The right half of the face disclosed was actually a bit like Etheridgesan older Etheridge, an Etheridge who had been in a lot of places nice prepschool boys didnt go and who had done a lot of things nice prepschool boys didnt do. The other half was a twisted mass of scars. A glittery crescent that might have been an eye peered from a crater in the lumpy mess of flesh below the forehead. It looked like a marble that had been shoved deeply into a puddle of halfmelted tallow. A single long fang hooked out of the left corner of the mouth. Its his Twinner, Jack thought with utter calm certainty. Thats Etheridges Twinner down there. Are they all Twinners? A Littlefield Twinner and a Norrington Twinner and a Buckley Twinner and so on and so on? That cant be, can it? Sloat! the Etheridgething cried. It shambled two steps toward Nelson House. The glow from the streetlights on the drive now fell directly onto its ruined face. Shut the window, Richard whispered. Shut the window. I was wrong. It sort of looks like Etheridge but its not, maybe its his older brother, maybe someone threw battery acid or something in Etheridges brothers face and now hes crazy, but its not Etheridge so close the window Jack close it right n Below, the Etheridgething shambled yet another step toward them. It grinned. Its tongue, hideously long, fell out of its mouth like an unrolling party favor. Sloat! it cried. Give us your passenger! Jack and Richard both jerked around, looking at each other with strained faces. A howl shivered in the night . . . for it was night now; twilight was done. Richard looked at Jack, and for a moment Jack saw something like real hate in the other boys eyesa flash of his father. Why did you have to come here, Jack? Huh? Why did you have to bring me this mess? Why did you have to bring me all this goddam Seabrook Island stuff? Do you want me to go? Jack asked softly. For a moment that look of harried anger remained in Richards eyes, and then it was replaced by Richards old kindness. No, he said, running distracted hands through his hair. No, youre not going anywhere. There are . . . there are wild dogs out there. Wild dogs, Jack, on the Thayer campus! I mean . . . did you see them? Yeah, I saw em, Richieboy, Jack said softly, as Richard ran his hands through his formerly neat hair again, mussing it into ever wilder tangles. Jacks neat and orderly friend was starting to look a little bit like Donald Ducks amiably mad inventor cousin, Gyro Gearloose. Call Boynton, hes Security, thats what I have to do, Richard said. Call Boynton, or the town police, or A howl rose from the trees on the far side of the quad, from the gathered shadows therea rising, wavering howl that was really almost human. Richard looked toward it, mouth trembling in an infirm old persons way, and then he looked pleadingly at Jack. Close the window, Jack, okay? I feel feverish. I think maybe Ive gotten a chill. You bet, Richard, Jack said, and closed it, shutting the howl out as best he could. 32 Send Out Your Passenger! 1 Help me with this, Richard, Jack grunted. I dont want to move the bureau, Jack, Richard said in a childish, lecturing voice. Those dark circles under his eyes were even more pronounced now than they had been in the lounge. Thats not where it belongs. Out on the quad, that howl rose in the air again. The bed was in front of the door. Richards room was now pulled entirely out of shape. Richard stood looking around at this, blinking. Then he went to his bed and pulled off the blankets. He handed one to Jack without speaking, then took his and spread it on the floor. He took his change and his billfold out of his pockets, and put them neatly on the bureau. Then he lay down in the middle of his blanket, folded the sides over himself and then just lay there on the floor, his glasses still on, his face a picture of silent misery. The silence outside was thick and dreamlike, broken only by the distant growls of the big rigs on the turnpike. Nelson House itself was eerily silent. I dont want to talk about whats outside, Richard said. I just want that up front. Okay, Richard, Jack said soothingly. We wont talk about it. Good night, Jack. Good night, Richard. Richard gave him a smile that was wan, and terribly tired; yet there was enough sweet friendliness in it to both warm Jacks heart and wrench it. Im still glad you came, Richard said, and well talk about all of this in the morning. Im sure it will make more sense then. This little fever I have will be gone then. Richard rolled over on his right side and closed his eyes. Five minutes later, in spite of the hard floor, he was deeply asleep. Jack sat up for a long time, looking out into the darkness. Sometimes he could see the lights of passing cars on Springfield Avenue; at other times both the headlights and the streetlamps themselves seemed to be gone, as if the entire Thayer School kept sideslipping out of reality and hanging in limbo for a while before slipping back in again. A wind was rising. Jack could hear it rattling the last frozen leaves from the trees on the quad; could hear it knocking the branches together like bones, could hear it shrieking coldly in the spaces between the buildings. 2 That guys coming, Jack said tensely. It was an hour or so later. Etheridges Twinner. Huzzzat? Never mind, Jack said. Go back to sleep. You dont want to see. But Richard was sitting up. Before his eye could fix on the slumped, somehow twisted form walking toward Nelson House, it was abducted by the campus itself. He was profoundly shocked, deeply frightened. The ivy on the Monkson Field House, which had that morning been skeletal but still faintly green, had now gone an ugly, blighted yellow. Sloat! Give us your passenger! Suddenly all Richard wanted to do was to go back to sleepgo to sleep until his flu was all gone (he had awakened deciding it must be the flu; not just a chill or fever but a real case of the flu); the flu and the fever that was giving him such horrid, twisted hallucinations. He should never have stood by that open window . . . or, earlier, allowed Jack through the window of his room. Richard thought this, and was then deeply and immediately ashamed. 3 Jack shot a quick sideways glance at Richardbut his pallid face and bulging eyes suggested to Jack that Richard was edging farther and farther into The Magical Land of Overload. The thing out there was short. It stood on the frostwhitened grass like a troll that had crawled out from under some bridge, its longclawed hands hanging almost to its knees. It wore an Army duffel coat with ETHERIDGE stencilled above the left pocket. The jacket hung unzipped and open. Beneath it, Jack could see a torn and rumpled Pendleton shirt. A dark stain which might have been either blood or vomit was splashed over one side. It was wearing a rumpled blue tie with tiny gold uppercase Es woven into the rep fabric; a couple of burrs were stuck on it like grotesque tietacks. Only half of this new Etheridges face worked right. There was dirt in its hair and leaves on its clothes. Sloat! Give us your passenger! Jack looked down at Etheridges freakish Twinner again. He was caught and held by its eyes, which were somehow vibrating in their sockets, like tuning forks moving rapidly in their labmounts. He had to work to drag his eyes away. Richard! he grunted. Dont look in its eyes. Richard didnt reply; he was staring down at the grinning trollversion of Etheridge with drugged and pallid interest. Scared, Jack butted his friend with his shoulder. Oh, Richard said. Abruptly he snatched up Jacks hand and pressed it against his forehead. How hot do I feel? he demanded. Jack pulled his hand away from Richards forehead, which was a bit warm but no more. Pretty hot, he lied. I knew it, Richard said with real relief. Im going to the infirmary pretty soon, Jack. I think I need an antibiotic. Give him to us, Sloat! Lets get the bureau in front of the window, Jack said. Youre in no danger, Sloat! Etheridge called. It grinned reassuringlythe right half of its face grinned reassuringly, anyway; the left half only continued its corpselike gape. How can it look so much like Etheridge? Richard asked with unsettling, eerie calmness. How can its voice come through the glass so clearly? Whats wrong with its face? His voice sharpened a little and recovered some of its earlier dismay as he asked a final question, one which seemed to be at that moment the most vital question of all, at least to Richard Sloat Where did it get Etheridges tie, Jack? I dont know, Jack said. Were back on Seabrook Island for sure, Richieboy, and I think were gonna boogy till you puke. Give him to us, Sloat, or well come in and get him! The Etheridgething showed its single fang in a ferocious cannibals grin. Send your passenger out, Sloat, hes dead! Hes dead and if you dont send him out soon, youll smell him when he starts to stink! Help me move the frigging bureau! Jack hissed. Yes, Richard said. Yes, okay. Well move the bureau and then Ill lie down, and maybe later Ill go over to the infirmary. What do you think, Jack? What do you say? Is that a good plan? His face begged Jack to say it was a good plan. Well see, Jack said. First things first. The bureau. They might throw stones. 4 Soon after, Richard began to mutter and moan in the sleep which had overtaken him again. That was bad enough; then tears began to squeeze from the corners of his eyes and that was worse. I cant give him up, Richard moaned in the weepy, bewildered voice of a fiveyearold. Jack stared at him, his skin cold. I cant give him up, I want my daddy, please someone tell me where my daddy is, he went into the closet but hes not in the closet now, I want my daddy, hell tell me what to do, please A rock came crashing through the window. Jack screamed. It boomed against the back of the bureau in front of the window. A few splinters of glass flew through the gaps to the left and right of the bureau and shattered into smaller pieces on the floor. Give us your passenger, Sloat! Cant, Richard moaned, writhing inside the blanket. Give him to us! another laughing, howling voice from outside screamed. Well take him back to Seabrook Island, Richard! Back to Seabrook Island, where he belongs! Another rock. Jack ducked instinctively, although this rock also bounced off the back of the bureau. Dogs howled and yapped and snarled. No Seabrook Island, Richard was muttering in his sleep. Wheres my daddy? I want him to come out of that closet! Please, please, no Seabrook Island stuff, PLEASE Then Jack was on his knees, shaking Richard as hard as he dared, telling him to wake up, it was just a dream, wake up, for Christs sake, wake up! Pleezepleezepleeze. A hoarse, inhuman chorus of voices rose outside. The voices sounded like a chorus of manimals from Wellss Island of Dr. Moreau. Waygup, waygup, waygup! a second chorus responded. Dogs howled. A flurry of stones flew, knocking more glass from the window, bonking against the back of the bureau, making it rock. DADDYS IN THE CLOSET! Richard screamed. DADDY, COME OUT, PLEASE COME OUT, IM AFRAID! Pleezepleezepleeze! Waygup, waygup, waygup! Richards hands waving in the air. Stones flying, striking the bureau; soon a rock big enough to either punch straight through the cheap piece of furniture or to simply knock it over on top of them would come through the window, Jack thought. Outside, they laughed and bellowed and chanted in their hideous trollvoices. Dogspacks of them now, it seemedhowled and growled. DADEEEEEEEEE!! Richard screamed in a chilling, rising voice. Jack slapped him. Richards eyes jerked open. He stared up at Jack for a moment with a dreadful lack of recognition, as if the dream hed been having had burned away his sanity. Then he pulled in a long, shaking breath and let it out in a sigh. Nightmare, he said. Part of the fever, I guess. Horrible. But I dont remember exactly what it was! he added sharply, as if Jack might ask him this at any moment. Richard, I want us to get out of this room, Jack said. Out of this? Richard looked at Jack as though he must be crazy. I cant do that, Jack. Im running a fever of . . . it must be a hundred and three at least, might be a hundred and four or five. I cant Youve got a degree of fever at most, Richard, Jack said calmly. Probably not even that Im burning up! Richard protested. Theyre throwing stones, Richard. Hallucinations cant throw stones, Jack, Richard said, as if explaining some simple but vital fact to a mental defective. Thats Seabrook Island stuff. Its Another volley of rocks flew through the window. Send out your passenger, Sloat! Come on, Richard, Jack said, getting the other boy to his feet. He led him to the door and outside. He felt enormously sorry for Richard nowperhaps not as sorry as he had felt for Wolf . . . but he was getting there. No . . . sick . . . fever . . . I cant . . . More rocks thudded against the bureau behind them. Richard shrieked and clutched at Jack like a boy who is drowning. Wild, cackling laughter from outside. Dogs howled and fought with each other. Jack saw Richards white face grow whiter still, saw him sway, and got up in a hurry. But he was not quite in time to catch Richard before he collapsed in Reuel Gardeners doorway. 