"True."
The lobby had regained its normal rhythm... except, Roland understood, die rhythm of this place would never be like that in other business buildings. Those living in Thunderclap would suffer all their lives from little ailments like boils and eczema and headaches and ear-styke; at the end of it, they would die (probably at an early age) of some big and painful trum, likely the cancers that ate fast and burned die nerves like brushfires as they made their meals. Here was just the opposite: health and harmony, goodwill and generosity. These folken did not hear the rose singing, exactly, but they didn't need to.
They were the lucky ones, and on some level every one of them knew i t... which was luckiest of all. He watched them come in and cross to the lift-boxes that were called ele-vaydors, moving briskly, swinging their pokes and packages, their gear and their gunna, and not one course was a perfecdy straight line from the doors. A few came to what she'd called the Garden of the Beam, but even those who didn't bent their steps briefly in that direction, as if attracted by a powerful magnet. And if anyone tried to harm the rose? There was a security guard sitting at a little desk by the elevators, Roland saw, but he was fat and old.
And it didn't matter. If anyone made a threatening move, everyone in this lobby would hear a scream of alarm in his or her head, as piercing and imperative as that kind of whistle only dogs can hear. And they would converge upon the would-be assassin of the rose. They would do so swiftly, and with absolutely no regard for their own safety. The rose had been able to protect itself when it had been growing in the trash and the weeds of the vacant lot (or at least draw those who would protect it), and that hadn't changed.
"Mr. Deschain? Are you ready to go upstairs now?"
"Aye," he said. "Lead me as you would."
SEVEN
The familiarity of the woman's face clicked into place for him just as they reached the ele-vaydor. Perhaps it was seeing her in profile that did it, something about the shape of the cheekbone.
He remembered Eddie telling him about his conversation with Calvin Tower after Jack Andolini and George Biondi had left the Manhattan Restaurant of die Mind. Tower had been speaking of his oldest friend's family. They like to boast that they have the most unique legal letterhead in New York, perhaps in the United States.
It simply reads "DEEPNEAU."
"Are you sai Aaron Deepneau's daughter?" he asked her.
"Surely not, you're too young. His granddaughter?"
Her smile faded. "Aaron never had children, Mr. Deschain.
I'm the granddaughter of his older brother, but my own parents and grandfather died young. Airy was the one who mosdy raised me."
"Did you call him so? Airy?" Roland was charmed.
"As a child I did, and it just kind of stuck." She held out a hand, her smile returning. "Nancy Deepneau. And I am so pleased to meet you. A litde frightened, but pleased."
Roland shook her hand, but the gesture was perfunctory, hardly more than a touch. Then, with considerably more feeling
(for this was the ritual he had grown up with, the one he understood), he placed his fist against his forehead and made a leg. "Long days and pleasant nights, Nancy Deepneau."
Her smile widened into a cheerful grin. "And may you have twice the number, Roland of Gilead! May you have twice the number."
The ele-vaydor came, they got on, and it was to the ninetyninth floor that they went.
EIGHT
The doors opened on a large round foyer. The floor was carpeted in a dusky pink shade that exacdy matched the hue of the rose. Across from the ele-vaydor was a glass door with THE TET CORPORATION lettered on it. Beyond, Roland saw another, smaller lobby where a woman sat at a desk, apparendy talking to herself. To the right of the outer lobby door were two men wearing business suits. They were chatting to each other, hands in pockets, seemingly relaxed, but Roland saw they were anything but. And they were armed. The coats of their suits were welltailored, but a man who knows how to look for a gun usually sees one, if a gun is there. These two fellows would stand in this foyer for an hour, maybe two (it was difficult for even good men to remain totally alert for much longer), falling into their little justchatting routine each time the ele-vaydor came, ready to move instandy if they smelled something wrong. Roland approved.
He didn't spend much time looking at the guards, however.