The Dark Tower (41 page)

“And of course I
was
watched. Later—
too
later, in a manner of speaking—I was able to replay my last two months in Frisco and realize that the can-toi were watching me the whole time.

“The low men.”

“Armitage and two other humes met us outside the Mark Hopkins Hotel,” said the voice from the tape recorder. “I remember the date with perfect clarity; it was Halloween of 1955. Five o’clock in the afternoon. Me, Jace McGovern, Dave Ittaway, Dick . . . I can’t remember his last name, he died about six months later, Humma said it was pneumonia and the rest of the ki’cans backed him up—ki’can sort of means shit-people or shit-
folken,
if you’re interested—but it was suicide and I knew it if no one else did. The rest . . . well, remember Doc Number Two? The rest were and are like him. ‘Don’t tell me
what I don’t want to know, sai, don’t mess up my worldview.’ Anyway, the last one was Tanya Leeds. Tough little thing . . .”

A pause and a click. Then Ted’s voice resumed, sounding temporarily refreshed. The third tape had almost finished.
He must have really burned through the rest of the story,
Eddie thought, and found that the idea disappointed him. Whatever else he was, Ted was a hell of a good tale-spinner.

“Armitage and his colleagues showed up in a Ford station wagon, what we called a woody in those charming days. They drove us inland, to a town called Santa Mira. There was a paved main street. The rest of them were dirt. I remember there were a lot of oil-derricks, looking like praying mantises, sort of . . . although it was dark by then and they were really just shapes against the sky.

“I was expecting a train depot, or maybe a bus with
CHARTERED
in the destination window. Instead we pulled up to this empty freight depot with a sign reading
SANTA MIRA SHIPPING
hanging askew on the front and I got a thought, clear as day, from Dick whatever-his-name was.
They’re going to kill us,
he was thinking.
They brought us out here to kill us and steal our stuff
.

“If you’re not a telepath, you don’t know how scary something like that can be. How the surety of it kind of . . . invades your head. I saw Dave Ittaway go pale, and although Tanya didn’t make a sound—she was a tough little thing, as I told you—it was bright enough in the car to see there were tears standing in the corners of her eyes.

“I leaned over her, took Dick’s hands in mine, and squeezed down on them when he tried to pull away. I thought at him,
They didn’t give us a quarter
of a mill each, most of it still stashed safe in the Seaman’s Bank, so they could bring us out to the williwags and steal our watches.
And Jace thought at me,
I don’t even
have
a watch. I pawned my Gruen two years ago in Albuquerque, and by the time I thought about buying another one
—
around midnight last night, this was
—
all the stores were closed and I was too drunk to climb down off the barstool I was on, anyway.

“That relaxed us, and we all had a laugh. Armitage asked us what we were laughing about and that relaxed us even more, because we had something they didn’t, could communicate in a way they couldn’t. I told him it was nothing, then gave Dick’s hands another little squeeze. It did the job. I . . . facilitated him, I suppose. It was my first time doing that. The first of many. That’s part of the reason I’m so tired; all that facilitating wears a man out.

“Armitage and the others led us inside. The place was deserted, but at the far end there was a door with two words chalked on it, along with those moons and stars.
THUNDERCLAP STATION
, it said. Well, there
was
no station: no tracks, no buses, no road other than the one we’d used to get there. There were windows on either side of the door and nothing on the other side of the building but a couple of smaller buildings—deserted sheds, one of them just a burnt-out shell—and a lot of scrubland littered with trash.

“Dave Ittaway said, ‘Why are we going out there?’ and one of the others said, ‘You’ll see,’ and we certainly did.

“‘Ladies first,’ Armitage said, and he opened the door.

“It was dark on the other side, but not the same
kind
of dark. It was
darker
dark. If you’ve seen
Thunderclap at night, you’ll know. And it sounded different. Old buddy Dick there had some second thoughts and turned around. One of the men pulled a gun. And I’ll never forget what Armitage said. Because he sounded . . . kindly. ‘Too late to back out now,’ he said. ‘Now you can only go forward.’