5 It was a simple fainting spell, and Richard came around quickly enough when Jack pinched the delicate webbings between his thumbs and forefingers. He would not talk about what was outsideaffected, in fact, not to know what Jack was talking about. They moved cautiously down the hallway toward the stairs. At the common room Jack poked his head in and whistled. Richard, look at this! Richard looked reluctantly in. The common room was a shambles. Chairs were overturned. The cushions on the couch had been slashed open. The oil portrait of Elder Thayer on the far wall had been defacedsomeone had crayoned a pair of devils horns poking out of his neat white hair, someone else had added a moustache under his nose, and a third had used a nailfile or similar implement to scratch a crude phallus on his crotch. The glass of the trophy case was shattered. Jack didnt much care for the look of drugged, unbelieving horror on Richards face. In some ways, elves trooping up and down the halls in glowing, unearthly platoons or dragons over the quad would have been easier for Richard to take than this constant erosion of the Thayer School he had come to know and love . . . the Thayer School Richard undoubtedly believed to be noble and good, an undisputed bulwark against a world where nothing could be counted on for long . . . not even, Jack thought, that fathers would come back out of the closets they had gone into. Who did this? Richard asked angrily. Those freaks did it, he answered himself. Thats who. He looked at Jack, a great, cloudy suspicion beginning to dawn on his face. They might be Colombians, he said suddenly. They might be Colombians, and this might be some sort of drugwar, Jack. Has that occurred to you? Jack had to throttle an urge to bellow out mad gusts of laughter. Here was an explanation which perhaps only Richard Sloat could have conceived. It was the Colombians. The cocaine rangewars had come to Thayer School in Springfield, Illinois. Elementary, my dear Watson; this problem has a seven and a half percent solution. I guess anythings possible, Jack said. Lets take a look upstairs. What in Gods name for? Well . . . maybe well find someone else, Jack said. He didnt really believe this, but it was something to say. Maybe someones hiding out up there. Someone normal like us. Richard looked at Jack, then back at the shambles of the common room. That look of haunted pain came back into his face again, the look that said I dont really want to look at this, but for some reason it seems to be all I DO want to look at right now; its bitterly compulsive, like biting a lemon, or scratching your fingernails across a blackboard, or scraping the tines of a fork on the porcelain of a sink. Dope is rampant in the country, Richard said in eerie lecturehall tones. I read an article on drug proliferation in The New Republic just last week. Jack, all those people out there could be doped up! They could be freebasing! They could be Come on, Richard, Jack said quietly. Im not sure I can climb the stairs, Richard said, weakly querulous. My fever may be too bad for me to climb stairs. Well, give it the good old Thayer try, Jack said, and continued to lead him in that direction. 6 As they reached the secondfloor landing, sound bled back into the smooth, almost breathless silence that had held inside Nelson House. Dogs snarled and barked outsideit sounded as if there were not just dozens or scores of them now, but hundreds. The bells in the chapel burst into a wild jangle of sound. The bells were driving the mongrel dogs racing back and forth across the quad absolutely nuts. They turned on each other, rolled over and over on the grasswhich was beginning to look ragged, weedy, and unkemptand savaged anything within mouthshot. As Jack watched, one of them attacked an elm tree. Another launched itself at the statue of Elder Thayer. As its biting, snapping muzzle collided with the solid bronze, blood splashed and sprayed. Jack turned away, sickened. Come on, Richard, Jack said. Richard came willingly enough. 7 The second floor was a jumbled confusion of overturned furniture, shattered windows, fistfuls of stuffing, records that had apparently been thrown like Frisbees, clothes that had been tossed everywhere. The third floor was cloudy with steam and as warmly moist as a tropical rainforest. As they got closer to the door marked SHOWERS, the heat went up to sauna levels. The mist they had first encountered creeping down the stairs in thin tendrils grew foglike and opaque. Stay here, Jack said. Wait for me. Sure, Jack, Richard said serenely, raising his voice enough to be heard over the drumming showers. His glasses had fogged up, but he made no effort to wipe them off. Jack pushed the door open and went in. The heat was soggy and thick. His clothes were soaked at once from sweat and the hot, foggy moisture. The tilelined room roared and drummed with water. All twenty of the showers had been turned on, and the driving needlespray from all twenty had been focused on a pile of sports equipment in the middle of the tiled room. The water was able to drain through this crazy pile, but only slowly, and the room was awash. Jack took off his shoes and circled the room, sliding under the showers to keep himself as dry as possible, and also to keep himself from being scaldedwhoever had turned on the showers hadnt bothered with the cold faucets, apparently. He turned all of them off, one by one. There was no reason for him to do this, no reason at all, and he scolded himself for wasting time in such a way, when he should be trying to think of a way for them to get out of hereout of Nelson House and off the Thayer School groundsbefore the axe fell. No reason for it, except that maybe Richard wasnt the only one with a need to create order out of chaos . . . to create order and to maintain it. He went back into the hall and Richard was gone. Richard? He could feel his heartbeat picking up in his chest. There was no answer. Richard! Spilled cologne hung on the air, noxiously heavy. Richard, where the hell are you! Richards hand fell on Jacks shoulder, and Jack shrieked. 8 I dont know why you had to yell like that, Richard said later. It was only me. Im just nervous, Jack said wanly. They were sitting in the thirdfloor room of a boy with the strangely harmonious name of Albert Humbert. Richard told him that Albert Humbert, whose nickname was Albert the Blob, was the fattest boy in school, and Jack could believe it; his room contained an amazing variety of junk foodit was the stash of a kid whose worst nightmare isnt getting cut from the basketball team or flunking a trig test but rather waking up in the night and not being able to find a RingDing or a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. A lot of the stuff had been thrown around. The glass jar containing the Marshmallow Fluff had been broken, but Jack had never been very wild about Marshmallow Fluff, anyway. He also passed on the licorice whipsAlbert the Blob had a whole carton of them stashed on the upper shelf of his closet. Written across one of the cartonflaps was Happy birthday, dear, from Your Loving Mom. Some Loving Moms send cartons of licorice whips, and some Loving Dads send blazers from Brooks Brothers, Jack thought wearily, and if theres any difference, Jason alone knows what it is. They found enough food in the room of Albert the Blob to make a crazy sort of mealSlim Jims, pepperoni slices, Salt n Vinegar potato chips. Now they were finishing up with a package of cookies. Jack had retrieved Alberts chair from the hall and was sitting by the window. Richard was sitting on Alberts bed. Well, you sure are nervous, Richard agreed, shaking his head in refusal when Jack offered him the last cookie. Paranoid, actually. It comes from spending the last couple of months on the road. Youll be okay once you get home to your mother, Jack. Richard, Jack said, tossing away the empty Famous Amos bag, lets cut the shit. Do you see whats going on outside on your campus? Richard wet his lips. I explained that, he said. I have a fever. Probably none of this is happening at all, and if it is, then perfectly ordinary things are going on and my mind is twisting them, heightening them. Thats one possibility. The other is . . . well . . . drugpushers. Richard sat forward on Albert the Blobs bed. You havent been experimenting with drugs, have you, Jack? While you were on the road? The old intelligent, incisive light had suddenly rekindled in Richards eyes. Heres a possible explanation, a possible way out of this madness, his eyes said. Jack has gotten involved in some crazy drugscam, and all these people have followed him here. No, Jack said wearily. I always used to think of you as the master of reality, Richard, Jack said. I never thought Id live to see youyou!using your brains to twist the facts. Jack, thats just a . . . a crock, and you know it! Drugwars in Springfield, Illinois? Jack asked. Whos talking Seabrook Island stuff now? And that was when a rock suddenly crashed in through Albert Humberts window, spraying glass across the floor. 