ou describe it？' he asked the corpse。 'Now； while the experience is still fresh？ What； nothing to say？'
Fletcher turned and hurried across the room； detouring around Ramón； who was still alive and moaning。 He sounded like a man having a bad dream。
He remembered that the door was locked。 Ramón had locked it； the key would be on the ring hanging at Ramón's belt。 Fletcher went back to the guard； knelt beside him； and tore the ring off his belt。 When he did； Ramón groped out and seized Fletcher by the ankle again。 Fletcher was still holding the gun。 He rapped the butt down on the top of Ramón's head。 For a moment the hand on his ankle gripped even tighter； and then it let go。
Fletcher started to get up and then thought； Bullets。 He must have more。 The gun's empty。 His next thought was that he didn't need no steenkin bullets； Ramón's gun had done all that it could for him。 Shooting outside this room would bring the ordinaries like flies。
Even so； Fletcher felt along Ramón's belt； opening the little leather snap pouches until he found a speed…loader。 He used it to fill up the gun。 He didn't know if he could actually bring himself to shoot ordinaries who were only men like Tomás； men with families to feed； but he could shoot officers and he could save at least one bullet for himself。 He would very likely not be able to get out of the building…that would be like rolling a second 300 game in a row…but he would never be brought back to this room again； and set in the chair next to Heinz's machine。
He pushed the Bride of Frankenstein away from the door with his foot。 Her eyes glared dully at the ceiling。 Fletcher was ing more and more to understand that he had survived and these others had not。 They were cooling off。 On their skin； galaxies of bacteria had already begun to die。 These were bad thoughts to be having in the basement of the Ministry of Information； bad thoughts to be in the head of a man who had bee…perhaps only for a little while； more likely forever…a desaparecido。 Still； he couldn't help having them。
The third key opened the door。 Fletcher stuck his head out into the hall…cinder…block walls； green on the bottom half and a dirty cream…white on the top half； like the walls of an old school corridor。 Faded red lino on the floor。 No one was in the hall。 About thirty feet down to the left； a small brown dog lay asleep against the wall。 His feet were twitching。 Fletcher didn't know if the dog was dreaming about chasing or being chased； but he didn't think he would be asleep at all if the gunshots…or Heinz's screaming…had been very loud out here。 If I ever get back； he thought； I'll write that soundproofing is the great triumph of dictatorship。 I'll tell the world。 Of course I probably won't get back； those stairs down to the right are probably as close to Forty…third Street as I'm ever going to get； but …
But there was Mr。 Maybe I Can。
Fletcher stepped into the hall and pulled the door of the death…room shut behind him。 The little brown dog lifted its head； looked at Fletcher； puffed its lips out in a woof that was mostly a whisper； then lowered its head again and appeared to go back to sleep。
Fletcher dropped to his knees； put his hands （one still holding Ramón's gun） on the floor； bent； and kissed the lino。 As he did it he thought of his sister…how she had looked going off to college eight years before her death by the river。 She had been wearing a tartan skirt on the day she'd gone off to college； and the red in it hadn't been the exact same red of the faded lino； but it was close。 Close enough for government work； as they said。
Fletcher got up。 He started down the hall toward the stairs； the first…floor hallway； the street； the city； Highway 4； the patrols； the roadblocks； the border； the checkpoints； the water。 The Chinese said a journey of a thousand miles started with a single step。
I'll see how far I get； Fletcher thought as he reached the foot of the stairs。 I might just surprise myself。 But he was already surprised； just to be alive。 Smiling a little； holding Ramón's gun out before him； Fletcher started up the stairs。
A month later； a man walked up to Carlo Arcuzzi's newsstand kiosk on Forty…third Street。 Carlo had a nasty moment when he was almost sure the man meant to stick a gun in his face and rob him。 It was only eight o'clock and still light； lots of people about； but did any of those things stop a man who was pazzo？ And this man looked plenty pazzo…so thin his white shirt and gray pants seemed to float on him； and his eyes lay at the bottom of great round sockets。 He looked like a man who had just been released from a concentration camp or （by some huge mistake） a loony bin。 When his hand went into his pants pocket； Carlo Arcuzzi thought； Now es the gun。
