Stephen King – The Waste Lands

31

“COULD I HAVE SOMETHING to drink?” Jake asked. His voice came out sounding

furry and nasal. Both his mouth and the tissues in his abused nose were swelling up. He

looked like someone who has gotten the worst of it in a nasty street-fight.

“Oh, yes,” Tick-Tock replied judiciously. “You could. I’d say you certainly could. We have lots to drink, don’t we, Copperhead?”

“Ay,” said a tall, bespectacled man in a white silk shirt and a pair of black silk trousers. He looked like a college professor in a turn-of-the-century Punch cartoon. “No shortage of

po-ter-bulls here.”

The Tick-Tock Man, once more seated at ease in his throne-like chair, looked humorously

at Jake. “We have wine, beer, ale, and, of course, good old water. Sometimes that’s all a

body wants, isn’t it? Cool, clear, sparkling water. How does that sound, cully?”

Jake’s throat, which was also swollen and as dry as sandpaper, prick- led painfully.

“Sounds good,” he whispered.

“It’s woke my thirsty up, I know that,” Tick-Tock said. His lips spread in a smile. His green eyes sparkled. “Bring me a dipper of water, Tilly—I’ll be damned if I know what’s

happened to my manners.”

Tilly stepped through the hatchway on the far side of the room—it was opposite the one

through which Jake and Gasher had entered. Jake watched her go and licked his swollen

lips.

“Now,” Tick-Tock said, returning his gaze to Jake, “you say the American city you came

from—this New York—is much like Lud.”

“Well . . . not exactly …”

“But you do recognize some of the machinery, Tick-Tock pressed. “Valves and pumps and

such. Not to mention the firedim tubes.”

“Yes. We call it neon, but it’s the same.”

Tick-Tock reached out toward him. Jake cringed, but Tick-Tock only patted him on the

shoulder. “Yes, yes; close enough.” His eyes gleamed. “And you’ve heard of computers?”

“Sure, but—”

Tilly returned with the dipper and timidly approached the Tick-Tock Man’s throne. He

took it and held it out to Jake. When Jake reached for it, Tick-Tock pulled it back and drank

himself. As Jake watched the water trickle from Tick-Tock’s mouth and roll down his

naked chest, he began to shake. He couldn’t help it.

The Tick-Tock Man looked over the dipper at him, as if just remem- bering that Jake was

still there. Behind him, Gasher, Copperhead, Bran-don, and Hoots were grinning like

schoolyard kids who have just heard an amusing dirty joke.

“Why, I got thinking about how thirsty I was and forgot all about you!” Tick-Tock cried.

“That’s mean as hell, gods damn my eyes! But, of course, it looked so good . . . and it is

good . . . cold . . . clear …”

He held the dipper out to Jake. When Jake reached for it, Tick-Tock pulled it back.

“First, cully, tell me what you know about dipolar computers and transitive circuits,” he said coldly.

“What …” Jake looked toward the ventilator grille, but the golden eyes were still gone. He was beginning to think he had imagined them after all. He shifted his gaze back to the

Tick-Tock Man, understanding one thing clearly: he wasn’t going to get any water. He had

been stupid to even dream he might. “What are dipolar computers?”

The Tick-Tock Man’s face contorted with rage; he threw the remain- der of the water into

Jake’s bruised, puffy face. “Don’t you play it light with me!” he shrieked. He stripped off the Seiko watch and shook it in front of Jake. “When I asked you if this ran on a dipolar

circuit, you said it didn’t! So don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about when you

already made it clear that you do!”

“But . . . but …” Jake couldn’t go on. His head was whirling with fear and confusion. He was aware, in some far-off fashion, that he was licking as much water as he could off his

lips.

“There’s a thousand of those ever-fucking dipolar computers right under the ever-fucking city, maybe a HUNDRED thousand, and the only one that still works don’t do a thing

except play Watch Me and run those drums! I want those computers! I want them working

for ME!”

The Tick-Tock Man bolted forward on his throne, seized Jake, shook him back and forth,

and then threw him to the floor. Jake struck one of the lamps, knocking it over, and the bulb

blew with a hollow coughing sound. Tilly gave a little shriek and stepped backward, her

eyes wide and frightened. Copperhead and Brandon looked at each other uneasily.