33 Richard in the Dark 1 Richard screamed and threw an arm up to shield his face. Glass flew. Send him out, Sloat! Jack got up. Dull fury filled him. Richard grabbed his arm. Jack, no! Stay away from the window! Fuck that, Jack almost snarled. Im tired of being talked about like I was a pizza. The Etheridgething stood across the road. It was on the sidewalk at the edge of the quad, looking up at them. Get out of here! Jack shouted at it. A sudden inspiration burst in his head like a sunflare. He hesitated, then bellowed I order you out of here! All of you! I order you to leave in the name of my mother, the Queen! The Etheridgething flinched as if someone had used a whip to lay a stripe across its face. Then the look of pained surprise passed and the Etheridgething began to grin. Shes dead, Sawyer! it shouted upbut Jacks eyes had grown sharper, somehow, in his time on the road, and he saw the expression of twitchy unease under the manufactured triumph. Queen Lauras dead and your mothers dead, too . . . dead back in New Hampshire . . . dead and stinking. Begone! Jack bellowed, and he thought that the Etheridgething flinched back in baffled fury again. Richard had joined him at the window, pallid and distracted. What are you two yelling about? he asked. He looked fixedly at the grinning travesty below them and across the way. How does Etheridge know your mothers in New Hampshire? Sloat! the Etheridgething yelled up. Wheres your tie? A spasm of guilt contracted Richards face; his hands jerked toward the open neck of his shirt. Well let it go this time, if you send out your passenger, Sloat! the Etheridgething yelled up. If you send him out, everything can go back to the way it was! You want that, dont you? Richard was staring down at the Etheridgething, noddingJack was sure of itquite unconsciously. His face was a knotted rag of misery, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He wanted everything to go back to the way it had been, oh yes. Dont you love this school, Sloat? the Etheridgething bellowed up at Alberts window. Yes, Richard muttered, and gulped down a sob. Yes, of course I love it. You know what we do to little punks who dont love this school? Give him to us! Itll be like he was never here! Richard turned slowly and looked at Jack with dreadfully blank eyes. You decide, Richieboy, Jack said softly. Hes carrying drugs, Richard! the Etheridgething called up. Four or five different kinds! Coke, hash, angeldust! Hes been selling all of that stuff to finance his trip west! Where do you think he got that nice coat he was wearing when he showed up on your doorstep? Drugs, Richard said with great, shuddery relief. I knew it. But you dont believe it, Jack said. Drugs didnt change your school, Richard. And the dogs Send him out, Sl . . . the Etheridgethings voice was fading, fading. When the two boys looked down again, it was gone. Where did your father go, do you think? Jack asked softly. Where do you think he went when he didnt come out of the closet, Richard? Richard turned slowly to look at him, and Richards face, usually so calm and intelligent and serene, now began to shiver into pieces. His chest began to hitch irregularly. Richard suddenly fell into Jacks arms, clutching at him with a blind, panicky urgency. It tttouched muhmeeeee! he screamed at Jack. His body trembled under Jacks hands like a winchwire under a nearbreaking strain. It touched me, it ttouched mme, something in there tttouched me AND I DONT NUHNUHKNOW WHAT IT WAS! 2 With his burning forehead pressed against Jacks shoulder, Richard coughed out the story he had held inside him all these years. It came in hard little chunks, like deformed bullets. As he listened, Jack found himself remembering the time his own father had gone into the garage . . . and had come back two hours later, from around the block. That had been bad, but what had happened to Richard had been a lot worse. It explained Richards iron, nocompromise insistence on reality, the whole reality, and nothing but the reality. It explained his rejection of any sort of fantasy, even science fiction . . . and, Jack knew from his own school experience, techies like Richard usually ate and drank sf . . . as long as it was the hard stuff, that was, your basic Heinlein, Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Larry Nivenspare us the metaphysical bullshit of the Robert Silverbergs and Barry Malzbergs, please, but well read the stuff where they get all the stellar quadrants and logarithms right until its running out of our ears. Not Richard, though. Richards dislike of fantasy ran so deep that he would not pick up any novel unless it was an assignmentas a kid, he had let Jack pick out the books he read for freechoice book reports, not caring what they were, chewing them up as if they were cereal. It became a challenge to Jack to find a storyany storywhich would please Richard, divert Richard, carry Richard away as good novels and stories sometimes carried Jack away . . . the good ones, he thought, were almost as good as the Daydreams, and each mapped out its own version of the Territories. But he was never able to produce any frisson, any spark, any reaction at all. Whether it was The Red Pony, Dragstrip Demon, The Catcher in the Rye, or I Am Legend, the reaction was always the samefrowning, dulleyed concentration, followed by a frowning, dulleyed book report that would earn either a hook or, if his English teacher was feeling particularly generous that day, a B. Richards Cs in English were what kept him off the honor roll during the few marking periods when he missed it. Jack had finished William Goldings Lord of the Flies, feeling hot and cold and trembly all overboth exalted and frightened, most of all wishing what he always wished when the story was most particularly goodthat it didnt have to stop, that it could just roll on and on, the way that life did (only life was always so much more boring and so much more pointless than stories). He knew Richard had a book report due and so he had given him the lapeared paperback, thinking that this must surely do it, this would turn the trick, Richard must react to the story of these lost boys and their descent into savagery. But Richard had plodded through Lord of the Flies as he had plodded through all the other novels before it, and wrote another book report which contained all the zeal and fire of a hungover pathologists postmortem on a traffic accident victim. What is it with you? Jack had burst out, exasperated. What in Gods name have you got against a good story, Richard? And Richard had looked at him, flabbergasted, apparently really not understanding Jacks anger. Well, theres really no such thing as a good madeup story, is there? Richard had responded. Jack had gone away that day sorely puzzled by Richards total rejection of makebelieve, but he thought he understood better nowbetter than he really wanted to, perhaps. Perhaps to Richard each opening storybook cover had looked a little like an opening closet door; perhaps each bright paperback cover, illustrating people who never were as if they were perfectly real, reminded Richard of the morning when he had Had Enough, Forever. 3 Richard sees his father go into the closet in the big front bedroom, pulling the folding door shut behind him. He is five, maybe . . . or six . . . surely not as old as seven. He waits five minutes, then ten, and when his father still hasnt come out of the closet he begins to be a little frightened. He calls. He calls (for his pipe he calls for his bowl he calls for his) father and when his father doesnt answer he calls in a louder and louder voice and he goes closer and closer to the closet as he calls and finally, when fifteen minutes have gone by and his father still hasnt come out, Richard pulls the folding door open and goes in. He goes into darkness like a cave. And something happens. After pushing through the rough tweeds and the smooth cottons and the occasional slick silks of his fathers coats and suits and sport jackets, the smell of cloth and mothballs and closedup dark closet air begins to give way to another smella hot, fiery smell. Richard begins to blunder forward, screaming his fathers name, he thinking there must be a fire back here and his father may be burning in it, because it smells like a fire . . . and suddenly he realizes that the boards are gone under his feet, and he is standing in black dirt. Weird black insects with clustered eyes on the ends of long stalks are hopping all around his fuzzy slippers. Daddy! he screams. The coats and suits are gone, the floor is gone, but it isnt crisp white snow underfoot; its stinking black dirt which is apparently the birthing ground for these unpleasant black jumping insects; this place is by no stretch of the imagination Narnia. Other screams answer Richards screamscreams and mad, demented laughter. Smoke drifts around him on a dark idiot wind and Richard turns, stumbling back the way he came, hands outstretched like the hands of a blind man, feeling frantically for the coats, smelling for the faint, acrid reek of mothballs And suddenly a hand slithers around his wrist. Daddy? he asks, but when he looks down he sees not a human hand but a scaly green thing covered with writhing suckers, a green thing attached to a long, rubbery arm which stretches off into the darkness and toward a pair of yellow, upslanted eyes that stare at him with flat hunger. Screeching, he tears free and flings himself blindly into the black . . .


and just as his groping fingers find his fathers sport coats and suits again, as he hears the blessed, rational sound of jangling coathangers, that green, suckerlined hand waltzes dryly across the back of his neck again . . . and is gone. He waits, trembling, as pallid as dayold ashes in a cold stove, for three hours outside that damned closet, afraid to go back in, afraid of the green hand and the yellow eyes, more and more sure that his father must be dead. And when his father comes back into the room near the end of the fourth hour, not from the closet but from the door which communicates between the bedroom and the upstairs hallthe door BEHIND Richardwhen that happens, Richard rejects fantasy for good and all; Richard negates fantasy; Richard refuses to deal with fantasy, or treat with it, or compromise with it. He has, quite simply, Had Enough, Forever. He jumps up, runs to his father, to the beloved Morgan Sloat, and hugs him so tightly that his arms will be sore all that week. Morgan lifts him up, laughs, and asks him why he looks so pale. Richard smiles, and tells him that it was probably something he ate for breakfast, but he feels better now, and he kisses his fathers cheek, and smells the beloved smell of mingled sweat and Raj cologne. And later that day, he takes all of his storybooksthe Little Golden Books, the popup books, the ICanRead books, the Dr. Seuss books, the Green Fairy Book for Young Folks, and he puts them in a carton, and he puts the carton down in the basement, and he thinks I would not care if an earthquake came now and opened a crack in the floor and swallowed up every one of those books. In fact, it would be a relief. In fact, it would be such a relief that I would probably laugh all day and most of the weekend. This does not happen, but Richard feels a great relief when the books are shut in double darknessthe darkness of the carton and the darkness of the cellar. He never looks at them again, just as he never goes in his fathers closet with the folding door again, and although he sometimes dreams that there is something under his bed or in his closet, something with flat yellow eyes, he never thinks about that green, suckercovered hand again until the strange time comes to Thayer School and he bursts into unaccustomed tears in his friend Jack Sawyers arms. He has Had Enough, Forever. 4 Jack had hoped that with the telling of his story and the passing of his tears, Richard would returnmore or lessto his normal, sharply rational self. Jack didnt really care if Richard bought the whole nine yards or not; if Richard could just reconcile himself to accepting the leading edge of this craziness, he could turn his formidable mind to helping Jack find a way out . . . a way off the Thayer campus, anyway, and out of Richards life before Richard went totally bananas. But it didnt work that way. When Jack tried to talk to himto tell Richard about the time his own father, Phil, had gone into the garage and hadnt come outRichard refused to listen. The old secret of what had happened that day in the closet was out (sort of; Richard still clung stubbornly to the idea that it had been a hallucination), but Richard had still Had Enough, Forever. The next morning, Jack went downstairs. He got all of his own things and those things he thought Richard might wanttoothbrush, textbooks, notebooks, a fresh change of clothes. They would spend that day in Albert the Blobs room, he decided. They could keep an eye on the quad and the gate from up there. When night fell again, maybe they could get away. 5 Jack hunted through Alberts desk and found a bottle of baby aspirin. He looked at this for a moment, thinking that these little orange pills said almost as much about the departed Alberts Loving Mom as the carton of licorice whips on the closet shelf. Jack shook out half a dozen pills. He gave them to Richard and Richard took them absently. Come on over here and lie down, Jack said. No, Richard answeredhis tone was cross and restless and terribly unhappy. He returned to the window. I ought to keep a watch. So a full report can be made to . . . to . . . to the trustees. Later. Jack touched Richards brow lightly. And although it was coolalmost chillyhe said Your fevers worse, Richard. Better lie down until that aspirin goes to work. Worse? Richard looked at him with pathetic gratitude. Is it? It is, Jack said gravely. Come on and lie down. Richard was asleep five minutes after he lay down. Jack sat in Albert the Blobs easy chair, its seat nearly as sprung as the middle of Alberts mattress. Richards pale face glowed waxily in the growing daylight. 