Stephen King - The Dark Tower

Sitting on the Cruisin Trike in the concealment afforded by one of the empty sheds north of the compound, Susannah watched Haylis go. She noted that the poor, disfigured sai was smiling about something, so things had probably gone well with him. That was good news, indeed. Once he was out of sight, she returned her attention to her end of Algul Siento.

She could see both stone towers (although only the top half of the one on her left; the rest was concealed by a fold of hillside). They were shackled about with some sort of ivy. Cultivated rather than wild, Susannah guessed, given the barrenness of the surrounding countryside. There was one fellow in the west tower, sitting in what appeared to be an easy chair, maybe even a La-Z-Boy. Standing at the railing of the east one were a taheen with a beaver’s head and a low man (if he was a hume, Susannah thought, he was one butt-ugly son of a bitch), the two of them in conversation, pretty clearly waiting for the horn that would send them off-shift and to breakfast in the commissary. Between the two watchtowers she could see the triple line of fencing, the runs strung widely enough apart so that more sentries could walk in the aisles between the wire without fear of getting a lethal zap of electricity. She saw no one there this morning, though. The few folken moving about inside the wire were idling along, none of them in a great hurry to get anywhere. Unless the lackadaisical scene before her was the biggest con of the century, Roland was right. They were as vulnerable as a herd of fat shoats being fed their last meal outside the slaughtering-pen: come-come-commala, shor’-ribs to folla.

And while the gunslingers had had no luck finding any sort of radio-controlled weaponry, they had discovered that three of the more science-fictiony rifles were equipped with switches marked INTERVAL. Eddie said he thought these rifles were lazers, although nothing about them looked lazy to Susannah. Jake had suggested they take one of them out of sight of the Devar-Toi and try it out, but Roland vetoed the idea immediately. Last evening, this had been, while going over the plan for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“He’s right, kid,” Eddie had said. “The clowns down there might know we were shooting those things even if they couldn’t see or hear anything. We don’t know what kind of vibes their telemetry can pick up.”

Under cover of dark, Susannah had set up all three of the “lazers.” When the time came, she’d set the interval switches. The guns might work, thus adding to the impression they were trying to create; they might not. She’d give it a try when the time came, and that was all she could do.

Heart thumping heavily, Susannah waited for the music. For the horn. And, if the sneetches the Rod had set worked the way Roland believed they would work, for the fires.

“The ideal would be for all of them to go hot during the five or ten minutes when they’re changing the guard,” Roland had said. “Everyone scurrying hither and thither, waving to their friends and exchanging little bits o’ gossip. We can’t expect that — not really — but we can hope for it.”

Yes, they could do that much…but wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up first. In any case, it would be her decision as to when to fire the first shot. After that, everything would happen jin-jin.

Please, God, help me pick the right time .

She waited, holding one of the Coyote machine-pistols with the barrel in the hollow of her shoulder. When the music started — a recorded version of what she thought might be “ ’At’s Amore”—Susannah lurched on the seat of the SCT and squeezed the trigger involuntarily. Had the safety not been on, she would have poured a stream of bullets into the shed’s ceiling and no doubt queered the pitch at once. But Roland had taught her well, and the trigger didn’t move beneath her finger. Still, her heartbeat had doubled — trebled, maybe — and she could feel sweat trickling down her sides, even though the day was once again cool.

The music had started and that was good. But the music wasn’t enough. She sat on the SCT’s saddle, waiting for the horn.

“Dino Martino,” Eddie said, almost too low to hear.

“Hmmm?” Jake asked.

The three of them were behind the SOO LINE boxcar, having worked their way through the graveyard of old engines and traincars to that spot. Both of the boxcar’s loading doors were open, and all three of them had had a peek through them at the fence, the south watchtowers, and the village of Pleasantville, which consisted of but a single street. The six-armed robot which had earlier been on the Mall was now here, rolling up and down Main Street past the quaint (and closed) shops, bellowing what sounded like math equations at the top of its…lungs?

“Dino Martino,” Eddie repeated. Oy was sitting at Jake’s feet, looking up with his brilliant gold-ringed eyes; Eddie bent and gave his head a brief pat. “Dean Martin did that song originally.”

“Yeah?” Jake asked doubtfully.

“Sure. Only we used to sing it, ‘When-a da moon hits-a yo’ lip like a big piece-a shit, ’at’s amore—’ ”

“Hush, do ya please,” Roland murmured.

“Don’t suppose you smell any smoke yet, do you?” Eddie asked.

Jake and Roland shook their heads. Roland had his big iron with the sandalwood grips. Jake was armed with an AR-15, but the bag of Orizas was once more hung over his shoulder, and not just for good luck. If all went well, he and Roland would be using them soon.

Like most men with what’s known as “house-help,” Pimli Prentiss had no clear sense of his employees as creatures with goals, ambitions, and feelings — as humes, in other words. As long as there was someone to bring him his afternoon glass of whiskey and set his chop (rare) in front of him at six-thirty, he didn’t think of them at all. Certainly he would have been quite astounded to learn that Tammy (his housekeeper) and Tassa (his houseboy) loathed each other. They treated each other with perfect — if chilly — respect when they were around him, after all.

Only Pimli wasn’t around this morning as “ ’At’s Amore” (interpreted by the Billion Bland Strings) rose from Algul Siento’s hidden speakers. The Master was walking up the Mall, now in the company of Jakli, a ravenhead taheen tech, as well as his Security Chief. They were discussing the Deep Telemetry, and Pimli had no thought at all for the house he had left behind for the last time. Certainly it never crossed his mind that Tammy Kelly (still in her nightgown) and Tassa of Sonesh (still in his silk sleep-shorts) were on the verge of battle about the pantry-stock.

“Look at this!” she cried. They were standing in the kitchen, which was deeply gloomy. It was a large room, and all but three of the electric lights were burned out. There were only a few bulbs left in Stores, and they were earmarked for The Study.

“Look at what?” Sulky. Pouty. And was that the remains of lip paint on his cunning little Cupid’s-bow of a mouth? She thought it was.

“Do’ee not see the empty spots on the shelves?” she asked indignantly. “Look! No more baked beans—”

“He don’t care beans for beans, as you very well know—”

“No tuna-fish, either, and will’ee tell me he don’t eat that? He’d eat it until it ran out his ears, and thee knows it!”

“Can you not—”

“No more soup—”

“Balls there ain’t!” he cried. “Look there, and there, and th —”

“Not the Campbell’s Tamater he likes best,” she overrode him, drawing closer in her excitement. Their arguments had never developed into outright fisticuffs before, but Tassa had an idea this might be the day. And if it were so, it were fine-oh! He’d love to sock this fat old run-off-at-the-mouth bitch in the eye. “Do you see any Campbell’s Tamater, Tassa o’ wherever-you-grew?”