Stephen King – The Dark Tower

“Aye, I think that’s the way of it,” Roland agreed. “They bypass the devar-toi—the prison

we’ve marked with an 8—for the time being.”

Susannah said: “Scowther and his Nazi doctors used the hood-things on these beds to

extract something from the kids. It’s the stuff they give to the Breakers. Feed it to em or

inject em with it, I guess. The kids and the brain-stuff go back to Thunderclap Station by

the door. The kiddies are sent back to Calla Bryn Sturgis, maybe the other Callas as well,

and at what you call the devar-toi—”

“Mawster, dinnah is served,” Eddie said bleakly.

Nigel chipped in at this point, sounding absolutely cheerful. “Would you care for a bite,

sais?”

Jake consulted his stomach and found it was rumbling. It was horrible to be this hungry so

soon after the Pere’s death—and after the things he had seen in the Dixie Pig—but he was,

nevertheless. “Is there food, Nigel? Is there really?”

“Yes, indeed, young man,” Nigel said. “Only tinned goods, I’m afraid, but I can offer

better than two dozen choices, including baked beans, tuna-fish, several kinds of soup—”

“Tooter-fish for me,” Roland said, “but bring an array, if you will.”

“Certainly, sai.”

“I don’t suppose you could rustle me up an Elvis Special,” Jake said longingly. “That’s

peanut butter, banana, and bacon.”

“Jesus, kid,” Eddie said. “I don’t know if you can tell in this light, but I’m turning green.”

“I have no bacon or bananas, unfortunately,” Nigel said (pronouncing the

latterba-NAW-nas ), “but I do have peanut butter and three kinds of jelly. Also apple

butter.”

“Apple butter’d be good,” Jake said.

“Go on, Susannah,” Roland said as Nigel moved off on his errand. “Although I suppose I

needn’t speed you along so; after we eat, we’ll need to take some rest.” He sounded far

from pleased with the idea.

“I don’t think there’s any more to tell,” she said. “It sounds confusing—looksconfusing,

too, mostly because our little map doesn’t have any scale—but it’s essentially just a loop

they make every twenty-four years or so: from Fedic to Calla Bryn Sturgis, then back to

Fedic with the kids, so they can do the extraction. Then they take the kids back to the Callas and the brainfood to this prison where the Breakers are.”

“The devar-toi,” Jake said.

Susannah nodded. “The question is what we do to interrupt the cycle.”

“We go through the door to Thunderclap station,” Roland said, “and from the station to

where the Breakers are kept. And there…” He looked at each of his ka-tet in turn, then

raised his finger and made a dryly expressive shooting gesture.

“There’ll be guards,” Eddie said. “Maybe a lot of them. What if we’re outnumbered?”

“It won’t be the first time,” Roland said.

Chapter II:

The Watcher

One

When Nigel returned, he was bearing a tray the size of a wagon-wheel. On it were stacks

of sandwiches, two Thermoses filled with soup (beef and chicken), plus canned drinks.

There was Coke, Sprite, Nozz-A-La, and something called Wit Green Wit. Eddie tried this

last and pronounced it foul beyond description.

All of them could see that Nigel was no longer the same pippip, jolly-good fellow he’d

been for God alone knew how many decades and centuries. His lozenge-shaped head kept jerking to one side or the other. When it went to the left he would mutter“Un, deux, trois! ”

To the right it was“Ein, zwei, drei! ” A constant low clacking had begun in his diaphragm.

“Sugar, what’s wrong with you?” Susannah asked as the domestic robot lowered the tray

to the floor amidst them.

“Self-diagnostic exam series suggests total systemic breakdown during the next two to six

hours,” Nigel said, sounding glum but otherwise calm. “Pre-existing logic faults,

quarantined until now, have leaked into the GMS.” He then twisted his head viciously to

the right.“Ein, zwei, drei! Live free or die, here’s Greg in your eye!”

“What’s GMS?” Jake asked.

“And who’s Greg?” Eddie added.

“GMS stands for general mentation systems,” said Nigel. “There are two such systems,

rational and irrational. Conscious and subconscious, as you might say. As for Greg, that

would be Greg Stillson, a character in a novel I’m reading. Quite enjoyable. It’s calledThe

Dead Zone, by Stephen King. As to why I bring him up in this context, I have no idea.”

