track 97 leaves theswitching-yard,” said Finli. “That track’s still hot—has what you call ‘athird rail’—and so that explains that. Then, after we’d left, you calland say there’s been a second alarm.”

“Yes. And you found—?”

“Nothing,” Finli said. “That time, nothing.Probably a malfunction, maybe even caused by the first alarm.” He shrugged, agesture that conveyed what they both knew: it was all going to hell. And thecloser to the end they moved, the faster it went.

“You and your fellows had a good look,though?”

“Of course. No intruders.”

But both of them were thinking in terms ofintruders who were human, taheen, can-toi, or mechanical. No one in Finli’ssearch-party had thought to look up, and likely would not have spotted Mordredeven if they had: a spider now as big as a medium-sized dog, crouched in thedeep shadow under the main station’s eave, held in place by a little hammock ofwebbing.

“You’re going to check the telemetry againbecause of the second alarm?”

“Partly,” Finli said. “Mostly becausethings feel hinky to me.” This was a word he’d picked up from one of the manyother-side crime novels he read—they fascinated him—and he used itat every opportunity.

“Hinky how?”

Finli only shook his head. He couldn’t say.“But telemetry doesn’t lie. Or so I was taught.”

“You question it?”

Aware he was on thin ice again—thatthey both were—Finli hesitated, and then decided what the hell. “Theseare the end-times, boss. I question damn near everything.”

“Does that include your duty, Finli o’Tego?”

Finli shook his head with no hesitation.No, it didn’t include his duty. It was the same with the rest of them,including the former Paul Prentiss of Rahway. Pimli remembered some oldsoldier—maybe “Dugout” Doug MacArthur—saying, “When my eyes closein death, gentlemen, my final thought will be of the corps. And the corps. Andthe corps.” Pimli’s own final thought would probably be of Algul Siento.Because what else was there now? In the words of another greatAmerican—Martha Reeves of Martha and the Vandellas—they had nowhereto run, baby, nowhere to hide. Things were out of control, ru