Stephen King – The Dark Tower

footfall but knew someone had stepped into his office. Logic suggested who it must be.

Still without opening his eyes, still with his hands clasped on the closed cover of the toilet, he called: “Finli? Finli o’ Tego? Is that you?”

“Yar, boss, it’s me.”

What washe doing here before the horn? Everyone, even the Breakers, knew what a fiend

for sleep was Finli the Weasel. But all in good time. At this moment Pimli was entertaining

the Lord (although in truth he’d nearly dozed off on his knees when some deep sub-instinct

had warned him he was no longer alone on the first floor of Warden’s House). One did not

snub such an important guest as the Lord God of Hosts, and so he finished his

prayer—“Grant me the grace of Thy will, amen!”—before rising with a wince. His damned

back didn’t care a bit for the belly it had to hoist in front.

Finli was standing by the window, holding the Peacemaker up to the dim light, turning it to

and fro in order to admire the delicate scrollwork on the butt-plates.

“This is the one that said goodnight to Cameron, true?” Finli asked. “The rapist Cameron.”

Pimli nodded. “Have a care, my son. It’s loaded.”

“Six-shot?”

“Eight! Are you blind? Look at the size of the cylinder, for God’s love.”

Finli didn’t bother. He handed the gun back to Pimli, instead. “I know how to pull the

trigger, so I do, and when it comes to guns that’s enough.”

“Aye, if it’s loaded. What are you doing up at this hour, and bothering a man at his

morning prayers?”

Finli eyed him. “If I were to ask you why I find youat your prayers, dressed and combed

instead of in your bathrobe and slippers with only one eye open, what answer would you

make?”

“I’ve got the jitters. It’s as simple as that. I guess you do, too.”

Finli smiled, charmed. “Jitters! Is that like heebie-jeebies, and harum-scarum, and

hinky-di-di?”

“Sort of—yar.”

Finli’s smile widened, but Pimli thought it didn’t look quite genuine. “I like it! I like it

very well! Jittery! Jittersome!”

“No,” Pimli said. “ ‘Got the jitters,’ that’s how you use it.”

Finli’s smile faded. “I also have the jitters. I’m heebie and jeebie. I feel hinky-di-di. I’m harum and you’re scarum.”

“More blips on the Deep Telemetry?”

Finli shrugged, then nodded. The problem with the Deep Telemetry was that none of them

were sure exactly what it measured. It might be telepathy, or (God forbid) teleportation, or

even deep tremors in the fabric of reality—precursors of the Bear Beam’s impending snap.

Impossible to tell. But more and more of that previously dark and quiet equipment had

come alive in the last four months or so.

“What does Jenkins say?” Pimli asked. He slipped the .40 into his docker’s clutch almost

without thinking, so moving us a step closer to what you will not want to hear and I will not want to tell.

“Jenkins says whatever rides out of his mouth on the flying carpet of his tongue,” said the

Tego with a rude shrug. “Since he don’t even know what the symbols on the Deep

Telemetry dials and vid screens signify, how can you ask his opinion?”

“Easy,” Pimli said, putting a hand on his Security Chief’s shoulder. He was surprised (and

a little alarmed) to feel the flesh beneath Finli’s fine Turnbull & Asser shirt thrumming slightly. Or perhaps trembling. “Easy, pal! I was only asking.”

“I can’t sleep, I can’t read, I can’t even fuck,” Finli said. “I tried all three, by Gan! Walk down to Damli House with me, would you, and have a look at the damned readouts. Maybe

you’ll have some ideas.”

“I’m a trailboss, not a technician,” Pimli said mildly, but he was already moving toward

the door. “However, since I’ve nothing better to do—”

“Maybe it’s just the end coming on,” Finli said, pausing in the doorway. “As if there could

be anyjust about such a thing.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Pimli said equably, “and a walk in the morning air can’t do us any

ha—Hey! Hey, you! You, there! You Rod! Turn around when I talk to you, hadn’t you just

better!”

