Stephen King – The Dark Tower 5 – The Wolves of the Calla

“Sai Callahan says true,” Eddie said, and then, when Andy started forward again: “But stay a minute, Andy.

Do ya, I beg.” It was absolutely weird how quickly that started to sound okay. Andy stopped willingly enough and turned toward Eddie, his blue eyes glowing. Eddie had roughly a thousand questions about todash, but he was currently even more curious about something else.

“You know about these Wolves.”

“Oh, yes. I told sai Tian. He was wroth.” Again Eddie detected something like smugness in Andy’s voice…

but surely that was just the way it struck him, right? A robot—even one that had survived from the old days

—couldn’t enjoy the discomforts of humans? Could it?

Didn’t take you long to forget the mono, did it, sugar? Susannah’s voice asked in his head. Hers was followed by Jake’s. Blaine’s a pain. And then, just his own: If you treat this guy like nothing more than a fortune-telling -machine in a carnival arcade, Eddie old boy, you deserve whatever you get.

“Tell me about the Wolves,” Eddie said.

“What would you know, sai Eddie?”

“Where they come from, for a start. The place where they feel like they can put their feet up and fart right out loud. Who they work for. Why they take the kids. And why the ones they take come back ruined.” Then another question struck him. Perhaps the most obvious. “Also, how do you know when they’re coming?”

Clicks from inside Andy. A lot of them this time, maybe a full minute’s worth. When Andy spoke again, its voice was different. It made Eddie think about Officer Bosconi, back in the neighborhood. Brooklyn Avenue, that was Bosco Bob’s beat. If you just met him, walking along the street and twirling his nightstick, Bosco talked to you like you were a human being and so was he—howya doin, Eddie, how’s your mother these days, how’s your goodfornothin bro, are you gonna sign up for PAL Middlers, okay, seeya at the gym, stay off the smokes, have a good day. But if he thought maybe you’d done something, Bosco Bob turned into a guy you didn’t want to know. That Officer Bosconi didn’t smile, and the eyes behind his glasses were like puddle ice in February (which just happened to be the Time o’ the Goat, over here on this side of the Great Whatever). Bosco Bob had never hit Eddie, but there were a couple of times—once just after some kids lit Woo Kim’s Market on fire—when he felt sure that bluesuit mothafuck would have hit him, if Eddie had been stupid enough to smart off. It wasn’t schizophrenia—at least not of the pure Detta/Odetta kind—but it was close. There were two versions of Officer Bosconi. One of them was a nice guy. The other one was a cop.

When Andy spoke again, it no longer sounded like your well-meaning but rather stupid uncle, the one who believed the alligator-boy and Elvis-is-alive-in-Buenos-Aires stories Inside View printed were absolutely true.

This Andy sounded emotionless and somehow dead.

Like a real robot, in other words.

“What’s your password, sai Eddie?”

“Huh?”

“Password. You have ten seconds. Nine… eight… seven…”

Eddie thought of spy movies he’d seen. “You mean I say something like ‘The roses are blooming in Cairo’ and you say ‘Only in Mrs. Wilson’s garden’ and then I say—”

“Incorrect password, sai Eddie… two… one… zero.” From within Andy came a low thudding sound which Eddie found singularly unpleasant. It sounded like the blade of a sharp cleaver passing through meat and into the wood of the chopping block beneath. He found himself thinking for the first time about the Old People, who had surely built Andy (or maybe the people before the Old People, call them the Really Old People—

who knew for sure?). Not people Eddie himself would want to meet, if the last remainders in Lud had been any example.

“You may retry once,” said the cold voice. It bore a resemblance to the one that had asked Eddie if Eddie

would like his horoscope told, but that was the best you could call it—a resemblance. “Would you retry, Eddie of New York?”

Eddie thought fast. “No,” he said, “that’s all right. The info’s restricted, huh?”

Several clicks. Then: ” Restricted: confined, kept within certain set limits, as information in a given document or q-disc; limited to those authorized to use that information; those authorized announce themselves by giving the password.” Another pause to think and then Andy said, “Yes, Eddie. That info’s restricted.”