Two

Nigel explained that logic faults were common in what he called Asimov Robots. The

smarter the robot, the more the logic faults…and the sooner they started showing up. The

old people (Nigel called them the Makers) compensated for this by setting up a stringent

quarantine system, treating mental glitches as though they were smallpox or cholera. (Jake

thought this sounded like a really fine way of dealing with insanity, although he supposed

that psychiatrists wouldn’t care for the idea much; it would put them out of business.) Nigel believed that the trauma of having his eyes shot out had weakened his mental

survival-systems somehow, and now all sorts of bad stuff was loose in his circuits, eroding

his deductive and inductive reasoning capabilities, gobbling logic-systems left and right.

He told Susannah he didn’t hold this against her in the slightest. Susannah raised a fist to

her forehead and thanked him big-big. In truth, she did not completely believe good old

DNK 45932, although she was damned if she knew why. Maybe it was just a holdover

from their time in Calla Bryn Sturgis, where a robot not much different from Nigel had

turned out to be a nasty, grudge-holding cully indeed. And there was something else.

I spy with my little eye,Susannah thought.

“Hold out thy hands, Nigel.”

When the robot did, they all saw the wiry hairs caught in the joints of his steel fingers.

There was also a drop of blood on a…would you call it a knuckle? “What’s this?” she

asked, holding several of the hairs up.

“I’m sorry, mum, I cawn’t—”

Couldn’t see. No, of course not. Nigel had infrared, but his actual eyesight was gone,

courtesy of Susannah Dean, daughter of Dan, gunslinger in the Ka-Tet of Nineteen.

“They’re hairs. I also spy some blood.”

“Ah, yes,” Nigel said. “Rats in the kitchen, mum. I’m programmed to dispose of vermin

when I detect them. There are a great many these days, I’m sorry to say; the world is

moving on.” And then, snapping his head violently to the left:“Un-deuxtrois! Minnie

Mouse est la mouse pour moi! ”

“Um…did you kill Minnie and Mickey before or after you made the sandwiches, Nige old

buddy?” Eddie asked.

“After, sai, I assure you.”

“Well, I might pass, anyway,” Eddie said. “I had a poorboy back in Maine, and it’s

sticking to my ribs like a motherfucker.”

“You should sayun, deux, trois, ” Susannah told him. The words were out before she knew

she was going to say them.

“Cry pardon?” Eddie was sitting with his arm around her. Since the four of them had

gotten back together, he touched Susannah at every opportunity, as if needing to confirm

the fact that she was more than just wishful thinking.

“Nothing.” Later, when Nigel was either out of the room or completely broken down,

she’d tell him her intuition. She thought that robots of Nigel and Andy’s type, like those in the Isaac Asimov stories she’d read as a teenager, weren’t supposed to lie. Perhaps Andy

had either been modified or had modified himself so that wasn’t a problem. With Nigel,

she thought it was a problem, indeed: can ya say problem big-big. She had an idea that,

unlike Andy, Nigel was essentially goodhearted, but yes—he’d either lied or gilded the

truth about the rats in the larder. Maybe about other things, as well.Ein, zwei, drei andUn,

deux, trois was his method of letting off the pressure. For awhile, anyway.

It’s Mordred,she thought, looking around. She took a sandwich because she had to

eat—like Jake, she was ravenous—but her appetite was gone and she knew she’d take no

enjoyment from what she plugged grimly down her throat.He’s been at Nigel, and now

he’s watching us somewhere. I know it—I feel it.

And, as she took her first bite of some long-preserved, vacuum-packed mystery-meat:

A mother always knows.

Three

None of them wanted to sleep in the Extraction Room (although they would have had their pick of three hundred or more freshly made beds) nor in the deserted town outside, so Nigel

took them to his quarters, pausing every now and then for a vicious head-clearing shake

and to count off in either German or French. To this he began adding numbers in some

other language none of them knew.

Their way led them through a kitchen—all stainless steel and smoothly humming

machines, quite different from the ancient cookhouse Susannah had visited todash beneath

Castle Discordia—and although they saw the moderate clutter of the meal Nigel had

prepared them, there was no sign of rats, living or dead. None of them commented on this.