6 Somehow the day passed, and around four oclock, Jack fell asleep. He awoke to darkness, not knowing how long he had been out. He only knew there had been no dreams, and for that he was grateful. Richard was stirring uneasily and Jack guessed he would be up soon. He stood and stretched, wincing at the stiffness in his back. He went to the window, looked out, and stood motionless, eyes wide. His first thought was I dont want Richard to see this. Not if I can help it. O God, weve got to get out of here, and just as soon as we can, Jack thought, frightened. Even if, for whatever reasons, theyre afraid to come straight at us. But was he really going to take Richard out of here? They didnt think he would do it, he knew thatthey were counting on his refusing to expose his friend to any more of this craziness. Flip, JackO. Youve got to flip over, and you know it. And youve got to take Richard with you because this place is going to hell. I cant. Flipping into the Territories would blow Richards wheels completely. Doesnt matter. You have to do it. Its the best thing, anywaymaybe the only thingbecause they wont be expecting it. Jack? Richard was sitting up. His face had a strange, naked look without his glasses. Jack, is it over? Was it a dream? Jack sat down on the bed and put an arm around Richards shoulders. No, he said, his voice low and soothing. Its not over yet, Richard. I think my fevers worse, Richard announced, pulling away from Jack. He drifted over to the window, one of the bows of his glasses pinched delicately between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He put his spectacles on and looked out. Shapes with glowing eyes roamed back and forth. He stood there for a long time, and then he did something so unRichardlike that Jack could barely credit it. He took his glasses off again and deliberately dropped them. There was a frigid little crunch as one lens cracked. Then he stepped deliberately back on them, shattering both lenses to powder. He picked them up, looked at them, and then tossed them unconcernedly toward Albert the Blobs wastebasket. He missed by a wide margin. There was now something softly stubborn in Richards face, toosomething that said I dont want to see any more, so I wont see any more, and I have taken care of the problem. I have Had Enough, Forever. Look at that, he said in a flat, unsurprised voice. I broke my glasses. I had another pair, but I broke them in gym two weeks ago. Im almost blind without them. Jack knew this wasnt true, but he was too flabbergasted to say anything. He could think of absolutely no appropriate response to the radical action Richard had just takenit had been too much like a calculated lastditch stand against madness. I think my fevers worse too, Richard said. Have you got any more of those aspirin, Jack? Jack opened the desk drawer and wordlessly handed Richard the bottle. Richard swallowed six or eight of them, then lay down again. 7 As the night deepened, Richard, who repeatedly promised to discuss their situation, repeatedly went back on his word. He couldnt discuss leaving, he said, couldnt discuss any of this, not now, his fever had come back and it felt much, much worse, he thought it might be as high as a hundred and five, possibly a hundred and six. He said he needed to go back to sleep. Richard, for Christs sake! Jack roared. Youre punking out on me! Of all the things I never expected from you Dont be silly, Richard said, falling back onto Alberts bed. Im just sick, Jack. You cant expect me to talk about all these crazy things when Im sick. Richard, do you want me to go away and leave you? Richard looked back over his shoulder at Jack for a moment, blinking slowly. You wont, he said, and then went back to sleep. 8 Around nine oclock, the campus entered another of those mysterious quiet periods, and Richard, perhaps sensing that there would be less strain put on his tottering sanity now, woke up and swung his legs over the bed. Brown spots had appeared on the walls, and he stared at them until he saw Jack coming toward him. I feel a lot better, Jack, he said hastily, but it really wont do us any good to talk about leaving, its dark, and We have to leave tonight, Jack said grimly. All they have to do is wait us out. Theres fungus growing on the walls, and dont tell me you dont see that. Richard smiled with a blind tolerance that nearly drove Jack mad. He loved Richard, but he could cheerfully have pounded him through the nearest fungusrotted wall. At that precise moment, long, fat white bugs began to squirm into Albert the Blobs room. They came pushing out of the brown fungoid spots on the wall as if the fungus were in some unknown way giving birth to them. They twisted and writhed half in and half out of the soft brown spots, then plopped to the floor and began squirming blindly toward the bed. Jack had begun to wonder if Richards sight werent really a lot worse than he remembered, or if it had degenerated badly since he had last seen Richard. Now he saw that he had been right the first time. Richard could see quite well. He certainly wasnt having any trouble picking up the gelatinous things that were coming out of the walls, anyway. He screamed and pressed against Jack, his face frantic with revulsion. Bugs, Jack! Oh, Jesus! Bugs! Bugs! Well be all rightright, Richard? Jack said. He held Richard in place with a strength he didnt know he had. Well just wait for the morning, right? No problem, right? They were squirming out in dozens, in hundreds, plump, waxywhite things like overgrown maggots. Some burst open when they struck the floor. The rest humped sluggishly across the floor toward them. Bugs, Jesus, we have to get out, we have to Thank God, this kid finally sees the light, Jack said. He slung his knapsack over his left arm and grabbed Richards elbow in his right hand. He hustled Richard to the door. White bugs squashed and splattered under their shoes. Now they were pouring out of the brown patches in a flood; an obscene, ongoing multiple birth that was happening all over Alberts room. A stream of the white bugs fell from a patch on the ceiling and landed, squirming, on Jacks hair and shoulders; he brushed them away as best he could and hauled the screaming, flailing Richard out the door. I think were on our way, Jack thought. God help us, I really think we are. 9 They were in the common room again. Richard, it turned out, had even less idea of how to sneak off the Thayer campus than Jack did himself. Jack knew one thing very well he was not going to trust that deceptive quiet and go out any of Nelson Houses Entry doors. Looking hard to the left out of the wide commonroom window, Jack could see a squat octagonal brick building. Whats that, Richard? Huh? Richard was looking at the gluey, sluggish torrents of mud flowing over the darkening quad. Little squatty brick building. You can just barely see it from here. Oh. The Depot. Whats a Depot? The name itself doesnt mean anything anymore, Richard said, still looking uneasily out at the muddrenched quad. Like our infirmary. Its called The Creamery because there used to be a real dairy barn and milkbottling plant over there. Until 1910 or so there was, anyway. Tradition, Jack. Its very important. Its one of the reason I like Thayer. Richard looked forlornly out at the muddy campus again. One of the reasons I always did, anyway. The Creamery, okay. How come The Depot? Richard was slowly warming to the twin ideas of Thayer and Tradition. This whole area of Springfield used to be a railhead, he said. In fact, in the old days Which old days are we talking about, Richard? Oh. The eighteeneighties. Eighteennineties. You see . . . Richard trailed off. His nearsighted eyes began moving around the common roomlooking for more bugs, Jack supposed. There werent any . . . at least not yet. But he could already see a few brown patches beginning to form on the walls. The bugs werent here yet, but they would be along. Come on, Richard, Jack prompted. No one used to have to prime you to get you to run your mouth. Richard smiled a little. His eyes returned to Jack. Springfield was one of the three or four biggest American railheads during the last two decades of the nineteenth century. It was geographically handy to all the points of the compass. He raised his right hand toward his face, forefinger extended to push his glasses up on his nose in a scholarly gesture, realized they were no longer there, and lowered the hand again, looking a bit embarrassed. There were main rail routes leaving Springfield for everywhere. This school exists because Andrew Thayer saw the possibilities. He made a fortune in rail shippage. Mostly to the west coast. He was the first one to see the potential in shipping west as well as east. A bright light suddenly went on in Jacks head, bathing all of his thoughts in its harsh glare. West coast? His stomach lurched. He could not yet identify the new shape that bright light had shown him, but the word that leaped into his mind was fiery and utterly clear! Talisman! West coast, did you say? Of course I did. Richard looked at Jack strangely. Jack, are you going deaf? No, Jack said. Springfield was one of the three or four biggest American railheads . . . No, Im fine. He was the first one to see the potential in shipping west . . . Well, you looked damn funny for a minute. He was, you might say, the first one to see the potential of shipping stuff by rail to the Outposts. Jack knew, utterly knew, that Springfield was still a pressure point of some kind, perhaps still a shipping point. That was, perhaps, why Morgans magic worked so well here. There were coalpiles and switching yards and roundhouses and boxcar sheds and about a billion miles of tracks and sidings, Richard was saying. It covered this whole area where Thayer School is now. If you dig down a few feet under this turf anywhere, you find cinders and pieces of rail and all sorts of stuff. But all thats left now is that little building. The Depot. Of course it never was a real depot; its too small, anyone could see that. It was the main railyard office, where the stationmaster and the railboss did their respective things. You know a hell of a lot about it, Jack said, speaking almost automaticallyhis head was still filled with that savage new light. Its part of the Thayer tradition, Richard said simply. Whats it used for now? Theres a little theater in there. Its for Dramatics Club productions, but the Dramatics Club hasnt been very active over the last couple of years. Do you think its locked? Why would anyone lock The Depot? Richard asked. Unless you think someone would be interested in stealing a few flats from the 1979 production of The Fantasticks. So we could get in there? I think so, yes. But why Jack pointed to a door just beyond the PingPong tables. Whats in there? Vending machines. And a coinop microwave to heat up snacks and frozen dinners. Jack Come on. Jack, I think my fevers coming back again. Richard smiled weakly. Maybe we should just stay here for a while. We could rack out on the sofas for the night See those brown patches on the walls? Jack said grimly, pointing. No, not without my glasses, of course not! Well, theyre there. And in about an hour, those white bugs are going to hatch out of All right, Richard said hastily. 