When Roland had finished, Ted Brautigan said: “You mean to spill an almighty lot of blood.”
“Indeed I do. As much as I can.”
“Risky for the lady,” Dink remarked, looking first at her and then at her husband.
Susannah said nothing. Neither did Eddie. He recognized the risk. He also understood why Roland would want Suze north of the compound. The Cruisin Trike would give her mobility, and they’d need it. As for risk, they were six planning to take on sixty. Or more. Of course there would be risk, and of course there would be blood.
Blood and fire.
“I may be able to rig a couple of other guns,” Susannah said. Her eyes had taken on that special Detta Walker gleam. “Radio-controlled, like a toy airplane. I dunno. But I’ll move, all right. I’m goan speed around like grease on a hot griddle.”
“Can this work?” Dinky asked bluntly.
Roland’s lips parted in a humorless grin. “It will work.”
“How can you say that?” Ted asked.
Eddie recalled Roland’s reasoning before their call to John Cullum and could have answered that question, but answers were for their ka-tet’s dinh to give—if he would—and so he left this one to Roland.
“Because it has to,” the gunslinger said. “I see no other way.”
Chapter XI:
The Attack on Algul Siento
One
It was a day later and not long before the horn signaled the morning change of shift. The music would soon start, the sun would come on, and the Breaker night-crew would exit The Study stage left while the Breaker day-crew entered stage right. Everything was as it should be, yet Pimli Prentiss had slept less than an hour the previous night and even that brief time had been haunted by sour and chaotic dreams. Finally, around four (what his bedside clock in fact claimed was four, but who knew anymore, and what did it matter anyway, this close to the end), he’d gotten up and sat in his office chair, looking out at the darkened Mall, deserted at this hour save for one lone and pointless robot who’d taken it into its head to patrol, waving its six pincer-tipped arms aimlessly at the sky. The robots that still ran grew wonkier by the day, but pulling their batteries could be dangerous, for some were booby-trapped and would explode it you tried it. There was nothing you could do but put up with their antics and keep reminding yourself that all would be over soon, praise Jesus and God the Father Almighty. At some point the former Paul Prentiss opened the desk drawer above the kneehole, pulled out the .40 Peacemaker Colt inside, and held it in his lap. It was the one with which the previous Master, Humma, had executed the rapist Cameron. Pimli hadn’t had to execute anyone in his time and was glad of it, but holding the pistol in his lap, feeling its grave weight, always offered a certain comfort. Although why he should require comfort in the watches of the night, especially when everything was going so well, he had no idea. All he knew for sure was that there had been some anomalous blips on what Finli and Jenkins, their chief technician, liked to call the Deep Telemetry, as if these were instruments at the bottom of the ocean instead of just in a basement closet adjacent to the long, low room holding the rest of the more useful gear. Pimli recognized what he was feeling—call a spade a spade—as a sense of impending doom. He tried to tell himself it was only his grandfather’s proverb in action, that he was almost home and so it was time to worry about the eggs.
Finally he’d gone into his bathroom, where he closed the lid of the toilet and knelt to pray. And here he was still, only something had changed in the atmosphere. He’d heard no footfall but knew someone had stepped into his office. Logic suggested who it must be. Still without opening his eyes, still with his hands clasped on the closed cover of the toilet, he called: “Finli? Finli o’ Tego? Is that you?”
“Yar, boss, it’s me.”
What was he doing here before the horn? Everyone, even the Breakers, knew what a fiend for sleep was Finli the Weasel. But all in good time. At this moment Pimli was entertaining the Lord (although in truth he’d nearly dozed off on his knees when some deep sub-instinct had warned him he was no longer alone on the first floor of Warden’s House). One did not snub such an important guest as the Lord God of Hosts, and so he finished his prayer—“Grant me the grace of Thy will, amen!”—before rising with a wince. His damned back didn’t care a bit for the belly it had to hoist in front.
Finli was standing by the window, holding the Peacemaker up to the dim light, turning it to and fro in order to admire the delicate scrollwork on the butt-plates.
“This is the one that said goodnight to Cameron, true?” Finli asked. “The rapist Cameron.”
Pimli nodded. “Have a care, my son. It’s loaded.”
“Six-shot?”
“Eight! Are you blind? Look at the size of the cylinder, for God’s love.”
Finli didn’t bother. He handed the gun back to Pimli, instead. “I know how to pull the trigger, so I do, and when it comes to guns that’s enough.”
“Aye, if it’s loaded. What are you doing up at this hour, and bothering a man at his morning prayers?”
Finli eyed him. “If I were to ask you why I find you at your prayers, dressed and combed instead of in your bathrobe and slippers with only one eye open, what answer would you make?”
“I’ve got the jitters. It’s as simple as that. I guess you do, too.”
Finli smiled, charmed. “Jitters! Is that like heebie-jeebies, and harum-scarum, and hinky-di-di?”
“Sort of—yar.”
Finli’s smile widened, but Pimli thought it didn’t look quite genuine. “I like it! I like it very well! Jittery! Jittersome!”
“No,” Pimli said. “ ‘Got the jitters,’ that’s how you use it.”
Finli’s smile faded. “I also have the jitters. I’m heebie and jeebie. I feel hinky-di-di. I’m harum and you’re scarum.”
“More blips on the Deep Telemetry?”
Finli shrugged, then nodded. The problem with the Deep Telemetry was that none of them were sure exactly what it measured. It might be telepathy, or (God forbid) teleportation, or even deep tremors in the fabric of reality—precursors of the Bear Beam’s impending snap. Impossible to tell. But more and more of that previously dark and quiet equipment had come alive in the last four months or so.
“What does Jenkins say?” Pimli asked. He slipped the .40 into his docker’s clutch almost without thinking, so moving us a step closer to what you will not want to hear and I will not want to tell.
“Jenkins says whatever rides out of his mouth on the flying carpet of his tongue,” said the Tego with a rude shrug. “Since he don’t even know what the symbols on the Deep Telemetry dials and vid screens signify, how can you ask his opinion?”
“Easy,” Pimli said, putting a hand on his Security Chief’s shoulder. He was surprised (and a little alarmed) to feel the flesh beneath Finli’s fine Turnbull & Asser shirt thrumming slightly. Or perhaps trembling. “Easy, pal! I was only asking.”
“I can’t sleep, I can’t read, I can’t even fuck,” Finli said. “I tried all three, by Gan! Walk down to Damli House with me, would you, and have a look at the damned readouts. Maybe you’ll have some ideas.”
“I’m a trailboss, not a technician,” Pimli said mildly, but he was already moving toward the door. “However, since I’ve nothing better to do—”
“Maybe it’s just the end coming on,” Finli said, pausing in the doorway. “As if there could be any just about such a thing.”
“Maybe that’s it,” Pimli said equably, “and a walk in the morning air can’t do us any ha—Hey! Hey, you! You, there! You Rod! Turn around when I talk to you, hadn’t you just better!”