“And I think right then I knew that business about the six-year plan, and re-upping if we wanted to, was what my friend Bobby Garfield and
his
friend Sully-John would have called just a shuck and jive. Not that we could read it in their thoughts. They were all wearing hats, you see. You never see a low man—or a low lady, for that matter—without a hat on. The men’s looked like plain old fedoras, the sort most guys wore back then, but these were no ordinary lids. They were thinking-caps. Although
anti
-thinking-caps would be more accurate; they muffle the thoughts of the people wearing them. If you try to prog someone who’s wearing one—
prog
is Dinky’s word for thought-reading—you just get a hum with a lot of whispering underneath. Very unpleasant, like the todash chimes. If you’ve heard them, you know. Discourages too much effort, and effort’s the last thing most of the telepaths in the Algul are interested in. What the Breakers are mostly interested in, lady and gentlemen, is going along to get along. Which only shows up for what it is—monstrous—if you pull back and take the long view. One more thing most Breakers are not into. Quite often you hear a saying—a little poem—around campus, or see it chalked on the walls: ‘Enjoy the cruise, turn on the fan, there’s nothing to lose, so work on your tan.’ It means a lot more than ‘Take
it easy.’ The implications of that little piece of doggerel are extremely unpleasant. I wonder if you can see that.”

Eddie thought
he
could, at least, and it occurred to him that his brother Henry would have made an absolutely wonderful Breaker. Always assuming he’d been allowed to take along his heroin and his Creedence Clearwater Revival albums, that was.

A longer pause from Ted, then a rueful sort of laugh.

“I believe it’s time to make a long story a little shorter. We went through the door, leave it at that. If you’ve done it, you know it can be very unpleasant, if the door’s not in tip-top working order. And the door between Santa Mira, California, and Thunderclap was in better shape than some I’ve been through since.

“For a moment there was only darkness on the other side, and the howl of what the taheen call desert-dogs. Then a cluster of lights went on and we saw these . . . these
things
with the heads of birds and weasels and one with the head of a bull, horns and all. Jace screamed, and so did I. Dave Ittaway turned and tried to run, but Armitage grabbed him. Even if he hadn’t, where was there to go? Back through the door? It was closed, and for all I know, that’s a one-way. The only one of us who never made a sound was Tanya, and when she looked at me, what I saw in her eyes and read in her thoughts was relief. Because we knew, you see. Not all the questions were answered, but the two that mattered were. Where were we? In another world. When were we coming back? Never in life. Our money would sit in the Seaman’s of San Francisco until it turned into millions, and no one
would ever spend it. We were in for the long haul.

“There was a bus there, with a robot driver named Phil. ‘My name’s Phil, I’m over the hill, but the best news is that I never spill,’ he said. He smelled like lightning and there were all sorts of discordant clicking sounds coming from deep in his guts. Old Phil’s dead now, dumped in the train and robot graveyard with God alone knows how many others, but they’ve got enough mechanized help to finish what they’ve started, I’m sure.

“Dick fainted when we came out on Thunderclap-side, but by the time we could see the lights of the compound, he’d come around again. Tanya had his head in her lap, and I remember how gratefully he was looking up at her. It’s funny what you remember, isn’t it? They checked us in at the gate. Assigned us our dorms, assigned us our suites, saw that we were fed . . . and a damned fine meal it was. The first of many.

“The next day, we went to work. And, barring my little ‘vacation in Connecticut,’ we’ve been working ever since.”

Another pause. Then:

“God help us, we’ve been working ever since. And, God forgive us, most of us have been happy. Because the only thing talent wants is to be used.”

He tells them of his first few shifts in The Study, and his realization
—
not gradual but almost immediate
—
that they are not here to search out spies or read the thoughts of Russian scientists, “or any of that space-shot nonsense,” as Dinky would say (not that Dinky was there at first, although Sheemie was). No, what they are doing is
breaking
something. He can feel it, not just in the sky above Algul Siento but everywhere around them, even under their feet.