10 The vending machines stank. It looked to Jack as if all the stuff inside them had spoiled. Blue mould coated the cheese crackers and Doritos and Jax and fried porkrinds. Sluggish creeks of melted ice cream were oozing out of the panels in the front of the HavaKone machine. Jack pulled Richard toward the window. He looked out. From here Jack could make out The Depot quite well. Beyond it he could see the chainlink fence and the service road leading offcampus. Well be out in a few seconds, Jack whispered back. He unlocked the window and ran it up. This school exists because Andrew Thayer saw the possibilities . . . do you see the possibilities, JackO? He thought maybe he did. Are there any of those people out there? Richard asked nervously. No, Jack said, taking only the most cursory of glances. It didnt really matter if there were or not, anymore. One of the three or four biggest American railheads . . . a fortune in rail shippage . . . mostly to the west coast . . . he was the first one to see the potential in shipping west . . . west . . . west . . . A thick, mucky mixture of tidalflat aroma and garbage stench drifted in the window. Jack threw one leg over the sill and grabbed for Richards hand. Come on, he said. Richard drew back, his face long and miserable with fright. Jack . . . I dont know . . . The place is falling apart, Jack said, and pretty soon its going to be crawling with bugs as well. Now come on. Someones going to see me sitting here in this window and well lose our chance to scurry out of here like a couple of mice. I dont understand any of this! Richard wailed. I dont understand what in the goddam hell is going on here! Shut up and come on, Jack said. Or I will leave you, Richard. Swear to God I will. I love you, but my mother is dying. Ill leave you to fend for yourself. Richard looked at Jacks face and saweven without his glassesthat Jack was telling the truth. He took Jacks hand. God, Im scared, he whispered. Join the club, Jack said, and pushed him off. His feet hit the mucky lawn a second later. Richard jumped down beside him. Were going to cross to The Depot, Jack whispered. I make it about fifty yards. Well go in if its unlocked, try to hide as well as we can on the Nelson House side of it if it isnt. Once were sure no ones seen us and the place is still quiet We go for the fence. Right. Or maybe well have to flip, but never mind that just now. The service road. Ive got an idea that if we can get off the Thayer grounds, everything will be okay again. Once we get a quarter of a mile down the road, you may look back over your shoulder and see the lights in the dorms and the library just as usual, Richard. Thatd be so great, Richard said with a wistfulness that was heartbreaking. Okay, you ready? I guess so, Richard said. Run to The Depot. Freeze against the wall on this side. Low, so those bushes screen you. See them? Yes. Okay . . . go for it! They broke away from Nelson House and ran for The Depot side by side. 11 They were less than halfway there, breath puffing out of their mouths in clear white vapor, feet pounding the mucky ground, when the bells in the chapel broke into a hideous, grinding jangle of sound. A howling chorus of dogs answered the bells. They were back, all these wereprefects. Jack groped for Richard and found Richard groping for him. Their hands linked together. Richard screamed and tried to pull him off to the left. His hand tightened down on Jacks until the fingerbones grated together paralyzingly. A lean white wolf, a Board Chairman of Wolves, came around The Depot and was now racing toward them. That was the old man from the limousine, Jack thought. Other wolves and dogs followed . . . and then Jack realized with sick surety that some of them were not dogs; some of them were halftransformed boys, some grown menteachers, he supposed. Mr Dufrey! Richard shrieked, pointing with his free hand (Gee, you see pretty well for someone whos lost his glasses, Richieboy, Jack thought crazily). Mr. Dufrey! Oh God, its Mr. Dufrey! Mr. Dufrey! Mr. Dufrey! So Jack got his first and only look at Thayer Schools headmastera tiny old man with gray hair, a big, bent nose, and the wizened, hairy body of an organ grinders monkey. He ran swiftly along on all fours with the dogs and the boys, a mortarboard bobbing crazily up and down on his head and somehow refusing to fall off. He grinned at Jack and Richard, and his tongue, long and lolling and stained yellow with nicotine, fell out through the middle of his grin. Mr. Dufrey! Oh God! Oh dear God! Mr. Dufrey! Mr. Du He was yanking Jack harder and harder toward the left. Jack was bigger, but Richard was in the grip of panic. Explosions rocked the air. That foul, garbagey smell grew thicker and thicker. Jack could hear the soft flupping and plupping of mud squeezing out of the earth. The white wolf which led the pack was closing the distance and Richard was trying to pull them away from it, trying to pull them toward the fence, and that was right, but it was wrong, too, it was wrong because it was The Depot they had to get to, not the fence. That was the spot, that was the spot because this had been one of the three or four biggest American railheads, because Andrew Thayer had been the first one to see the potential in shipping west, because Andrew Thayer had seen the potential and now he, Jack Sawyer, saw the potential, as well. All of this was of course only intuition, but Jack had come to believe that, in these universal matters, his intuition was the only thing he could trust. Let go of your passenger, Sloat! Dufrey was gobbling. Let go of your passenger, hes too pretty for you! But whats a passenger? Jack thought in those last few seconds, as Richard tried blindly to pull them offcourse and Jack yanked him back on, toward the mixed bunch of mongrels and boys and teachers that ran behind the big white wolf, toward The Depot. Ill tell you what a passenger is; a passenger is one who rides. And where does a passenger begin to ride? Why, at a depot . . . Jack, itll bite! Richard screamed. The wolf outran Dufrey and leaped at them, its jaws dropping open like a loaded trap. From behind them there was a thick, crunching thud as Nelson House split open like a rotten cantaloupe. Now it was Jack who was bearing down on Richards fingerbones, clamping tight and tighter and tightest as the night rang with crazy bells and flared with gasoline bombs and rattled with firecrackers. Hold on! he screamed. Hold on, Richard, here we go! He had time to think Now the shoe is on the other foot; now its Richard who is the herd, who is my passenger. God help us both. Jack, whats happening? Richard shrieked. What are you doing? Stop it! STOP IT! STOP Richard was still shrieking, but Jack no longer heard himsuddenly, triumphantly, that feeling of creeping doom cracked open like a black egg and his brain filled up with lightlight and a sweet purity of air; air so pure that you could smell the radish a man pulled out of his garden half a mile away. Suddenly Jack felt as if he could simply push off and jump all the way across the quad . . . or fly, like those men with the wings strapped to their backs. Oh, there was light and clear air replacing that foul, garbagey stench and a sensation of crossing voids of darkness, and for a moment everything in him seemed clear and full of radiance; for a moment everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow. So Jack Sawyer flipped into the Territories again, this time while running headlong across the degenerating Thayer campus, with the sound of cracked bells and snarling dogs filling the air. And this time he dragged Morgan Sloats son Richard with him. Interlude Sloat in This WorldOrris in the Territories (III) Shortly after seven a.m. on the morning following Jack and Richards flip out from Thayer, Morgan Sloat drew up to the curb just outside the main gates of Thayer School. He parked. The space was marked with a HANDICAPPED ONLY sign. Sloat glanced at it indifferently, then reached into his pocket, drew out a vial of cocaine, and used some of it. In a few moments the world seemed to gain color and vitality. It was wonderful stuff. He wondered if it would grow in the Territories, and if it would be more potent over there. Gardener himself had awakened Sloat in his Beverly Hills home at two in the morning to tell him what had happenedit had been midnight in Springfield. Gardeners voice had been trembling. He was obviously terrified that Morgan would fly into a rage, and furious that he had missed Jack Sawyer by less than an hour. That boy . . . that bad, bad boy . . . Sloat had not flown into a rage. Indeed, he had felt extraordinary calm. He felt a sense of predestination which he suspected came from that other part of himwhat he thought of as his Orrisness in a halfunderstood pun on royalty. Be calm, Sloat had soothed. Ill be there as soon as I can. Hang in there, baby. He had broken the connection before Gardener could say any more, and lain back on the bed. He had crossed his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes. There was a moment of weightlessness . . . just a moment . . . and then he felt a sensation of movement beneath him. He heard the creak of leather traces, the groan and thump of rough iron springs, the curses of his driver. He had opened his eyes as Morgan of Orris. As always, his first reaction was pure delight this made coke seem like baby aspirin. His chest was narrower, his weight less. Morgan Sloats heartbeat ran anywhere from eightyfive beats a minute to a hundred and twenty when he was pissed off; Orriss rarely went higher than sixtyfive or so. Morgan Sloats eyesight was tested at 2020, but Morgan of Orris nonetheless saw better. He could see and trace the course of every minute crack in the sidewall of the diligence, could marvel over the fineness of the mesh curtains which blew through the windows. Cocaine had clogged Sloats nose, dulling his sense of smell; Orriss nose was totally clear and he could smell dust and earth and air with perfect fidelityit was as if he could sense and appreciate every molecule. Behind him he had left an empty double bed still marked with the shape of his large body. Here he was sitting on a bench seat plusher than the seat in any RollsRoyce ever made, riding west toward the end of the Outposts, toward a place which was called Outpost Depot. Toward a man named Anders. He knew these things, knew exactly where he was, because Orris was still here, inside his headspeaking to him the way the right side of the brain may speak to the rational left during daydreams, in a low but perfectly clear voice. Sloat had spoken to Orris in this same low undervoice on the few occasions when Orris had Migrated to what Jack had come to think of as the American Territories. When one Migrated and entered the body of ones Twinner, the result was a kind of benign possession. Sloat had read of more violent cases of possession, and although the subject did not greatly interest him, he guessed that the poor, unlucky slobs so afflicted had been taken over by mad hitchhikers from other worldsor perhaps it was the American world itself which had driven them mad. That seemed more than possible; it had certainly done a number on poor old Orriss head the first two or three times he had popped over, although he had been wildly excited as well as terrified. The diligence took a mighty bouncein the Outposts, you took the roads as you found them and thanked God they were there at all. Orris shifted in his seat and his clubfoot muttered dull pain. Hold on steady, God pound you, the driver muttered up above. His whip whistled and popped. Roll, you sons of dead whores! Roll on! Sloat grinned with the pleasure of being here, even though it would only be for moments. He already knew what he needed to know; Orriss voice had muttered it to him. The diligence would arrive at Outpost DepotThayer School in the other worldwell before morning. It might be possible to take them there if they had lingered; if not, the Blasted Lands awaited them. It hurt and enraged him to think that Richard was now with the Sawyer brat, but if a sacrifice was demanded . . . well, Orris had lost his son and survived. The only thing that had kept Jack alive this long was the maddening fact of his single naturewhen the whelp flipped to a place, he was always in the analogue of the place he had left. Sloat, however, always ended up where Orris was, which might be miles away from where he needed to be . . . as was the case now. He had been lucky at the rest area, but Sawyer had been luckier. Your luck will run out soon enough, my little friend, Orris said. The diligence took another terrific bounce. He grimaced, then grinned. If nothing else, the situation was simplifying itself even as the final confrontation took on wider and deeper implications. Enough. