Then the hum would begin, quickly buildingin volume as it moved toward the middle of their heads, and this room wouldagain fill with their frightened screams—
“Madam? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Why do you ask, Nigel?”
“I believe you shivered.”
“Never mind. Just get me to the door to NewYork, the one that still works.”
Six
Once they left the infirmary, Nigel boreher rapidly down first one corridor and then another. They came to escalatorsthat looked as if they had been frozen in place for centuries. Halfway down oneof them, a steel ball on legs flashed its amber eyes at Nigel and cried, “Howp!Howp!” Nigel responded “Howp, howp!” in return and then said toSusannah (in the confidential tone certain gossipy people adopt when discussingThose Who Are Unfortunate), “He’s a Mech Foreman and has been stuck there forover eight hundred years—fried boards, I imagine. Poor soul! But he stilltries to do his best.”
Twice Nigel asked her if she believed hiseyes could be replaced. The first time Susannah told him she didn’t know. Thesecond time—feeling a little sorry for him (definitely him now, notit)—she asked what he thought.
“I think my days of service are nearlyover,” he said, and then added something that made her arms tingle withgooseflesh: “O Discordia!”
The Diem Brothers are dead, shethought, remembering—had it been a dream? a vision? a glimpse of herTower?—something from her time with Mia. Or had it been her time inOxford, Mississippi? Or both? Papa Doc Duvalier is dead. Christa McAuliffeis dead. Stephen King is dead, popular writer killed while taking afternoonwalk, O Discordia, O lost!
But who was Stephen King? Who was ChristaMcAuliffe, for that matter?
Once they passed a low man who had beenpresent at the birth of Mia’s monster. He lay curled on a dusty corridor floorlike a human shrimp with his gun in one hand and a hole in his head. Susannahthought he’d committed suicide. In a way, she supposed that made sense. Becausethings had gone wrong, hadn’t they? And unless Mia’s baby found its way to whereit belonged on its own, Big Red Daddy was going to be mad. Might be mad even ifMordred somehow found his way home.
His other father. For this was aworld of twins and mirror images, and Susannah now understood more about whatshe’d seen than she really wanted to. Mordred too was a twin, a Jekyll-and-Hydecreature with two selves, and he—or it—had the faces of two fathersto remember.
They came upon a number of other corpses;all looked like suicides to Susannah. She asked Nigel if he could tell—bytheir smells, or something—but he claimed he could not.
“How many are still here, do you think?”she asked. Her blood had had time to cool a little, and now she felt nervous.
“Not many, madam. I believe that most havemoved on. Very likely to the Derva.”
“What’s the Derva?”
Nigel said he was dreadfully sorry, butthat information was restricted and could be accessed only with the properpassword. Susannah tried chassit, but it was no good. Neither was nineteenor, her final try, ninety-nine. She supposed she’d have to be contentwith just knowing most of them were gone.
Nigel turned left, into a new corridor withdoors on both sides. She got him to stop long enough to try one of them, butthere was nothing of particular note inside. It was an office, and long-abandoned,judging by the thick fall of dust. She was interested to see a poster of madlyjitterbugging teenagers on one wall. Beneath it, in large blue letters, wasthis:
SAY, YOU COOL CATSAND BOPPIN’ KITTIES!
I ROCKED AT THE HOPWITH ALAN FREED!
CLEVELAND, OHIO,OCTOBER 1954
Susannah was pretty sure that the performeron stage was Richard Penniman. Club-crawling folkies such as herself affecteddisdain for anyone who rocked harder than Phil Ochs, but Suze had always had asoft spot in her heart for Little Richard; good golly, Miss Molly, you surelike to ball. She guessed it was a Detta thing.
Did these people once upon a time usetheir doors to vacation in various wheres and whens of their choice? Did theyuse the power of the Beams to turn certain levels of the Tower into touristattractions?
She asked Nigel, who told her he was surehe did not know. Nigel still sounded sad about the loss of his eyes.
Finally they came into an echoing rotundawith doors marching all around its mighty circumference. The marble tiles onthe floor were laid in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern Susannahremembered from certain troubled dreams in which Mia had fed her chap. Above,high and high, constellations of electric stars winked in a blue firmament thatwas now showing plenty of cracks. This place reminded her of the Cradle of Lud,and even more strongly of Grand Central Station. Somewhere in the walls,air-conditioners or -exchangers ran rustily. The smell in the air was weirdlyfamiliar, and after a short struggle, Susannah identified it: Comet Cleanser.They sponsored The Price Is Right, which she sometimes watched on TV ifshe happened to be home in the morning. “I’m Don Pardo, now please welcomeyour host, Mr. Bill Cullen!” Susannah felt a moment of vertigo and closedher eyes.
Bill Cullen is dead. Don Pardo is dead.Martin Luther King is dead, shot down in Memphis. Rule Discordia!
O Christ, those voices, would theynever stop?
She opened her eyes and saw doors markedSHANGHAI/FEDIC and BOMBAY/FEDIC and one marked DALLAS (NOVEMBER 1963)/FEDIC.Others were written in runes that meant nothing to her. At last Nigel stoppedin front of one she recognized.
NORTH CENTRALPOSITRONICS, LTD.
New York/Fedic
Maximum Security
All of this Susannah recognized from theother side, but below VERBAL ENTRY CODE REQUIRED was this message, flashingominous red:
#9 FINAL DEFAULT
Seven
“What would you like to do next, madam?”Nigel asked.
“Set me down, sugarpie.”
She had time to wonder what her responsewould be if Nigel declined to do so, but he didn’t even hesitate. Shewalk-hopped-scuttled to the door in her old way and put her hands on it.Beneath them she felt a texture that was neither wood nor metal. She thoughtshe could hear a very faint hum. She considered trying chassit—herversion of Ali Baba’s Open, sesame—and didn’t bother. There wasn’teven a doorknob. One-way meant one-way, she reckoned; no kidding around.
(JAKE!)
She sent it with all her might.
No answer. Not even that faint
(wimeweh)
nonsense word. She waited a moment longer,then turned around and sat with her back propped against the door. She droppedthe extra ammo clips between her spread knees and then held the Walther PPK upin her right hand. A good weapon to have with your back to a locked door, shereckoned; she liked the weight of it. Once upon a time, she and others had beentrained in a protest technique called passive resistance. Lie down on thelunchroom floor, cover your soft middle and softer privates. Do not respond tothose who strike you and revile you and curse your parents. Sing in your chainslike the sea. What would her old friends make of what she had become?
Susannah said: “You know what? I don’t giveshit one. Passive resistance is also dead.”
“Madam?”
“Nothing, Nigel.”
“Madam, may I ask—”
“What I’m doing?”
“Exactly, madam.”
“Waiting on a friend, Chumley. Just waitingon a friend.”
She thought that DNK 45932 would remind herthat his name was Nigel, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked how long she wouldwait for her friend. Susannah told him until hell froze over. This elicited along silence. Finally Nigel asked: “May I go, then, madam?”