Yet he is content enough. The food is good, and although his sexual appetites have subsided quite a bit over the years, he’s not a bit averse to the odd bonk, just reminding himself every time that sim sex is really nothing but accessorized masturbation. But then, he’s had the odd bonk with the odd whore over the years, as many men living on the road have, and he could testify that that sort of sex is also not much different than masturbation; you’re putting it to her just as hard as you can, the sweat pouring off you, and she’s going “Baby-baby-baby,” and all the time wondering if she ought to gas the car and trying to remember which day is double stamps at the Red & White. As with most things in life, you have to use your imagination, and Ted can do that, he’s good at the old visualization thing, thank you oh so very much. He likes the roof over his head, he likes the company
—
the guards are guards, yeah, but he believes them when they say it’s as much their job to keep bad stuff from getting in as it is to make sure the Breakers don’t get out. He likes most of the inmates, too, and realizes after a year or two that the inmates need him in some strange way. He’s able to comfort them when they get the mean reds; he’s able to assuage their crampy waves of homesickness with an hour or so of murmured conversation. And surely this is a good thing. Maybe it’s
all
a good thing
—
certainly it
feels
like a good thing. To be homesick is human, but to Break is divine. He tries to explain to Roland and his tet, but the best he can do, the closest he can come, is to say it’s like finally being able to scratch that out-of-reach place on your back that always drives you crazy with its mild but persistent itch. He
likes
to go to The Study, and so do all the others. He likes the feeling of sitting there, of smelling the good
wood and good leather, of searching . . . searching . . . and then, suddenly,
aahhh.
There you are. You’re hooked in, swinging like a monkey on a limb. You’re
breaking,
baby, and to break is divine.

Dinky once said that The Study was the only place in the world where he really felt in touch with himself, and that was why he wanted to see it shut down.
Burned
down, if possible. “Because I know the kind of shit I get up to when I’m in touch with myself,” he told Ted. “When I, you know, really get in the groove.” And Ted knew exactly what he was talking about. Because The Study was
always
too good to be true. You sat down, maybe picked up a magazine, looked at pictures of models and margarine, movie stars and motor cars, and you felt your mind
rise.
The Beam was all around, it was like being in some vast corridor full of force, but your mind always rose to the roof and when it got there it found that big old sliding groove.

Maybe once, just after the
Prim
withdrew and Gan’s voice still echoed in the rooms of the macroverse, the Beams were smooth and polished, but those days are gone. Now the Way of the Bear and the Turtle is lumpy and eroded, full of coves and cols and bays and cracks, plenty of places to get your fingers in and take hold, and sometimes you
drag
at it and sometimes you can feel yourself worming your way
into
it like a drop of acid that can think.
All
these sensations are intensely pleasurable. Sexy.

And for Ted there’s something else, as well, although he doesn’t know he’s the only one who’s got it until Trampas tells him. Trampas never
means
to tell him anything, but he’s got this lousy case of eczema, you see, and it changes everything. Hard to believe a flaky scalp might be responsible for saving the Dark Tower, but the idea’s not entirely farfetched.

Not entirely farfetched at all.

“There are about a hundred and eighty full-time personnel at work in the Algul,” Ted said. “I’m not the guy to tell anyone how to do his job, but that’s something you may want to write down, or at least remember. Roughly speaking, it’s sixty per eight-hour shift and split twenty-twenty-twenty. Taheen have the sharpest eyes and generally man the watchtowers. Humes patrol the outer run of fence. With guns, mind you—hard calibers. Topside there’s Prentiss, the Master, and Finli o’ Tego, the Security Chief—hume and taheen, respectively—but most of the floaters are can-toi . . . the low men, you understand.

“Most low men don’t get along with the Breakers; a little stiff camaraderie is the best they can do. Dinky told me once that they’re jealous of us because we’re what he calls ‘finished humes.’ Like the hume guards, the can-toi wear thinking-caps when they’re on duty so we can’t prog them. The fact is most Breakers haven’t tried to prog anyone or anything but the Beam in years, and maybe can’t, anymore; the mind is also a muscle, and like any other, it atrophies if you don’t use it.”