Tick-Tock leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and screamed into Jake’s face: “I want

them AND I MEAN TO HAVE THEM!”

Silence fell in the room, broken only by the soft whoosh of warm air pouring from the

ventilators. Then the twisted rage on the Tick-Tock Man’s face disappeared so suddenly it

might never have existed at all. It was replaced by another charming smile. He leaned

further forward and helped Jake to his feet.

“Sorry. I get thinking about the potential of this place and sometimes I get carried away.

Please accept my apology, cully.” He picked up the overturned dipper and threw it at Tilly.

“Fill this up, you useless bitch! What’s the matter with you?”

He turned his attention back to Jake, still smiling his TV game-show host smile.

“All right; you’ve had your little joke and I’ve had mine. Now tell me everything you know

about dipolar computers and transitive circuits. Then you can have a drink.”

Jake opened his mouth to say something—he had no idea what— and then, incredibly,

Roland’s voice was in his mind, filling it.

Distract them, Jake—and if there’s a button that opens the door, get close to it.

The Tick-Tock Man was watching him closely. “Something just came into your mind,

didn’t it, cully? I always know. So don’t keep it a secret; tell your old friend Ticky.”

Jake caught movement in the corner of his eye. Although he did not dare glance up at the

ventilator panel—not with all the Tick-Tock Man’s notice bent upon him—he knew that

Oy was back, peering down through the louvers.

Distract them . . . and suddenly Jake knew just how to do that.

“I did think of something,” he said, “but it wasn’t about computers. It was about my old pal Gasher. And his old pal, Hoots.”

“Here! Here!” Gasher cried. “What are you talking about, boy?”

“Why don’t you tell Tick-Tock who really gave you the password, Gasher? Then I can tell Tick-Tock where you keep it.”

The Tick-Tock Man’s puzzled gaze shifted from Jake to Gasher. “What’s he talking

about?”

“Nothin!” Gasher said, but he could not forbear a quick glance at Hoots. “He’s just runnin his gob, tryin to get off the hot-seat by puttin me on it, Ticky. I told you he was pert! Didn’t I say—”

Take a look in his scarf, why don’t you?” Jake asked. “He’s got a scrap of paper with the word written on it. I had to read it to him because he couldn’t even do that.”

There was no sudden rage on Tick-Tock’s part this time; his face darkened gradually

instead, like a summer sky before a terrible thunderstorm.

“Let me see your scarf, Gasher,” he said in a soft, thick voice. “Let your old pal sneak a peek.”

“He’s lyin, I tell you!” Gasher cried, putting his hands on his scarf and taking two steps backward toward the wall. Directly above him, Oy’s gold-ringed eyes gleamed. “All you

got to do is look in his face to see lyin’s what a pert little cull like him does best!”

The Tick-Tock Man shifted his gaze to Hoots, who looked sick with fear. “What about it?”

Tick-Tock asked in his soft, terrible voice. “What about it, Hooterman? I know you and

Gasher was butt-buddies of old, and I know you’ve the brains of a hung goose, but surely

not even you could be stupid enough to write down a password to the inner chamber . . .

could you? Could you?”

“I … I oney thought . . .” Hoots began.

“Shut up!” Gasher shouted. He shot Jake a look of pure, sick hate. “I’ll kill you for this, dearie—see if I don’t.”

“Take off your scarf, Gasher,” the Tick-Tock Man said. “I want a look inside it.”

Jake sidled a step closer to the podium with the burtons on it.

“No!” Gasher’s hands returned to the scarf and pressed against it as if it might fly away of its own accord. “Be damned if I will!”

“Brandon, grab him,” Tick-Tock said.

Brandon lunged for Gasher. Gasher’s move wasn’t as quick as Tick-Tock’s had been, but it

was quick enough; he bent, yanked a knife from the top of his boot, and buried it in

Brandon’s arm.

“Oh, you barstard!” Brandon shouted in surprise and pain as blood began to pour out of his arm.