“Why?” Eddie asked.

He expected no answer, but Andy gave him one. “Directive Nineteen.”

Eddie clapped him on his steel side. “My friend, that don’t surprise me at all. Directive Nineteen it is.”

“Would you care to hear an expanded horoscope, Eddie-sai?”

“Think I’ll pass.”

“What about a tune called ‘The Jimmy Juice I Drank Last Night?’ It has many amusing verses.” The reedy note of a pitch-pipe came from somewhere in Andy’s diaphragm.

Eddie, who found the idea of many amusing verses somehow alarming, increased his pace toward the others.

“Why don’t we just put that on hold?” he said. “Right now I think I need another cup of coffee.”

“Give you joy of it, sai,” Andy said. To Eddie he sounded rather forlorn. Like Bosco Bob when you told him you thought you’d be too busy for PAL League that summer.

THREE

Roland sat on a stone outcrop, drinking his own cup of coffee. He listened to Eddie without speaking himself, and with only one small change of expression: a minute lift of the eyebrows at the words Directive Nineteen.

Across the clearing from them, Slightman the Younger had produced a kind of bubble-pipe that made extraordinarily tough bubbles. Oy chased them, popped several with his teeth, then began to get the hang of what Slightman seemed to want, which was for him to herd them into a fragile little pile of light. The bubble-pile made Eddie think of the Wizard’s Rainbow, those dangerous glass balls. And did Callahan really have one? The worst of the bunch?

Beyond the boys, at the edge of the clearing, Andy stood with his silver arms folded over the stainless-steel curve of his chest. Waiting to clean up the meal he had hauled to them and then cooked, Eddie supposed. The perfect servant. He cooks, he cleans, he tells you about the dark lady you’ll meet. Just don’t expect him to violate Directive Nineteen. Not without the password, anyway.

“Come over to me, folks, would you?” Roland asked, raising his voice slightly. “Time we had a bit of palaver.

Won’t be long, which is good, at least for us, for we’ve already had our own, before sai Callahan came to us, and after awhile talk sickens, so it does.”

They came over and sat near him like obedient children, those from the Calla and those who were from far away and would go beyond here perhaps even farther.

“First I’d hear what you know of these Wolves. Eddie tells me Andy may not say how he comes by what he knows.”

“You say true,” Slightman the Elder rumbled. “Either those who made him or those who came later have mostly gagged him on that subject, although he always warns us of their coming. On most other subjects, his mouth runs everlastingly.”

Roland looked toward the Calla’s big farmer. “Will you set us on, sai Overholser?”

Tian Jaffords looked disappointed not to be called on. His woman looked disappointed for him. Slightman the Elder nodded as if Roland’s choice of speaker was only to be expected. Overholser himself did not puff up as Eddie might have guessed. Instead he looked down at his own crossed legs and scuffed shor’boots for thirty seconds or so, rubbing at the side of his face, thinking. The clearing was so quiet Eddie could hear the minute rasp of the farmer’s palm on two or three days’ worth of bristles. At last he sighed, nodded, and looked up at Roland.

“Say thankee. Ye’re not what I expected, I must say. Nor your tet.” Overholser turned to Tian. “Ye were right to haul us out here, Tian Jaffords. This is a meeting we needed to have, and I say thankee.”

“It wasn’t me got you out here,” Jaffords said. “Was the Old Fella.”

Overholser nodded to Callahan. Callahan nodded back, then sketched the shape of a cross in the air with his scarred hand—as if to say, Eddie thought, that it wasn’t him, either, but God. Maybe so, but when it came to pulling coals out of a hot fire, he’d put two dollars on Roland of Gilead for every one he put on God and the Man Jesus, those heavenly gunslingers.

Roland waited, his face calm and perfectly polite.

Finally Overholser began to talk. He spoke for nearly fifteen minutes, slowly but always to the point. There was the business of the twins, to begin with. Residents of the Calla realized that children birthed in twos were the exception rather than the rule in other parts of the world and at other times in the past, but in their area of the Grand Crescent it was the singletons, like the Jaffordses’ Aaron, who were the rarities. The great rarities.