The Dark Tower - Stephen King [100]
Finli of Tego, who was then over three hundred years old, had shrugged and flicked his hand at the horizon. Delah. Years beyond counting.
And how long had Blue Heaven—Devar-Toi to the newer inmates, Algul Siento to the taheen and the Rods—how long had this prison been here? Also delah. But if Finli was correct (and Pimli’s heart said that Finli almost certainly was), then delah was 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 of the two wing chairs by the window, “you found a maintenance drone. Where?”
“Close to where Track 97 leaves the switching-yard,” said Finli. “That track’s still hot—has what you call ‘a third rail’—and so that explains that. Then, after we’d left, you call and 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, a gesture that conveyed what they both knew: it was all going to hell. And the closer 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 of intruders who were human, taheen, can-toi, or mechanical. No one in Finli’s search-party had thought to look up, and likely would not have spotted Mordred even if they had: a spider now as big as a medium-sized dog, crouched in the deep shadow under the main station’s eave, held in place by a little hammock of webbing.
“You’re going to check the telemetry again because of the second alarm?”
“Partly,” Finli said. “Mostly because things feel hinky to me.” This was a word he’d picked up from one of the many other-side crime novels he read—they fascinated him—and he used it at 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—that they both were—Finli hesitated, and then decided what the hell. “These are 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 old soldier—maybe “Dugout” Doug MacArthur—saying, “When my eyes close in death, gentlemen, my final thought will be of the corps. And the corps. And the corps.” Pimli’s own final thought would probably be of Algul Siento. Because what else was there now? In the words of another great American—Martha Reeves of Martha and the Vandellas—they had nowhere to run, baby, nowhere to hide. Things were out of control, running downhill with no brakes, and there was nothing left to do but enjoy the ride.
“Would you mind a little company as you go your rounds?” Pimli asked.
“Why not?” The Weasel replied. He smiled, revealing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. And sang, in his odd and wavering voice: “ ‘Dream with me…I’m on my way to the moon of my fa-aathers…’ ”
“Give me one minute,” Pimli said, and got up.
“Prayers?” Finli asked.
Pimli stopped in the doorway. “Yes,” he said. “Since you ask. Any comments, Finli o’ Tego?”
“Just one, perhaps.” The smiling thing with the human body and the sleek brown weasel’s head continued to smile. “If prayer’s so exalted, why do you kneel in the same room where you sit to shit?”
“Because the Bible suggests that when one is in company, one should do it in one’s closet. Further comments?”
“Nay, nay.” Finli waved a negligent hand. “Do thy best and thy worst, as the Manni say.”
Three
In the bathroom, Paul o’ Rahway closed the lid on the toilet, knelt on the tiles, and folded his hands.
If prayer’s so exalted, why do you kneel in the same room where you sit to shit?
Maybe I should have said because it keeps me humble, he thought. Because it keeps me right-sized. It’s