That mutter again. Several men and women instinctively made the sign of the cross. An elderly woman on the lefthand aisle placed her hands rapidly across her eyes, mouth, and ears in an eerie imitation of Nick Andros before refolding them over the bulky black purse in her lap.
"We've discussed him to some degree in closed committee meetings," Glen went on, his tone calm and conversational, "and the question came up in private as to whether or not we should bring the question up in public. The point was made that no one in the Zone really seemed to want to talk about it, not after the funhouse dreams we all had on the way here. That perhaps a period of recuperation was needed. Now, I think, is the time to bring the subject up. To drag him out into the light, as it were. In police work, they have a handy gadget called an Ident-i-Kit, which a police-artist uses to create the face of a criminal from various witnesses' recollections of him. In our case we have no face, but we do have a series of recollections that form at least an outline of our Antagonist. I've talked to quite a few people about this and I would like to present you with my own Ident-i-Kit sketch.
"This man's name seems to be Randall Flagg, although some people have associated the names Richard Frye, Robert Freemont, and Richard Freemantle with him. The initials R.F. may have some significance, but if so, none of us on the Free Zone Committee know what it is. His presence - at least in dreams - produces feelings of dread, disquiet, terror, horror. In case after case, the physical feeling associated with him is one of coldness."
Heads were nodding, and that excited hum of conversation broke out again. Stu thought they sounded like boys who had just discovered sex, were comparing notes, and were excited to find that all reports put the receptacle in approximately the same place. He covered a slight grin with his hand, and reminded himself to save that one for Fran later on.
"This Flagg is in the West," Glen continued. "Equal numbers of people have 'seen' him in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland. Some people - Mother Abagail was among them - claim that Flagg is crucifying people who step out of line. All of them seem to believe that there is a confrontation shaping up between this man and ourselves, and that Flagg will stick at nothing to bring us down. And sticking at nothing includes quite a lot. Armored force. Nuclear weapons. Perhaps... plague."
"I'd like to catch hold of that dirty bastard!" Rich Moffat called shrilly. "I'd give him a dose of the everfucking plague!"
There was a tension-relieving burst of laughter, and Rich got a hand. Glen grinned easily. He had given Rich his cue and his line half an hour before the meeting, and Rich had delivered admirably. Old baldy had been right as rain about one thing, Stu was discovering: a background in sociology often came in handy at large meetings.
"All right, I've outlined what I know about him," he went on. "My last contribution before throwing the meeting open to discussion is this: I think Stu is right in telling you that we have to deal with Harold and Nadine in a civilized way if they're caught, but like him, I think that is unlikely. Also like him, I believe they did what they did on this man Flagg's orders."
His words rang out strongly in the hall.
"This man has got to be dealt with. George Richardson told you mysticism isn't his field of study. It isn't mine, either. But I tell you this: I think that dying old woman somehow represents the forces of good as much as Flagg represents the forces of evil. I think that whatever power controls her used her to bring us together. I don't think that power intends to forsake us now. Maybe we need to talk it over and let some air into those nightmares. Maybe we need to begin deciding what we're going to do about him. But he can't just walk into this Zone next spring and take over, not if you people are standing watch. Now I'll turn the meeting back to Stu, who'll chair the discussion."
His last sentence was lost in a crash of applause, and Glen went back to his seat feeling pleased. He had stirred them with a big stick... or was the phrase played them like a violin? It didn't really matter. They were more mad than scared, they were ready for a challenge (although they might not be so eager next April, after they'd had a long winter to cool off in)... and most of all, they were ready to talk.
And talk they did, for the next three hours. A few people left as midnight came and went, but not many. As Larry had suspected, no good hard advice came out of it. There were wild suggestions: a bomber and/or a nuclear stockpile of their own, a summit meeting, a trained hit squad. There were few practical ideas.