The Waste Lands (The Dark Tower #3)(154)
Roland thought it over carefully, then shook his head. He looked down at Jake. “Any ideas, Jake?”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t even see a pump.” “That’s probably the easy part,” Roland said. “We say he and him instead of it and that because Blaine sounds like a living being, but he’s still a machine—& sophisticated one, but a machine. He started his own engines, but it must take some sort of code or combination to open the gate and the train doors.” “We better hurry up,” Jake said nervously. “It’s got to be two or three minutes since he last talked to us. At least.”
“Don’t count on it,” Eddie said gloomily. “Time’s weird over here.” “Still—“
“Yeah, yeah.” Eddie glanced toward Susannah, but she was sitting astride Roland’s hip and looking at the numeric diamond with a day-dreamy expression on her face. He looked back at Roland. “I’m pretty sure you’re right about it being a combination—that must be what all those number-pads are for.” He raised his voice. “Is that it, Blaine? Have we got at least that much right?”
No response; only the quickening rumble of the mono’s engines. “Roland,” Susannah said abruptly. “You have to help me.” The daydreamy look was being replaced by an expression of mingled horror, dismay, and determination. To Roland’s eye, she had never looked more beautiful … or more alone. She had been on his shoulders when they stood at the edge of the clearing and watched the bear trying to claw Eddie out of the tree, and Roland had not seen her expression when he told her she must be the one to shoot it. But he knew what that expression had been, for he was seeing it now. Ka was a wheel, its one purpose to turn, and in the end it always came back to the place where it had started. So it had ever been and so it was now; Susannah was once again facing the bear, and her face said she knew it. “What?” he asked. “What is it, Susannah?” “I know the answer, but I can’t get it. It’s stuck in my mind the way a fishbone can get stuck in your throat. I need you to help me remember. Not his face, but his voice. What he said.”
Jake glanced down at his wrist and was surprised all over again by a memory of the Tick-Tock Man’s catlike green eyes when he saw not his watch but only the place where it had been—a white shape outlined by his deeply tanned skin. How much longer did they have? Surely no more than seven minutes, and that was being generous. He looked up and saw that Roland had removed a cartridge from his gunbelt and was walking it back and forth across the knuckles of his left hand. Jake felt his eyelids immediately grow heavy and looked away, fast. “What voice would you remember, Susannah Dean?” Roland asked in a low, musing voice. His eyes were not fixed on her face but on the cartridge as it did its endless, limber dance across his knuckles . . . and back . . . across . . . and back . . .
He didn’t need to look up to know that Jake had looked away from the dance of the cartridge and Susannah had not. He began to speed it up until the cartridge almost seemed to be floating above the back of his hand. “Help me remember the voice of my father,” Susannah Dean said.
FOR A MOMENT THERE was silence except for a distant, crumping explo-sion in the city, the rain pounding on the roof of the Cradle, and the fat throb of the monorail’s slo-trans engines. Then a low-pitched hydraulic hum cut through the air. Eddie looked away from the cartridge dancing across the gunslinger’s fingers (it took an effort; he realized that in another few moments he would have been hypnotized himself) and peered through the iron bars. A slim silver rod was pushing itself up from the sloping pink surface between Blaine’s forward windows. It looked like an antenna of some kind. “Susannah?” Roland asked in that same low voice. “What?” Her eyes were open but her voice was distant and breathy—the voice of someone who is sleeptalking.
“Do you remember the voice of your father?” “Yes . . . but I can’t hear it.”
“SIX MINUTES, MY FRIENDS.”
Eddie and Jake started and looked toward the control-box speaker, but Susannah seemed not to have heard at all; she only stared at the floating cartridge. Below it, Roland’s knuckles rippled up and down like the heddles of a loom. “Try, _Susannah,” Roland urged, and suddenly he felt Susannah change within the circle of his right arm. She seemed to gain weight . . , and, in some indefinable way, vitality as well. It was as if her essence had somehow changed. And it had.
“Why you want to bother wit dot bitch?” the raspy voice of Detta Walker asked.
DETTA SOUNDED BOTH EXASPERATED and amused. “She never got no better’n a C in math her whole life. Wouldn’ta got dat widout me to he’p her.” She paused, then added grudgingly: “An’ Daddy. He he’ped some, too. I knowed about them forspecial numbahs, but was him showed us de net. My, I got de bigges’ kick outta dat!” She chuckled. “Reason Suze can’t remember is ’cause Odetta never understood ’bout dem forspecial numbers in de firs’ place.” “What forspecial numbers?” Eddie asked.
“Prime numbahs!” She pronounced the word prime in a way that almost rhymed with calm. She looked at Roland, appearing to be wholly awake again now . . . except she was not Susannah, nor was she the same wretched, devilish creature who had previously gone under the name of Detta Walker, although she sounded the same. “She went to Daddy cryin an’ carryin on ’cause she was flunkin dat math course . . . and it wasn’t nuthin but funnybook algebra at dat! She could do de woik—if I could, she could—but she din’ want to. Poitry-readin bitch like her too good for a little ars mathematica, you see?” Detta threw her head back and laughed, but the poisoned, half-mad bitterness was gone from the sound. She seemed genuinely amused at the foolishness of her mental twin. “And Daddy, he say, Tm goan show you a trick, Odetta. I learned it in college. It he’ped me get through this prime numbah bi’ness, and it’s goan he’p you, too. He’p you find mos’ any prime numbah you want.’ Oh-detta, dumb as ever, she say, ‘Teacher says ain’t no formula for prime numbahs, Daddy.’ And Daddy, he say right back, ‘They ain’t. But you can catch em, Odetta, if you have a net.’ He called it The Net of Eratos-thenes. Take me over to dat box on the wall, Roland—I’m goan answer dat honkey computer’s riddle. I’m goan th’ow you a net and catch you a train-ride.”