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms. For just a moment he felt another dull thud of pain in the deformed foot . . . and when he opened his eyes, Sloat was looking up at the ceiling of his apartment. As always, there was a moment when the extra pounds fell into him with sickening weight, when his heart reacted with a surprised doublebeat and then sped up. He had gotten to his feet then and had called West Coast Business Jet. Seventy minutes later he had been leaving LAX. The Lears steep and abrupt takeoff stance made him feel as it always didit was as if a blowtorch had been strapped to his ass. They had touched down in Springfield at fivefifty central time, just as Orris would be approaching Outpost Depot in the Territories. Sloat had rented a Hertz sedan and here he was. American travel did have its advantages. He got out of the car and, just as the morning bells began to ring, he walked onto the Thayer campus his own son had so lately quitted. Everything was the essence of an early Thayer weekday morning. The chapel bells were playing a normal morning tune, something classical but not quite recognizable which sounded a bit like Te Deum but wasnt. Students passed Sloat on their way to the dining hall or to morning workouts. They were perhaps a little more silent than usual, and they shared a lookpale and slightly dazed, as if they had all shared a disquieting dream. Which, of course, they had, Sloat thought. He stopped for a moment in front of Nelson House, looking at it thoughtfully. They simply didnt know how fundamentally unreal they all were, as all creatures who live near the thin places between worlds must be. He walked around to the side and watched a maintenance man picking up broken glass that lay on the ground like trumpery diamonds. Beyond his bent back Sloat could see into the Nelson House lounge, where an unusually quiet Albert the Blob was sitting and looking blankly at a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Sloat started across toward The Depot, his thoughts turning to the first time that Orris had flipped over into this world. He found himself thinking of that time with a nostalgia that was, when one really stopped to think about it, damned near grotesqueafter all, he had nearly died. Both of them had nearly died. But it had been in the middle fifties, and now he was in his middle fiftiesit made all the difference in the world. He had been coming back from the office and the sun had been going down in a Los Angeles haze of smudged purples and smokey yellowsthis had been in the days before the L.A. smog had really begun to thicken up. He had been on Sunset Boulevard and looking at a billboard advertising a new Peggy Lee record when he had felt a coldness in his mind. It had been as if a wellspring had suddenly opened somewhere in his subconscious, spilling out some alien weirdness that was like . . . like . . . (like semen) . . . well, he didnt know exactly what it had been like.


Except that it had quickly become warm, gained cognizance, and he had just had time to realize it was he, Orris, and then everything had turned topsyturvy like a secret door on its gimbala bookcase on one side, a Chippendale dresser on the other, both fitting the ambience of the room perfectlyand it had been Orris sitting behind the wheel of a 1952 bulletnosed Ford, Orris wearing the brown doublebreasted suit and the John Penske tie, Orris who was reaching down toward his crotch, not in pain but in slightly disgusted curiosityOrris who had, of course, never worn undershorts. There had been a moment, he remembered, when the Ford had nearly driven up onto the sidewalk, and then Morgan Sloatnow very much the undermindhad taken over that part of the operation and Orris had been free to go along his way, goggling at everything, nearly halfmad with delight. And what remained of Morgan Sloat had also been delighted; he had been delighted the way a man is delighted when he shows a friend around his new home for the first time and finds that his friend likes it as much as he likes it himself. Orris had cruised into a Fat Boy Drivein, and after some fumbling with Morgans unfamiliar paper money, he had ordered a hamburger and french fries and a chocolate thickshake, the words coming easily out of his mouthwelling up from that undermind as water wells up from a spring. Orriss first bite of the hamburger had been tentative . . . and then he had gobbled the rest with the speed of Wolf gobbling his first Whopper. He had crammed the fries into his mouth with one hand while dialling the radio with the other, picking up an enticing babble of bop and Perry Como and some big band and early rhythm and blues. He had sucked down the shake and then had ordered more of everything. Halfway through the second burger heSloat as well as Orrisbegan to feel sick. Suddenly the fried onions had seemed too strong, too cloying; suddenly the smell of car exhaust was everywhere. His arms had suddenly begun to itch madly. He pulled off the coat of the doublebreasted suit (the second thickshake, this one mocha, fell unheeded to one side, dribbling ice cream across the Fords seat) and looked at his arms. Ugly red blotches with red centers were growing there, and spreading. His stomach lurched, he leaned out the window, and even as he puked into the tray that was fixed there, he had felt Orris fleeing from him, going back into his own world. . . . Can I help you, sir? Hmmmm? Startled out of his reverie, Sloat looked around. A tall blond boy, obviously an upperclassman, was standing there. He was dressed prepan impeccable blue flannel blazer worn over an opencollared shirt and a pair of faded Levis. He brushed hair out of his eyes which had that same dazed, dreaming look. Im Etheridge, sir. I just wondered if I could help you. You looked . . . lost. Sloat smiled. He thought of sayingbut did notNo, thats how you look, my friend. Everything was all right. The Sawyer brat was still on the loose, but Sloat knew where he was going and that meant that Jacky was on a chain. It was invisible, but it was still a chain. Lost in the past, thats all, he said. Old times. Im not a stranger here, Mr. Etheridge, if thats what youre worried about. My sons a student. Richard Sloat. Etheridges eyes grew even dreamier for a momentpuzzled, lost. Then they cleared. Sure. Richard! he exclaimed. Ill be going up to see the headmaster in a bit. I just wanted to have a poke around first. Well, I guess thats fine. Etheridge looked at his watch. I have tableduty this morning, so if youre sure youre okay . . . Im sure. Etheridge gave him a nod, a rather vague smile, and started off. Sloat watched him go, and then he surveyed the ground between Nelson House and here. Noted the broken window again. A straight shot. It was fairmore than fairto assume that, somewhere between Nelson House and this octagonal brick building, the two boys had Migrated into the Territories. If he liked, he could follow them. Just step insidethere was no lock on the doorand disappear. Reappear wherever Orriss body happened to be at this moment. It would be somewhere close; perhaps even, in fact, in front of the depotkeeper himself. No nonsense about Migrating to a spot which might be a hundred miles away from the point of interest in Territories geography and no way to cover the intervening distance but by wagon or, worse, what his father had called shanks mare. The boys would already have gone on, in all likelihood. Into the Blasted Lands. If so, the Blasted Lands would finish them. And Sunlight Gardeners Twinner, Osmond, would be more than capable of squeezing out all the information that Anders knew. Osmond and his horrid son. No need to Migrate at all. Except maybe for a looksee. For the pleasure and refreshment of becoming Orris again, if only for a few seconds. And to Make Sure, of course. His entire life, from childhood onward, had been an exercise in Making Sure. He looked around once to assure himself that Etheridge had not lingered; then he opened the door of The Depot and went inside. The smell was stale, dark, and incredibly nostalgicthe smell of old makeup and canvas flats. For a moment he had the crazy idea that he had done something even more incredible than Migrating; he felt that he might have travelled back through time to those undergraduate days when he and Phil Sawyer had been theatermad college students. Then his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he saw the unfamiliar, almost mawkish propsa plaster bust of Pallas for a production of The Raven, an extravagantly gilt birdcage, a bookcase full of false bindingsand remembered that he was in the Thayer School excuse for a little theater. He paused for a moment, breathing deeply of the dust; he turned his eyes up to one dusty sunray falling through a small window. The light wavered and was suddenly a deeper gold, the color of lamplight. He was in the Territories. Just like that, he was in the Territories. There was a moment of almost staggering exhilaration at the speed of the change. Usually there was a pause, a sense of sideslipping from one place to another. This caesura seemed to be in direct proportion to the distance between the physical bodies of his two selves, Sloat and Orris. Once, when he had Migrated from Japan, where he was negotiating a deal with the Shaw brothers for a terrible novel about Hollywood stars menaced by a crazed ninja, the pause had gone on so long that he had feared he might be lost forever somewhere in the empty, senseless purgatory that exists between the worlds. But this time they had been close . . . so close! It was like those few times, he thought (Orris thought) when a man and woman achieve orgasm at the exact same instant and die in sex together. The smell of dried paint and canvas was replaced with the light, pleasant smell of Territories burningoil. The lamp on the table was guttering low, sending out dark membranes of smoke. To his left a table was set, the remains of a meal congealing on the rough plates. Three plates. Orris stepped forward, dragging his clubfoot a little as always. He tipped one of the plates up, let the guttering lamplight skate queasily across the grease. Who ate from this one? Was it Anders, or Jason, or Richard . . . the boy who would also have been Rushton if my son had lived? Rushton had drowned while swimming in a pond not far from the Great House. There had been a picnic. Orris and his wife had drunk a quantity of wine. The sun had been hot. The boy, little more than an infant, had been napping. Orris and his wife had made love and then they had also fallen asleep in the sweet afternoon sunshine. He had been awakened by the childs cries. Rushton had awakened and gone down to the water. He had been able to dogpaddle a little, just enough to get well