Wolves of the Calla - Stephen King [269]
“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