"The Dark Tower is existence," Roland said, "and I have sacrificed many friends to reach it over the years, including a boy who called me father. I have sacrificed my own soul in the bargain, lady-sai, so turn thy impudent glass another way. May you do it soon and do it well, I beg."
His tone was polite but dreadfully cold. All the color was dashed from Nancy Deepneau's face, and the teacup in her hands trembled so badly that Roland reached out and plucked it from her hand, lest it spill and burn her.
"Take me not amiss," he said. "Understand me, for we'll never speak more. What was done was done in both worlds, well and ill, for ka and against it. Yet there's more beyond all worlds than you know, and more behind them than you could ever guess. My time is short, so let's move on."
"Well said, sir!" Moses Carver growled, and thumped his cane again.
"If I offended, I'm truly sorry," Nancy said.
To this Roland made no reply, for he knew she was not sorry a bit-she was only afraid of him. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence that Marian Carver finally broke.
"We don't have any Breakers of our own, Roland, but at the ranch in Taos we employ a dozen telepaths and precogs.
What they make together is sometimes uncertain but always greater than the sum of its parts. Do you know the term "good-mind'?"
The gunslinger nodded.
"They make a version of that," she said, "although I'm sure it's not so great or powerful as that the Breakers in Thunderclap were able to produce."
"B'cause they had hundreds," the old man grumped. "And they were better fed."
"Also because the servants of the King were more than willing to kidnap any who were particularly powerful," Nancy said, "they always had what we'd call 'the pick of the litter.' Still, ours have served vis well enough."
"Whose idea was it to put such folk to work for you?"
Roland asked.
"Strange as it might seem to you, partner," Moses said, "it was Cal Tower. He never contributed much-never did much but elect his books and drag his heels, greedy highfalutin whitebread sumbitch that he was-"
His daughter gave him a warning look. Roland found he had to struggle to keep a straight face. Moses Carver might be a hundred years old, but he had pegged Calvin Tower in a single phrase.
"Anyway, he read about putting tellypaths to work in a bunch of science fiction books. Do you know about science fiction?"
Roland shook his head.
"Well, ne'mine. Most of it's bullshit, but every now and then a good idear crops up. Listen to me and I'll tell you a good
"un. You'll understand if you know what Tower and your friend Mist' Dean talked about twenty-two years ago, when Mist' Dean come n saved Tower from them two honky thugs."
"Dad," Marian said warningly. 'You quit with the nigger talk, now. You're old but not stupid."
He looked at her; his muddy old eyes gleamed with malicious good cheer; he looked back at Roland and once more came that sly droop of a wink. "Them two honky dago thugs!"
"Eddie spoke of it, yes," Roland said.
The slur disappeared from Carver's voice; his words became crisp. "Then you know they spoke of a book called The Hogan, by Benjamin Slightman. The title of the book was misprinted, and so was the writer's name, which was just the sort of thing that turned old fatty's dials."
"Yes," Roland said. The title misprint had been The Dogan, a phrase that had come to have great meaning to Roland and his tet.
"Well, after your friend came to visit, Cal Tower got interested in that fella all over again, and it turned out he'd written four other books under the name of Daniel Holmes. He was as white as a Klansman's sheet, this Slightman, but the name he chose to write his other books under was the name of Odetta's father. And I bet that don't surprise you none, does it?"
"No," Roland said. It was just one more faint click as the combination-dial of ka turned.
"And all the books he wrote under the Holmes name were science fiction yarns, about the government hiring tellypaths and precogs to find things out. And that's where we got the idea." He looked at Roland and gave his cane a triumphant thump. "There's more to the tale, a good deal, but I don't guess you've got the time. That's what it all comes back to, isn't it? Time. And in this world it only runs one way." He looked wistful.
"I'd give a great lot, gunslinger, to see my goddaughter again, but I don't guess that's in the cards, is it? Unless we meet in the clearing."
"I think you say true," Roland told him, "but I'll take her word of you, and how I found you still full of hot spit and fire-"
"Say God, say Gawd-bombl" the old man interjected, and thumped his cane. "Tell it, brother! And see that you tell her!"
"So I will." Roland finished the last of his tea, then put the cup on Marian Carver's desk and stood with a supporting hand on his right hip as he did. It would take him a long time to get used to the lack of pain there, quite likely more time than he had. "And now I must take my leave of you. There's a place not far from here where I need to go."
"We know where," Marian said. "There'll be someone to meet you when you arrive. The place has been kept safe for you, and if the door you seek is still there and still working, you'll go through it."