out beyond his depth before panicking. Orris had limped to the water, dived in, and swum as fast as he could out to where the boy floundered. It was his foot, his damned foot, that had hampered him and perhaps cost his son his life. When he reached the boy, he had been sinking. Orris had managed to catch him by the hair and pull him to shore . . . but by then Rushton had been blue and dead. Margaret had died by her own hand less than six weeks later. Seven months after that, Morgan Sloats own young son had nearly drowned in a Westwood YMCA pool during a Young Paddlers class. He had been pulled from the pool as blue and dead as Rushton . . . but the lifeguard had applied mouthtomouth resuscitation, and Richard Sloat had responded. God pounds His nails, Orris thought, and then a deep, blurry snore snapped his head around. Anders, the depotkeeper, lay on a pallet in the corner with his kilt rudely pulled up to his breeks. An earthen jug of wine lay overturned nearby. Much of the wine had flowed into his hair. He snored again, then moaned, as if with bad dreams. No dream you might have could be as bad as your future now is, Orris thought grimly. He took a step closer, his cloak flapping around him. He looked down on Anders with no pity. Sloat was able to plan murder, but it had been Orris, time and time again, who had Migrated to carry out the act itself. It had been Orris in Sloats body who had attempted to smother the infant Jack Sawyer with a pillow while a wrestling announcer droned on and on in the background. Orris who had overseen the assassination of Phil Sawyer in Utah (just as he had overseen the assassination of Phil Sawyers counterpart, the commoner Prince Philip Sawtelle, in the Territories). Sloat had a taste for blood, but ultimately he was as allergic to it as Orris was to American food and American air. It was Morgan of Orris, once derided as Morgan Thudfoot, who had always done the deeds Sloat had planned. My son died; his still lives. Sawtelles son died. Sawyers still lives. But these things can be remedied. Will be remedied. No Talisman for you, my sweet little friends. You are bound for a radioactive version of Oatley, and you each owe the balancescales a death. God pounds His nails. And if God doesnt, you may be sure I will, he said aloud. The man on the floor moaned again, as if he had heard. Orris took another step toward him, perhaps meaning to kick him awake, and then cocked his head. In the distance he heard hoofbeats, the faint creak and jingle of harness, the hoarse cries of drovers. That would be Osmond, then. Good. Let Osmond take care of business herehe himself had little interest in questioning a man with a hangover when he knew well enough what the man would have to say. Orris clumped across to the door, opened it, and looked out on a gorgeous peachcolored Territories sunrise. It was from this directionthe direction of the sunrisethat the sounds of approaching riders came. He allowed himself to drink in that lovely glow for a moment and then turned toward the west again, where the sky was still the color of a fresh bruise. The land was dark . . . except for where the first sunlight bounced off a pair of bright parallel lines. Boys, you have gone to your deaths, Orris thought with satisfaction . . . and then a thought occurred which brought even more satisfaction their deaths might already have happened. Good, Orris said, and closed his eyes. A moment later Morgan Sloat was gripping the handle of the door of Thayer Schools little theater, opening his own eyes, and planning his trip back to the west coast. It might be time to take a little trip down memory lane, he thought. To a town in California called Point Venuti. A trip back east first, perhapsa visit to the Queenand then . . . The sea air, he said to the bust of Pallas, will do me good. He ducked back inside, had another jolt from the small vial in his pocket (hardly noticing the smells of canvas and makeup now), and, thus refreshed, he started back downhill toward his car. FOUR THE TALISMAN 34 Anders 1 Jack suddenly realized that, although he was still running, he was running on thin air, like a cartoon character who has time for one surprised doubletake before plunging two thousand feet straight down. But it wasnt two thousand feet. He had timejustto realize that the ground wasnt there anymore, and then he dropped four or five feet, still running. He wobbled and might have remained upright, but then Richard came piling into him and they both went tumbling. Look out, Jack! Richard was screaminghe was apparently not interested in taking his own advice, because his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Look out for the wolf! Look out for Mr. Dufrey! Look out Stop it, Richard! These breathless screams frightened him more than anything else had done. Richard sounded mad, absolutely mad. Stop it, were all right! Theyre gone! Look out for Etheridge! Look out for the bugs! Look out, Jack! Richard, theyre gone! Look around you, for Jasons sake! Jack hadnt had a chance to do this himself, but he knew they had made itthe air was still and sweet, the night perfectly silent except for a slim breeze that was blessedly warm. Look out, Jack! Look out, Jack! Look out, look out Like a bad echo inside his head, he heard a memory of the dogboys outside Nelson House chorusing Waygup, waygup, waygup! Pleeze, pleeze, pleeze! Look out, Jack! Richard wailed. His face was slammed into the earth and he looked like an overenthusiastic Moslem determined to get in good with Allah. LOOK OUT! THE WOLF! PREFECTS! THE HEADMASTER! LOOK O Panicked by the idea that Richard actually had gone crazy, Jack yanked his friends head up by the back of his collar and slapped his face. Richards words were cut cleanly off. He gaped at Jack, and Jack saw the shape of his own hand rising on Richards pale cheek, a dim red tattoo. His shame was replaced by an urgent curiosity to know just where they were. There was light; otherwise he wouldnt have been able to see that mark. A partial answer to the question came from inside himit was certain and unquestionable . . . at least, as far as it went. The Outposts, JackO. Youre in the Outposts now. But before he could spend any time mulling that over, he had to try to get Richard shipshape. Are you all right, Richie? He was looking at Jack with numb, hurt surprise. You hit me, Jack. I slapped you. Thats what youre supposed to do with hysterical people. I wasnt hysterical! Ive never been hysterical in my l Richard broke off and jumped to his feet, looking around wildly. The wolf! We have to look out for the wolf, Jack! If we can get over the fence he wont be able to get us! He would have gone sprinting off into the darkness right then, making for a cyclone fence which was now in another world, if Jack hadnt grabbed him and held him back. The wolf is gone, Richard. Huh? We made it. What are you talking about The Territories, Richard! Were in the Territories! We flipped over! And you almost pulled my damn arm out of its socket, you unbeliever, Jack thought, rubbing his throbbing shoulder. The next time I try to haul someone across, Im going to find myself a real little kid, one who still believes in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Thats ridiculous, Richard said slowly. Theres no such thing as the Territories, Jack. If there isnt, Jack said grimly, then how come that great big white wolf isnt biting your ass? Or your own damn headmaster? Richard looked at Jack, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He looked around, this time with a bit more attention (at least Jack hoped so). Jack did the same, enjoying the warmth and the clarity of the air as he did so. Morgan and his crowd of snakepit crazies might come bursting through at any second, but for now it was impossible not to luxuriate in the pure animal joy of being back here again. They were in a field. High, yellowish grass with bearded headsnot wheat, but something like wheat; some edible grain, anywaystretched off into the night in every direction. The warm breeze rippled it in mysterious but rather lovely waves. To the right was a wooden building standing on a slight knoll, a lamp mounted on a pole in front of it. A yellow flame almost too bright to look at burned clearly inside the lamps glass globe. Jack saw that the building was octagonal. The two boys had come into the Territories on the outermost edge of the circle of light that lamp threwand there was something on the far side of the circle, something metallic that threw back the lamplight in broken glimmers. Jack squinted at the faint, silvery glow . . . and then understood. What he felt was not so much wonder as a sense of fulfilled expection. It was as if two very large jigsawpuzzle pieces, one in the American Territories and one over here, had just come neatly together. Those were railroad tracks. And although it was impossible to tell direction in the darkness, Jack thought he knew in which direction those tracks would travel West. 2 Come on, Jack said. I dont want to go up there, Richard said. Why not? Too much crazy stuff going on. Richard wet his lips. Could be anything up there in that building. Dogs. Crazy people. He wet his lips again. Bugs. I told you, were in the Territories now. The craziness has all blown awayits clean here. Hell, Richard, cant you smell it? There are no such things as Territories, Richard said thinly. Look around you. No, Richard said. His voice was thinner than ever, the voice of an infuriatingly stubborn child. Jack snatched up a handful of the heavily bearded grass. Look at this! Richard turned his head. Jack had to actively restrain an urge to shake him. Instead of doing that, he tossed the grass away, counted mentally to ten, and then started up the hill. He looked down and saw that he was now wearing something like leather chaps. Richard was dressed in much the same way, and he had a red bandanna around his neck that looked like something out of a Frederic Remington painting. Jack reached up to his own neck and felt a similar bandanna. He ran his hands down along his body and discovered that Myles P. Kigers wonderfully warm coat was now something very like a Mexican serape. I bet I look like an advertisement for Taco Bell, he thought, and grinned. An expression of utter panic came over Richards face when Jack started up the hill, leaving him alone at the bottom. Where are you going? Jack looked at Richard and came back. He put his hands on Richards shoulders and looked soberly into Richards eyes. We cant stay here, he said. Some of them must have seen us flip. It may be that they cant come right after us, or it may be that they can. I dont know. I know as much about the laws governing all of this as a kid of five knows about magnetismand all a kid of five knows on the subject is that sometimes magnets attract and sometimes they repel. But for the time being, thats all I have to know. We have to get out of here. End of story. Im dreaming all this, I know I am. Jack nodded toward the ramshackle wooden building. You can come or you can stay here. If you want to stay here, Ill come back for you after I check the place out. None of this is happening, Richard said. His naked, glassesless eyes were wide and flat and somehow dusty. He looked for a moment up at the black Territories sky with its strange and unfamiliar sprawl of stars, shuddered, and looked away. I have a fever. Its the flu. Theres been a lot of flu around. This is a delirium. Youre gueststarring in my delirium, Jack. Well, Ill send somebody around to the Delirium Actors Guild with my AFTRA card when I get a chance, Jack said. In the meantime, why dont you just stay here, Richard? If none of this is happening, then you have nothing to worry about. He started away again, thinking that it would take only a few more of these Aliceattheteaparty conversations with Richard to convince him that he was crazy, as well. He was halfway up the hill when Richard joined him. I would have come back for you, Jack said. I know, Richard said. I just thought that I might as well come along. As long as all of this is a dream, anyway. Well, keep your mouth shut if theres anyone up there, Jack said. I think there isI think I saw someone looking out that front window at me. What are you going to do? Richard asked. Jack smiled. Play it by ear, Richieboy, he said. Thats what Ive been doing ever since I left New Hampshire. Playing it by ear. 3 They reached the porch. Richard clutched Jacks shoulder with panicky strength. Jack turned toward him wearily; Richards patented Kansas City Clutch was something else that was getting old in a big hurry. What? Jack asked. This is a dream, all right, Richard said, and I can prove it. How? Were not talking English anymore, Jack! Were talking some language, and were speaking it perfectly, but its not English! Yeah, Jack said. Weird, isnt it? He started up the steps again, leaving Richard standing below him, gapemouthed. 