The Rod, a scrawny fellow in an ancient pair of denim biballs (the deeply sagging seat had

gone completely white), obeyed. His cheeks were chubby and freckled, his eyes an

engaging shade of blue even though at the moment alarmed. He actually wouldn’t have been bad-looking except for his nose, which had been eaten away almost completely on

one side, giving him a bizarre one-nostril look. He was toting a basket. Pimli was pretty

sure he’d seen this shufflefoot bah-bo around the ranch before, but couldn’t be sure; to him, all Rods looked alike.

It didn’t matter. Identification was Finli’s job and he took charge now, pulling a rubber

glove out of his belt and putting it on as he strode forward. The Rod cringed back against

the wall, clasping his wicker basket tighter and letting go a loud fart that had to have been pure nerves. Pimli needed to bite down on the inside of his cheek, and quite fiercely, to

keep a smile from rising on his lips.

“Nay, nay,nay!” the Security Chief cried, and slapped the Rod briskly across the face with

his newly gloved hand. (It did not do to touch the Children of Roderick skin to skin; they

carried too many diseases.) Loose spit flew from the Rod’s mouth and blood from the hole

in his nose. “Speak not with your ki’box to me, sai Haylis! The hole in thy head’s not much

better, but at least it can give me a word of respect. It had better be able to!”

“Hile, Finli o’ Tego!” Haylis muttered, and fisted himself in the forehead so hard the back

of his head bounced off the wall—bonk!That did it: Pimli barked a laugh in spite of himself.

Nor would Finli be able to reproach him with it on their walk to Damli House, for he was

smiling now, too. Although Pimli doubted that the Rod named Haylis would find much to

comfort him in that smile. It exposed too many sharp teeth. “Hile, Finli o’ the Watch, long

days and pleasant nights to’ee, sai!”

“Better,” Finli allowed. “Not much, but a little. What in hell’s name are you doing here

before Horn and Sun? And tell me what’s in thy bascomb, wiggins?”

Haylis hugged it tighter against his chest, his eyes flashing with alarm. Finli’s smile

disappeared at once.

“You flip the lid and show me what’s in thy bascomb this second, cully, or thee’ll be

picking thy teeth off the carpet.” These words came out in a smooth, low growl.

For a moment Pimli thought the Rod still would not comply, and he felt a twinge of active

alarm. Then, slowly, the fellow lifted the lid of the wicker basket. It was the sort with

handles, known in Finli’s home territory as a bascomb. The Rod held it reluctantly out. At

the same time he closed his sore-looking, booger-rimmed eyes and turned his head aside,

as if in anticipation of a blow.

Finli looked. For a long time he said nothing, then gave his own bark of laughter and

invited Pimli to have a peek. The Master knew what he was seeing at once, but figuring out

what it meant took a moment longer. Then his mind flashed back to popping the pimple

and offering Finli the bloody pus, as one would offer a friend left-overhors d’oeuvre at the

end of a dinner-party. In the bottom of the Rod’s basket was a little pile of used tissues.

Kleenex, in fact.

“Did Tammy Kelly send you to pick up the swill this morning?” Pimli asked.

The Rod nodded fearfully.

“Did she tell you that you could have whatever you found and fancied from the

wastecans?”

He thought the Rod would lie. If and when he did, the Master would command Finli to

beat the fellow, as an object-lesson in honesty.

But the Rod—Haylis—shook his head, looking sad.

“All right,” Pimli said, relieved. It was really too early in the day for beatings and

howlings and tears. They spoiled a man’s breakfast. “You can go, and with your prize. But

next time, cully, ask permission or you’ll leave here a-hurt. Do’ee ken?”

The Rod nodded energetically.

“Go on, then, go! Out of my house and out of my sight!”

They watched him leave, him with his basket of snotty tissues that he’d undoubtedly eat

like candy nougat, each shaming the other into keeping his face grave and stern until the

poor disfigured son of no one was gone. Then they burst into gales of laughter. Finli o’

Tego staggered back against the wall hard enough to knock a picture off its hook, then slid

to the floor, howling hysterically. Pimli put his face in his hands and laughed until his

considerable gut ached. The laughter erased the tension with which each had begun the day,