by Stephen King
“Not to mention a few little extras,” Andy said silkily. “Your spectacles…the music machine you keep deep down in your saddlebag…and, of course—”
“You know why I’m doing it and what’d happen to me if I was found out,” Slightman said. The whine had gone out of his voice. Now he sounded dignified and a little weary. Jake listened to that tone with growing dismay. If he got out of this and had to squeal on Benny’s Da’, he wanted to squeal on a villain. “Yar, I’ve taken a few little extras, you say true, I say thankya. Glasses, so I can see better to betray the people I’ve known all my life. A music machine so I won’t have to hear the conscience you prate about so easy and can get to sleep at night. Then you pinch something in my arm that makes me feel like my by-Riza eyes are going to fall right out of my by-Riza head.”
“I allow it from the rest of them,” Andy said, and now his voice had changed. Jake once more thought of Blaine, and once more his dismay grew. What if Tian Jaffords heard this voice? What if Vaughn Eisenhart heard it? Overholser? The rest of the folken? “They heap contumely on my head like hot coals and never do I raise a word o’ protest, let alone a hand. ‘Go here, Andy. Go there, Andy. Stop yer foolish singing, Andy. Stuff yer prattle. Don’t tell us of the future, because we don’t want to hear it.’ So I don’t, except of the Wolves, because they’d hear what makes em sad and I’d tell em, yes I would; to me each tear’s a drop of gold. ‘You’re nobbut a stupid pile of lights n wires,’ they say. ‘Tell us the weather, sing the babby to sleep, then get t’hell out o’ here.’ And I allow it. Foolish Andy am I, every child’s toy and always fair game for a tongue-whipping. But I won’t take a tongue-whipping from you, sai. You hope to have a future in the Calla after the Wolves are done with it for another few years, don’t you?”
“You know I do,” Slightman said, so low Jake could barely hear him. “And I deserve it.”
“You and your son, both say thankya, passing your days in the Calla, both say commala! And that can happen, but it depends on more than the death of the outworlders. It depends on my silence. If you want it, I demand respect.”
“That’s absurd,” Slightman said after a brief pause. From his place in the closet, Jake agreed wholeheartedly. A robot demanding respect was absurd. But so was a giant bear patrolling an empty forest, a Morlock thug trying to unravel the secrets of dipolar computers, or a train that lived only to hear and solve new riddles. “And besides, hear me I beg, how can I respect you when I don’t even respect myself?”
There was a mechanical click in response to this, very loud. Jake had heard Blaine make a similar sound when he—or it—had felt the absurd closing in, threatening to fry his logic circuits. Then Andy said: “No answer, nineteen. Connect and report, sai Slightman. Let’s have done with this.”
“All right.”
There were thirty or forty seconds’ worth of keyboard-clatter, then a high, warbling whistle that made Jake wince and Oy whine far back in his throat. Jake had never heard a sound quite like it; he was from the New York of 1977, and the word modem would have meant nothing to him.
The shriek cut off abruptly. There was a moment’s silence. Then: “THIS IS ALGUL SIENTO. FINLI O’ TEGO HERE. PLEASE GIVE YOUR PASSWORD. YOU HAVE TEN SEC—”
“Saturday,” Slightman replied, and Jake frowned. Had he ever heard that happy weekend word on this side? He didn’t think so.
“THANK YOU. ALGUL SIENTO ACKNOWLEDGES. WE ARE ONLINE.” There was another brief, shrieking whistle. Then: “REPORT, SATURDAY.”
Slightman told of watching Roland and “the younger one” going up to the Cave of the Voices, where there was now some sort of door, very likely conjured by the Manni. He said he’d used the far-seer and thus gotten a very good look—
“Telescope,” Andy said. He had reverted to his slightly prissy, complacent voice. “Such are called telescopes.”
“Would you care to make my report, Andy?” Slightman inquired with cold sarcasm.
“Cry pardon,” Andy said in a long-suffering voice. “Cry pardon, cry pardon, go on, go on, as ye will.”
There was a pause. Jake could imagine Slightman glaring at the robot, the glare robbed of its ferocity by the way the foreman would have to crane his neck in order to deliver it. Finally he went on.
“They left their horses below and walked up. They carried a pink sack which they passed from hand to hand, as if ’twere heavy. Whatever was in it had square edges; I could make that out through the telescope far-seer. May I offer two guesses?”
“YES.”