4 After a moment or two, Richard recovered and scrambled up the steps after Jack. The boards were warped and loose and splintery. Stalks of that richly bearded graingrass grew up through some of them. Off in the deep darkness, both boys could hear the sleepy hum of insectsit was not the reedy scratch of crickets but a sweeter soundso much was sweeter over here, Jack thought. The outside lamp was now behind them; their shadows ran ahead of them across the porch and then made rightangles to climb the door. There was an old, faded sign on that door. For a moment it seemed to Jack to be written in strange Cyrillic letters, as indecipherable as Russian. Then they came clear, and the word was no surprise. DEPOT. Jack raised his hand to knock, then shook his head a little. No. He would not knock. This was not a private dwelling; the sign said DEPOT, and that was a word he associated with public buildingsplaces to wait for Greyhound buses and Amtrak trains, loading zones for the Friendly Skies. He pushed the door open. Friendly lamplight and a decidedly unfriendly voice came out onto the porch together. Get away, ye devil! the cracked voice screeched. Get away, Im going in the morning! I swear! The trains in the shed! Go away! I swore Id go and I will go, snow YE go . . . go and leave me some peace! Jack frowned. Richard gaped. The room was clean but very old. The boards were so warped that the walls seemed almost to ripple. A picture of a stagecoach which looked almost as big as a whaling ship hung on one wall. An ancient counter, its flat surface almost as ripply as the walls, ran across the middle of the room, splitting it in two. Behind it, on the far wall, was a slate board with STAGE ARRIVES written above one column and STAGE LEAVES written above the other. Looking at the ancient board, Jack guessed it had been a good long time since any information had been written there; he thought that if someone tried to write on it with even a piece of soft chalk, the slate would crack in pieces and fall to the weathered floor. Standing on one side of the counter was the biggest hourglass Jack had ever seenit was as big as a magnum of champagne and filled with green sand. Leave me alone, cant you? Ive promised ye Id go, and I will! Please, Morgan! For yer mercy! Ive promised, and if ye dont believe me, look in the shed! The train is ready, I swear the train is ready! There was a good deal more gabble and gobble in this same vein. The large, elderly man spouting it was cringing in the far righthand corner of the room. Jack guessed the oldsters height at sixthree at leasteven in his present servile posture, The Depots low ceiling was only four inches or so above his head. He might have been seventy; he might have been a fairly wellpreserved eighty. A snowy white beard began under his eyes and cascaded down over his breast in a spray of baby fine hair. His shoulders were broad, although now so slumped that they looked as if someone had broken them by forcing him to carry heavy weights over the course of many long years. Deep crowsfeet radiated out from the corners of his eyes; deep fissures undulated on his forehead. His complexion was waxyyellow. He was wearing a white kilt shot through with bright scarlet threads, and he was obviously scared almost to death. He was brandishing a stout staff, but with no authority at all. Jack glanced sharply around at Richard when the old man mentioned the name of Richards father, but Richard was currently beyond noticing such fine points. I am not who you think I am, Jack said, advancing toward the old man. Get away! he shrieked. None of yer guff! I guess the devil can put on a pleasing face! Get away! Ill do it! Shes ready to go, first thing in the morning! I said Id do it and I mean to, now get away, cant ye? The knapsack was now a haversack hanging from Jacks arm. As Jack reached the counter, he rummaged in it, pushing aside the mirror and a number of the jointed moneysticks. His fingers closed around what he wanted and brought it out. It was the coin Captain Farren had given him so long ago, the coin with the Queen on one side and the gryphon on the other. He slammed it down on the counter, and the rooms mellow light caught the lovely profile of Laura DeLoessianagain he was struck with wonder by the similarity of that profile to the profile of his mother. Did they look that much alike at the beginning? Is it just that I see the similarities more as I think about them more? Or am I actually bringing them together somehow, making them one? The old man cringed back even farther as Jack came forward to the counter; it began to seem as though he might push himself right through the back of the building. His words began to pour out in a hysterical flood. When Jack slammed the coin down on the counter like a badman in a Western movie demanding a drink, he suddenly stopped talking. He stared at the coin, his eyes widening, the spitshiny corners of his mouth twitching. His widening eyes rose to Jacks face and really saw him for the first time. Jason, he whispered in a trembling voice. Its former weak bluster was gone. It trembled now not with fear but with awe. Jason! No, he said. My name is Then he stopped, realizing that the word which would come out in this strange language was not Jack but Jason! the old man cried, and fell on his knees. Jason, yeve come! Yeve come and a wi be well, aye, a wi be well, a wi be well, and a manner a things wi be well! Hey, Jack said. Hey, really Jason! Jasons come and the Queenll be well, aye, a manner a things wi be well! Jack, less prepared to cope with this weepy adoration than he had been to deal with the old depotkeepers terrified truculence, turned toward Richard . . . but there was no help there. Richard had stretched out on the floor to the left of the door and had either gone to sleep or was giving a damned good facsimile thereof. Oh shit, Jack groaned. The old man was on his knees, babbling and weeping. The situation was rapidly passing from the realms of the merely ridiculous into those of the cosmically comic. Jack found a flipup partition and went behind the counter. Ah, rise, you good and faithful servant, Jack said. He wondered blackly if Christ or Buddha had ever had problems like this. On your feet, fella. Jason! Jason! the old man sobbed. His white hair obscured Jacks sandaled feet as he bent over them and began to kiss themthey werent little kisses, either, but good old spooninginthehayloft smackers. Jack began to giggle helplessly. He had managed to get them out of Illinois, and here they were in a ramshackle depot at the center of a great field of grain which wasnt quite wheat, somewhere in the Outposts, and Richard was sleeping by the door, and this strange old man was kissing his feet and his beard tickled. Rise! Jack yelled, giggling. He tried to step back but hit the counter. Rise up, O good servant! Get on your frigging feet, get up, thats enough! Jason! Smack! A wi be well! Smacksmack! And a manner a things wi be well, Jack thought crazily, giggling as the old man kissed his toes through the sandals. I didnt know they read Robert Burns over here in the Territories, but I guess they must Smacksmacksmack. Oh, no more of this, I really cant stand it. RISE! he bellowed at the top of his voice, and the old man finally stood before him, trembling and weeping, unable to meet Jacks eye. But his amazingly broad shoulders had come up a bit, had lost that broken look, and Jack was obscurely glad of that. 5 It was an hour or better before Jack could manage a coherent run of conversation with the old man. They would begin talking, and then Anders, who was a liveryman by trade, would go off on another of his OJasonmyJasonhowgreatthouart jags and Jack would have to quiet him down as quickly as he could . . . certainly before the feetkissing started again. Jack liked the old man, however, and sympathized. In order to sympathize, all he had to do was imagine how he would feel if Jesus or Buddha turned up at the local carwash or in the school lunch line. And he had to acknowledge one other clear and present fact there was a part of him which was not entirely surprised by Anderss attitude. Although he felt like Jack, he was coming more and more to also feel like . . . the other one. But hed died. That was true; undeniably true. Jason had died, and Morgan of Orris had probably had something to do with his death. But guys like Jason had a way of coming back, didnt they? Jack considered the time it took to get Anders talking well spent if only because it allowed him to be sure that Richard wasnt shamming; that he really had gone back to sleep again. This was good, because Anders had a lot to say about Morgan. Once, he said, this had been the last stage depot in the known worldit went by the euphonious name of Outpost Depot. Beyond here, he said, the world became a monstrous place. Monstrous how? Jack asked. I dont know, Anders said, lighting his pipe. He looked out into the darkness, and his face was bleak. There are stories about the Blasted Lands, but each is apt to be different from each, and they always begin something like I know a man who met a man who was lost on the edge of the Blasted Lands for three days and he said . . . But I never heard a story that begun I was lost on the edge of the Blasted Lands for three days and I say . . . Ye ken the difference, Jason my Lord? I ken it, Jack said slowly. The Blasted Lands. Just the sound of that had raised the hairs on his arms and the nape of his neck. No one knows what they are, then? Not for sure, Anders said. But if even a quarter of what Ive heard is true What have you heard? That there are monstrosities out there that makes the things in Orriss orepits look almost normal. That there are balls of fire that go rolling across the hills and empty places, leaving long black trails behind themthe trails are black in the daytime, anyway, but Ive heard they glow at night. And if a man gets too close to one of those fireballs, he gets turrible sick. He loses his hair, and soresre apt to raise all over his body, and then he begins to vomit; and mayhap he gets better, but more often he only vomits and vomits until his stomach ruptures and his throat bursts and then . . . Anders rose. My Lord! Why dye look so? Have yseen something out the window? Have yseen a spook along those doubledamned tracks? Anders looked wildly toward the window. Radiation poisoning, Jack thought. He doesnt know it, but hes described the symptoms of radiation poisoning almost to a T. They had studied both nuclear weapons and the consequences of exposure to radiation in a physical science mod the year beforebecause his mother was at least casually involved in both the nuclearfreeze movement and the movement to prevent the proliferation of nuclear power plants, Jack had paid very close attention.