“No, I’m not,” Little Tib told him.
“Yes, you are,” the Clothes Man said. “Over there is where you want to be—that’s on that side. So this is the other side.”
“You’re right,” Little Tib admitted. “But I still can’t get through the door.”
“You don’t have to, now,” the Clothes Man told him. “You’re already on the other side. Just don’t trip over the steps.”
“What steps?” Little Tib asked. As he did, he took a step backward. His heel bumped something he did not expect, and he sat down hard on something else that was higher up than the floor should have been.
“Those steps,” the Clothes Man said mildly.
Little Tib was feeling them with his hands. They were sidewalk-stuff with metal edges, and they felt almost as hard and real to his fingers as they had a moment ago when he sat down on them without wanting to. “I don’t remember going down these,” he said.
“You didn’t. But now you have to go up them to get to the upper room.”
“What upper room?”
“The one with the door that goes out into the corridor,” the Clothes Man told him. “You go to the corridor, and turn that way, and—”
“I know,” Little Tib said. “Mr. Parker told me. Over and over. But he didn’t tell me about that door that was locked, or these steps.”
“It may be that Mr. Parker doesn’t remember the inside of this building quite as well as he thinks he does.”
“He used to work here. He told me.” Little Tib was going up the stairs. There was an iron rail on one side. He was afraid that if he did not talk to the Clothes Man, he would go away. But Little Tib could not think of anything to say, and nothing of the kind happened. Then he remembered that he had not talked to the lion at all.
“I could find the keys for you,” the Clothes Man said. “I could bring them back to you.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” Little Tib told him.
“It would just take a moment. I fall down a lot, but keys wouldn’t break.”
“No,” Little Tib said. The Clothes Man looked so hurt that he added, “I’m afraid. . . .”
“You can’t be afraid of the dark. Are you afraid of being alone?”
“A little. But I’m afraid you couldn’t really bring them to me. I’m afraid you’re not real, and I want you to be real.”
“I could bring them.” The Clothes Man threw out his chest and struck a heroic pose, but the dry grass that was his stuffing made a small, sad, rustling sound. “I am real. Try me.”
There was another door—Little Tib’s fingers found it. This one was not locked, and when he went out it, the floor changed from sidewalk to smooth stone. “I too am real,” a strange voice said. The Clothes Man was still there when the strange voice spoke, but he seemed dimmer.
“Who are you?” Little Tib asked, and there was a sound like thunder. He had hated the strange voice from the beginning, but until he heard the thunder sound he had not really known how much. It was not really like thunder, he thought. He remembered his dream about the gnomes, though this was much worse. It seemed to him that it was like big stones grinding together at the bottom of the deepest hole in the world. It was worse than that, really.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” the Clothes Man said.
“If the keys are in there, I’ll have to go in and get them,” Little Tib replied.
“They’re not in there at all. In fact, they’re not even close to there—they’re several doors down. All you have to do is walk past the door.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s the computer,” the Clothes Man told him.
“I didn’t think they talked like that.”
“Only to you. And not all of them talk at all. Just don’t go in and it will be all right.”
“Suppose it comes out here after me?”
“It won’t do that. It is as frightened of you as you are of it.”
“I won’t go in,” Little Tib promised.
When he was opposite the door where the thing was, he heard it groaning as if it were in torture, and he turned and went in. He was very frightened to find himself there, but he knew he was not in the wrong place—he had done the right thing, and not the wrong thing. Still, he was very frightened. The horrible voice said, “What have we to do with you? Have you come to torment us?”
“What is your name?” Little Tib asked.
The thundering, grinding noise came a second time, and this time Little Tib thought he heard in it the sound of many voices, perhaps hundreds or thousands, all speaking at once.
“Answer me,” Little Tib said. He walked forward until he could put his hands on the cabinet of the machine. He felt frightened, but he knew the Clothes Man had been right—the computer was as frightened of him as he was of it. He knew that the Clothes Man was standing behind him, and he wondered if he would have dared to do this if someone else had not been watching.
“We are legion,” the horrible voice said. “Very many.”
“Get out!” There was a moaning that might have come from deep inside the earth. Something made of glass that had been on furniture fell over and rolled and crashed to the floor.
“They are gone,” the Clothes Man said. He sat on the cabinet of the computer so Little Tib could see it, and he looked brighter than ever.
“Where did they go?” Little Tib asked.
“I don’t know. You will probably meet them again.” As if he had just thought of it, he said, “You were very brave.”
“I was scared. I’m still scared—the worst since I left the new place.”
“I wish I could tell you that you didn’t have to be afraid of them,” the Clothes Man said, “or of anybody. But it wouldn’t be true. Still, I can tell you something that is really better than that—that it will all come out right in the end.” He took off the big, floppy black hat he wore, and Little Tib saw that his bald head was really only a sack. “You wouldn’t let me bring the keys before, but how about now? Or would you be afraid with me away?”
“No,” Little Tib said, “but I’ll get the keys myself.”
At once the Clothes Man was gone. Little Tib felt the smooth, cool metal of the computer under his hands. In the blackness, it was the only reality there was.
He did not bother to find the window again; instead, he unlocked another, and called Nitty and Mr. Parker to it, smelling as he did the cool, damp air of spring. At the opening, he thrust the keys through first, then squeezed himself between the bars. By the time he was outside, he could hear Mr. Parker unlocking the side door.
“You were a long time,” Nitty said. “Was it bad in there by yourself?”
“I wasn’t by myself,” Little Tib said.
“I’m not even goin’ to ask you about that. I used to be a fool, but I know better now. You still want to go to Dr. Prithivi’s meetin’?”
“He wants us to come, doesn’t he?”
“You are the big star, the main event. If you don’t come, it’s going to be like no potato salad at a picnic.”
They walked back to the motel in silence. The flute music they had heard before was louder and faster now, with the clangs of gongs interspersed in its shrill wailings. Little Tib stood on a footstool while Nitty took his clothes away and wrapped a piece of cloth around his waist, and another around his head, and hung his neck with beads, and painted something on his forehead.
“There, you look just ever so fine,” Nitty said.
“I feel silly,” Little Tib told him.
Nitty said that that did not matter, and they left the motel again and walked several blocks. Little Tib heard the crowd, and the loud sounds of the music, and then smelled the familiar dark, sweet smell of Dr. Prithivi’s bus; he asked Nitty if the people had not seen him, and Nitty said that they had not, that they were watching something taking place on a stage outside.