“First, they might have been putting two or three of the Pere’s most valuable books in safekeeping. If that’s the case, a Wolf should be sent to destroy them after the main mission’s accomplished.”
“WHY?” The voice was perfectly cold. Not a human being’s voice, Jake was sure of that. The sound of it made him feel weak and afraid.
“Why, as an example, do it please ya,” Slightman said, as if this should have been obvious. “As an example to the priest!”
“CALLAHAN WILL VERY SOON BE BEYOND EXAMPLES,” the voice said. “WHAT IS YOUR OTHER GUESS?”
When Slightman spoke again, he sounded shaken. Jake hoped the traitor son of a bitch was shaken. He was protecting his son, sure, his only son, but why he thought that gave him the right—
“It may have been maps,” Slightman said. “I’ve thought long and long that a man who has books is apt to have maps. He may have given em maps of the Eastern Regions leading into Thunderclap—they haven’t been shy about saying that’s where they plan to head next. If it is maps they took up there, much good may they do em, even if they live. Next year north’ll be east, and likely the year after it’ll swap places with south.”
In the dusty darkness of the closet Jake could suddenly see Andy watching Slightman make his report. Andy’s blue electric eyes were flashing. Slightman didn’t know—no one in the Calla knew—but that rapid flashing was the way DNF-44821-V-63 expressed humor. He was, in fact, laughing at Slightman.
Because he knows better, Jake thought. Because he knows what’s really in that bag. Bet a box of cookies that he does.
Could he be so sure of that? Was it possible to use the touch on a robot?
If it can think, the gunslinger in his head spoke up, then you can touch it.
Well…maybe.
“Whatever it was, it’s a damn good indication they really do plan to take the kids into the arroyos,” Slightman was saying. “Not that they’d put em in that cave.”
“No, no, not that cave,” Andy said, and although his voice was as prissy-serious as ever, Jake could imagine his blue eyes flashing even faster. Almost stuttering, in fact. “Too many voices in that cave, they’d scare the children! Yer-bugger!”
DNF-44821-V-63, Messenger Robot. Messenger! You could accuse Slightman of treachery, but how could anyone accuse Andy of it? What he did, what he was, had been stamped on his chest for the whole world to see. There it had been, in front of all of them. Gods!
Benny’s Da’, meanwhile, was plodding stolidly on with his report to Finli o’ Tego, who was in some place called Algul Siento.
“The mine he showed us on the map the Taverys drew is the Gloria, and the Gloria en’t but a mile off from the Cave of the Voices. But the bastard’s trig. Can I give another guess?”
“YES.”
“The arroyo that leads to the Gloria Mine splits off to the south about a quarter-mile in. There’s another old mine at the end of the spur. The Redbird Two, it’s called. Their dinh is telling folks he means to put the kids in the Gloria, and I think he’ll tell em the same at the meeting he’s going to call later this week, the one where he asks leave to stand against the Wolves. But I b’lieve that when the time comes, he’ll stick em in the Redbird instead. He’ll have the Sisters of Oriza standing guard—in front and up above, as well—and ye’d do well not to underestimate those ladies.”
“HOW MANY?”
“I think five, if he puts S
arey Adams among em. Plus some men with bahs. He’ll have the brownie throwing with em, kennit, and I hear she’s good. Maybe best of all. But one way or the other, we know where the kids are going to be. Putting them in such a place is a mistake, but he don’t know it. He’s dangerous, but grown old in his thinking. Probably such a strategy has worked for him before.”
And it had, of course. In Eyebolt Canyon, against Latigo’s men.
“The important thing now is finding out where he and the boy and the younger man are going to be when the Wolves come. He may tell at the meeting. If he don’t, he may tell Eisenhart afterward.”
“OR OVERHOLSER?”
“No. Eisenhart will stand with him. Overholser won’t.”
“YOU MUST FIND OUT WHERE THEY’LL BE.”
“I know,” Slightman said. “We’ll find out, Andy and I, and then make one more trip to this unblessed place. After that, I swear by the Lady Oriza and the Man Jesus, I’ve done my part. Now can we get out of here?”
“In a moment, sai,” Andy said. “I have my own report to make, you know.”
There was another of those long, whistling shrieks. Jake ground his teeth and waited for it to be over, and finally it was. Finli o’ Tego signed off.
“Are we done?” Slightman asked.
“Unless you have some reason to linger, I believe we are,” Andy said.
“Does anything in here seem different to you?” Slightman asked suddenly, and Jake felt his blood turn cold.
