The Dark Tower

Dinky once said that The Study was the only place in the world where he really felt in touch with himself, and that was why he wanted to see it shut down. Burned down, if possible. “Because I know the kind of shit I get up to when I’m in touch with myself,” he told Ted. “When I, you know, really get in the groove.” And Ted knew exactly what he was talking about. Because The Study was always too good to be true. You sat down, maybe picked up a magazine, looked at pictures of models and margarine, movie stars and motor cars, and you felt your mind rise. The Beam was all around, it was like being in some vast corridor full of force, but your mind always rose to the roof and when it got there it found that big old sliding groove.

Maybe once, just after the Prim withdrew and Gan’s voice still echoed in the rooms of the macroverse, the Beams were smooth and polished, but those days are gone. Now the Way of the Bear and the Turtle is lumpy and eroded, full of coves and cols and bays and cracks, plenty of places to get your fingers in and take hold, and sometimes you drag at it and sometimes you can feel yourself worming your way into it like a drop of acid that can think. All these sensations are intensely pleasurable. Sexy.

And for Ted there’s something else, as well, although he doesn’t know he’s the only one who’s got it until Trampas tells him. Trampas never means to tell him anything, but he’s got this lousy case of eczema, you see, and it changes everything. Hard to believe a flaky scalp might be responsible for saving the Dark Tower, but the idea’s not entirely farfetched.

Not entirely farfetched at all.

Ten

“There are about a hundred and eighty full-time personnel at work in the Algul,” Ted said. “I’m not the guy to tell anyone how to do his job, but that’s something you may want to write down, or at least remember. Roughly speaking, it’s sixty per eight-hour shift and split twenty-twenty-twenty. Taheen have the sharpest eyes and generally man the watchtowers. Humes patrol the outer run of fence. With guns, mind you — hard calibers. Top-side there’s Prentiss, the Master, and Finli o’ Tego, the Security Chief — hume and taheen, respectively — but most of the floaters are can-toi…the low men, you understand.

“Most low men don’t get along with the Breakers; a little stiff camaraderie is the best they can do. Dinky told me once that they’re jealous of us because we’re what he calls ‘finished humes.’ Like the hume guards, the can-toi wear thinking-caps when they’re on duty so we can’t prog them. The fact is most Breakers haven’t tried to prog anyone or anything but the Beam in years, and maybe can’t, anymore; the mind is also a muscle, and like any other, it atrophies if you don’t use it.”

A pause. A click on the tape. Then:

“I’m not going to be able to finish. I’m disappointed but not entirely surprised. This will have to be my last story, folks. I’m sorry.”

A low sound. A sipping sound, Susannah was quite sure; Ted having another drink of water.