But instead of a gun came a battered old Lord Buxton； and from the wallet came a ten…dollar bill。 Then； in a perfectly sane tone of voice； the man in the white shirt and gray pants asked for a pack of Marlboros。 Carlo got them； put a package of matches on top of them； and pushed them across the counter of his kiosk。 While the man opened the Marlboros； Carlo made change。
'No；' the man said when he saw the change。 He had put one of the cigarettes in his mouth。
'No？ What you mean no？'
'I mean keep the change；' the man said。 He offered the pack to Carlo。 'Do you smoke？ Have one of these； if you like。'
Carlo looked mistrustfully at the man in the white shirt and gray pants。 'I don't smoke。 It's a bad habit。'
'Very bad；' the man agreed； then lit his cigarette and inhaled with apparent pleasure。 He stood smoking and watching the people on the other side of the street。 There were girls on the other side of the street。 Men would look at girls in their summer clothes； that was human nature。 Carlo didn't think this customer was crazy anymore； although he had left the change of a ten…dollar bill sitting on the narrow counter of the kiosk。
The thin man smoked the cigarette all the way down to the filter。 He turned toward Carlo； staggering a little； as if he was not used to smoking and the cigarette had made him dizzy。
'A nice night；' the man said。
Carlo nodded。 It was。 It was a nice night。 'We're lucky to be alive；' Carlo said。
The man nodded。 'All of us。 All of the time。'
He walked to the curb； where there was a litter basket。 He dropped the pack of cigarettes； full save one； into the litter basket。 'All of us；' he said。 'All of the time。' He walked away。 Carlo watched him go and thought that maybe he was pazzo after all。 Or maybe not。 Crazy was a hard state to define。
This is a slightly Kafka…esque story about an interrogation room in the South American version of Hell。 In such stories； the fellow being interrogated usually ends up spilling everything and then being killed （or losing his mind）。 I wanted to write one with a happier ending； however unreal that might be。 And here it is。
THE LITTLE SISTERS OF ELURIA
If there's a magnum opus in my life； it's probably the yet unfinished seven…volume series about Roland Deschain of Gilead and his search for the Dark Tower which serves as the hub of existence。 In 1996 or 1997； Ralph Vicinanza （my sometime agent and foreign rights man of business） asked me if I'd like to contribute a story about Roland's younger years for a whopper fantasy anthology Robert Silverberg was putting together。 I tentatively agreed。 Nothing came； though； and nothing came。 I was about to give up when I woke one morning thinking about The Talisman； and the great pavilion where Jack Sawyer first glimpses the Queen of the Territories。 In the shower （where I invariably do my best imagining…I think it's a womb thing）； I started to visualize that tent in ruins 。 。 。 but still filled with whispering women。 Ghosts。 Maybe vampires。 Little Sisters。 Nurses of death instead of life。 posing a story from that central image was amazingly difficult。 I had lots of space to move around in…Silverberg wanted short novels； not short stories…but it was still hard。 These days； everything about Roland and his friends wants to be not just long but sort of epic。 One thing this story has going for it is that you don't need to have read the Dark Tower novels to enjoy it。 And by the way； for you Tower junkies； DT 5 is now finished； all nine hundred pages of it。 It's called Wolves of the Calla。
＇Author's Note： The Dark Tower books begin with Roland of Gilead； the last gunslinger in an exhausted world that has 'moved on；' pursuing a magician in a black robe。 Roland has been chasing Walter for a very long time。 In the first book of the cycle； he finally catches up。 This story； however； takes place while Roland is still casting about for Walter's trail。 S。 K。＇
I。 Full Earth。 The Empty Town。 The Bells。
The Dead Boy。 The Overturned Wagon。
The Green Folk。
On a day in Full Earth so hot that it seemed to suck the breath from his chest before his body could use it； Roland of Gilead came to the gates of a village in the Desatoya Mountains。 He was travelling alone by then； and would soon be travelling afoot； as well。 This whole last week he had been hoping for