“No,” Andy said, “but I have great respect for human intuition. Are you having intuition, sai?”
There was a pause that seemed to go on for at least a full minute, although Jake knew it must have been much shorter than that. He held Oy’s head against his thigh and waited.
“No,” Slightman said at last. “Guess I’m just getting jumpy, now that it’s close. God, I wish it was over! I hate this!”
“You’re doing the right thing, sai.” Jake didn’t know about Slightman, but Andy’s plummily sympathetic tone made him feel like gnashing his teeth. “The only thing, really. ’Tisn’t your fault that you’re father to the only mateless twin in Calla Bryn Sturgis, is it? I know a song that makes this point in particularly moving fashion. Perhaps you’d like to hear—”
“Shut up!” Slightman cried in a choked voice. “Shut up, you mechanical devil! I’ve sold my goddam soul, isn’t that enough for you? Must I be made sport of, as well?”
“If I’ve offended, I apologize from the bottom of my admittedly hypothetical heart,” Andy said. “In other words, I cry your pardon.” Sounding sincere. Sounding as though he meant every word. Sounding as though butter wouldn’t melt. Yet Jake had no doubt that Andy’s eyes were flashing out in gales of silent blue laughter.
Twelve
The conspirators left. There was an odd, meaningless jingle of melody from the overhead speakers (meaningless to Jake, at least), and then silence. He waited for them to discover his pony, come back, search for him, find him, kill him. When he had counted to a hundred and twenty and they hadn’t returned to the Dogan, he got to his feet (the overdose of adrenaline in his system left him feeling as stiff as an old man) and went back into the control room. He was just in time to see the motion-sensor lights in front of the place switch off. He looked at the monitor showing the top of the rise and saw the Dogan’s most recent visitors walking between the boom-flurry. This time the cactuses didn’t move. They had apparently learned their lesson. Jake watched Slightman and Andy go, bitterly amused by the difference in their heights. Whenever his father saw such a Mutt-and-Jeff duo on the street, he inevitably said Put em in vaudeville. It was about as close to a joke as Elmer Chambers could get.
When this particular duo was out of sight, Jake looked down at the floor. No dust, of course. No dust and no tracks. He should have seen that when he came in. Certainly Roland would have seen that. Roland would have seen everything.
Jake wanted to leave but made himself wait. If they saw the motion-lights glare back on behind them, they’d probably assume it was a rock-cat (or maybe what Benny called “an armydillo”), but probably wasn’t good enough. To pass the time, he looked at the various control panels, many of which had the LaMerk Industries name on them. Yet he also saw the familiar GE and IBM logos, plus one he didn’t know—Microsoft. All of these latter gadgets were stamped MADE IN USA. The LaMerk products bore no such mark.
He was pretty sure some of the keyboards he saw—there were at least two dozen—controlled computers. What other gadgetry was there? How much was still up and running? Were there weapons stored here? He somehow thought the answer to this last question was no—if there had been weapons, they had no doubt been decommissioned or appropriated, very likely by Andy the Messenger Robot (Many Other Functions).
At last he decided it was safe to leave…if, that was, he was extremely careful, rode slowly back to the river, and took pains to approach the Rocking B the back way. He was nearly to the door when another question occurred to him. Was there a record of his and Oy’s visit to the Dogan? Were they on videotape somewhere? He looked at the operating TV screens, sparing his longest stare for the one showing the control room. He and Oy were on it again. From the camera’s high angle, anyone in the room would have to be in that picture.
Let it go, Jake, the gunslinger in his head advised. There’s nothing you can do about it, so just let it go. If you try poking and prying, you’re apt to leave sign. You might even set off an alarm.
The idea of tripping an alarm convinced him. He picked up Oy—as much for comfort as anything else—and got the hell out. His pony was exactly where Jake had left him, cropping dreamily at the bushes in the moonlight. There were no tracks in the hardpan…but, Jake saw, he wasn’t leaving any himself. Andy would have broken through the crusty surface enough to leave tracks, but not him. He wasn’t heavy enough. Probably Benny’s Da’ wasn’t, either.
Quit it. If they’d smelled you, they would have come back.
Jake supposed that was true, but he still felt more than a little like Goldilocks tiptoeing away from the house of the Three Bears. He led his pony back to the desert road, then put on the duster and slipped Oy into the wide front pocket. As he mounted up, he thumped the bumbler a fairly good one on the saddle-horn.
