Wizard and Glass

and planted a kiss directly in the center of Bert's forehead.

'Whoa!' Bert said again. 'What's that for?'

' 'Cause I love you, good old Arthur Heath! You saved my life!'

'Well, maybe I did,' Cuthbert said, laughing in an embarrassed way (his borrowed sombrero, too large to begin with, now sat comically askew on his head), 'but if we don't get a move on, I won't have saved it for long.'

'Horses are all saddled,' Sheemie said. 'Susan told me to do it and I did. I did it just right. I just have to put this stirrup on Mr. Richard Stock-worth's horse, because the one on there's 'bout worn through.'

'That's a job for later,' Alain said, taking the stirrup. He put it aside, then turned to Roland. 'Where do we go?'

Roland's first thought was that they should return to the Thorin mausoleum.

Sheemie reacted with instant horror. 'The boneyard? And with Demon Moon at the full?' He shook his head so violently that his sombrero came off and his hair flew from side to side. 'They're dead in there, sai Dearborn, but if ye tease em during the time of the Demon, they's apt to get up and walk!'

'It's no good, anyway,' Susan said. 'The women of the town'll be lining the way from Seafront with flowers, and filling the mausoleum, too. Olive will be in charge, if she's able, but my aunt and Coral are apt to be in the company. Those aren't ladies we want to meet.'

'All right,' Roland said. 'Let's mount up and ride. Think about it, Susan. You too, Sheemie. We want a place where we can hide up until dawn, at least, and it should be a place we can get to in less than an hour. Off the Great Road, and in any direction from Hambry but northwest.'

'Why not northwest?' Alain asked.

'Because that's where we're going now. We've got a job to do … and we're going to let them know we're doing it. Eldred Jonas most of all.' He offered a thin blade of smile. 'I want him to know the game is over. No more Castles. The real gunslingers are here. Let's see if he can deal with them.'

2

An hour later, with the moon well above the trees, Roland's ka-tet arrived at the Citgo oilpatch. They rode out parallel to the Great Road for safety's sake, but, as it happened, the caution was wasted: they saw not one rider on the road, going in either direction. It's as if Reaping's been cancelled this year, Susan thought . .. then she thought of the red-handed stuffies, and shivered. They would have painted Roland's hands red tomorrow night, and still would, if they were caught. Not just him, either. All of us.

Sheemie, too.

They left the horses (and Caprichoso, who had trotted ill-temperedly but nimbly behind them on a tether) tied to some long-dead pumping equipment in the southeastern comer of the patch, and then walked slowly toward the working derricks, which were clustered in the same area. They spoke in whispers when they spoke at all. Roland doubted if that was necessary, but whispers here seemed natural enough. To Roland, Citgo was far spookier than the graveyard, and while he doubted that the dead in that latter place awoke even when Old Demon was full, there were some very unquiet corpses here, squalling zombies that stood rusty-weird in the moonlight with their pistons going up and down like marching feet.

Roland led them into the active part of the patch, nevertheless, past a sign which read how's your hardhat? and another reading we produce oil, we refine safety. They stopped at the foot of a derrick grinding so loudly that Roland had to shout in order to be heard.

'Sheemie! Give me a couple of those big-bangers!'

Sheemie had taken a pocketful from Susan's saddlebag and now handed a pair of them over. Roland took Bert by the arm and pulled him forward. There was a square of rusty fencing around the derrick, and when the boys tried to climb it, the horizontals snapped like old bones. They looked at each other in the running shadows combined of machinery and moonlight, nervous and amused.

Susan twitched Roland's arm. 'Be careful!' she shouted over the rhythmic whumpa-whumpa-whumpa of the derrick machinery. She didn't look frightened, he saw, only excited and alert.

He grinned, pulled her forward, and kissed the lobe of her ear. 'Be ready to run,' he whispered. 'If we do this right, there's going to be a new candle here at Citgo. A hellacious big one.'

He and Cuthbert ducked under the lowest strut of the rusty derrick tower and stood next to the equipment, wincing at the cacophony. Roland wondered that it hadn't torn itself apart years ago. Most of the works were housed in rusty metal blocks, but he could see a gigantic turning shaft of some kind, gleaming with oil that must be supplied by automated jets. Up this close, there was a gassy smell that reminded him of the jet that flared rhythmically on the other side of the oilpatch.

'Giant-farts!' Cuthbert shouted.

'What?'

'I said it smells like . . . aw, never mind! Let's do it if-we can … can we? '

Roland didn't know. He walked toward the machinery crying out beneath metal cowls which were painted a faded, rusting green. Bert followed with some reluctance. The two of them slid into a short aisle, smelly and baking hot, that took them almost directly beneath the derrick. Ahead of them, the shaft at the end of the piston turned steadily, shedding oily teardrops down its smooth sides. Beside it was a curved pipe— almost surely an overflow pipe, Roland thought. An occasional drop of crude oil fell from its lip, and there was a black puddle on the ground beneath. He pointed at it, and Cuthbert nodded.

Shouting would do no good in here; the world was a roaring, squealing din. Roland curled one hand around his friend's neck and pulled Cuthbert's ear to his lips; he held a big-bang up in front of Bert's eyes with the other.

'Light it and run,' he said. 'I'll hold it, give you as much time as I can. That's for my benefit as much as for yours. I want a clear path back through that machinery, do you understand?'

Cuthbert nodded against Roland's lips, then turned the gunslinger's head so he could speak in the same fashion. 'What if there's enough gas here to bum the air when I make a spark?'

Roland stepped back. Raised his palms in a 'How-do-I-know?' gesture. Cuthbert laughed and drew out a box of sulfur matches which he had scooped off Avery's desk before leaving. He asked with his eyebrows if Roland was ready. Roland nodded.

The wind was blowing hard, but under the derrick the surrounding machinery cut it off and the flame from the sulfur rose straight. Roland held out the big-banger, and had a momentary, painful memory of his mother: how she had hated these things, how she had always been sure that he would lose an eye or a finger to one.

Cuthbert tapped his chest above his heart and kissed his palm in the universal gesture of good luck. Then he touched the flame to the fuse. It began to sputter. Bert turned, pretended to bang off a covered block of machinery—that was Bert, Roland thought; he would joke on the gallows—and then dashed back down the short corridor they'd used to get here.

Roland held the round firework as long as he dared, then lobbed it into the overflow pipe. He winced as he turned away, half-expecting what Bert was afraid of: that the very air would explode. It didn't. He ran down the short aisle, came into the clear, and saw Cuthbert standing just outside the broken bit of fencing. Roland flapped both hands at him—Go, you idiot, go!— and then the world blew up behind him.

The sound was a deep, belching thud that seemed to shove his eardrums inward and suck the breath out