“Ouch, Ake!” Oy said.
“Quit it, ya baby,” Jake said, turning his pony back in the direction of the river. “Gotta be quiet, now.”
“Kiyit,” Oy agreed, and gave him a wink. Jake worked his fingers down through the bumbler’s heavy fur and scratched the place Oy liked the best. Oy closed his eyes, stretched his neck to an almost comical length, and grinned.
When they got back to the river, Jake dismounted and peered over a boulder in both directions. He saw nothing, but his heart was in his throat all the way across to the other side. He kept trying to think what he would say if Benny’s Da’ hailed him and asked him what he was doing out here in the middle of the night. Nothing came. In English class, he’d almost always gotten A’s on his creative-writing assignments, but now he was discovering that fear and invention did not mix. If Benny’s Da’ hailed him, Jake would be caught. It was as simple as that.
There was no hail—not crossing the river, not going back to the Rocking B, not unsaddling the horse and rubbing him down. The world was silent, and that was just fine with Jake.
Thirteen
Once Jake was back on his pallet and pulling the covers to his chin, Oy jumped up on Benny’s bed and lay down, nose once more under his tail. Benny made a deep-sleep muttering sound, reached out, and gave the bumbler’s flank a single stroke.
Jake lay looking at the sleeping boy, troubled. He liked Benny—his openness, his appetite for fun, his willingness to work hard when there were chores that needed doing. He liked Benny’s yodeling laugh when something struck him funny, and the way they were evenly matched in so many things, and—
And until tonight, Jake had liked Benny’s Da’, too.
He tried to imagine how Benny would look at him when he found out that (a) his father was a traitor and (b) his friend had squealed on him. Jake thought he could bear anger. It was hurt that would be hard.
You think hurt’s all it’ll be? Simple hurt? You better think again. There aren’t many props under Benny Slightman’s world, and this is going to knock them all out from under him. Every single one.
Not my fault that his father’s a spy and a traitor.
But it wasn’t Benny’s, either. If you asked Slightman, he’d probably say it wasn’t even his fault, that he’d been forced into it. Jake guessed that was almost true. Completely true, if you looked at things with a father’s eye. What was it that the Calla’s twins made and the Wolves needed? Something in their brains, very likely. Some sort of enzyme or secretion not produced by singleton children; maybe the enzyme or secretion that created the supposed phenomenon of “twin telepathy.” Whatever it was, they could take it from Benny Slightman, because Benny Slightman only looked like a singleton. Had his sister died? Well, that was tough titty, wasn’t it? Very tough titty, especially for the father who loved the only one left. Who couldn’t bear to let him go.
Suppose Roland kills him? How will Benny look at you then?
Once, in another life, Roland had promised to take care of Jake Chambers and then let him drop into the darkness. Jake had thought there could be no worse betrayal than that. Now he wasn’t so sure. No, not so sure at all. These unhappy thoughts kept him awake for a long time. Finally, half an hour or so before the first hint of dawn touched the horizon, he fell into a thin and troubled sleep.
Chapter IV:
The Pied Piper
One
“We are ka-tet,” said the gunslinger. “We are one from many.” He saw Callahan’s doubtful look—it was impossible to miss—and nodded. “Yes, Pere, you’re one of us. I don’t know for how long, but I know it’s so. And so do my friends.”
Jake nodded. So did Eddie and Susannah. They were in the Pavilion today; after hearing Jake’s story, Roland no longer wanted to meet at the rectory-house, not even in the back yard. He thought it all too likely that Slightman or Andy—maybe even some other as yet unsuspected friend of the Wolves—had placed listening devices as well as cameras there. Overhead the sky was gray, threatening rain, but the weather remained remarkably warm for so late in the season. Some civic-minded ladies or gents had raked away the fallen leaves in a wide circle around the stage where Roland and his friends had introduced themselves not so long ago, and the grass beneath was as green as summer. There were folken flying kites, couples promenading hand in hand, two or three outdoor tradesmen keeping one eye out for customers and the other on the low-bellied clouds overhead. On the bandstand, the group of musicians who had played them into Calla Bryn Sturgis with such brio were practicing a few new tunes. On two or three occasions, townsfolk had started toward Roland and his friends, wanting to pass a little time, and each time it happened, Roland shook his head in an unsmiling way that turned them around in a hurry. The time for so-good-to-meet-you politics had passed. They were almost down to what Susannah called the real nitty-gritty.
