Jesus jumped up and played the fiddle, Eddie thought numbly. He flicked his eyes up toward the convex mirror.
The doorway was gone . . . just as Roland was gone from his mind.
Eat hearty, my friend, Eddie thought . . . but was this weird alien presence that called itself Roland his friend? That was far from proved, wasn’t it? He had saved Eddie’s bacon, true enough, but that didn’t mean he was a Boy Scout.
All the same, he liked Roland. Feared him . . . but liked him as well.
Suspected that in time he could love him, as he loved Henry.
Eat well, stranger, he thought. Eat well, stay alive . . . and come back.
Close by were a few mustard-stained napkins left by a previous customer. Eddie balled them up, tossed them in the trash-barrel by the door on his way out, and chewed air as if finishing a last bite of something. He was even able to manufacture a burp as he approached the black guy on his way toward the signs pointing the way to LUGGAGE and GROUND TRANSPORTATION.
“Couldn’t find a shirt you liked?” Eddie asked.
“I beg your pardon?” the black guy turned from the American Airlines departures monitor he was pretending to study.
“I thought maybe you were looking for one that said PLEASE FEED ME, I AM A U.S. GOVERNMENT EMPLOYEE,” Eddie said, and walked on.
As he headed down the stairs he saw the purse-rooter hurriedly snap her purse shut and get to her feet.
Oh boy, this is gonna be like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.
It had been one fuck of an interesting day, and Eddie didn’t think it was over yet.
5
When Roland saw the lobster-things coming out of the waves again （their coming had nothing to do with tide, then; it was the dark that brought them）， he left Eddie Dean to move himself before the creatures could find and eat him.
The pain he had expected and was prepared for. He had lived with pain so long it was almost an old friend. He was appalled, however, by the rapidity with which his fever had increased and his strength decreased. If he had not been dying before, he most assuredly was now. Was there something powerful enough in the prisoner’s world to keep that from happening? Perhaps. But if he didn’t get some of it within the next six or eight hours, he thought it wouldn’t matter. If things went much further, no medicine or magic in that world or any other would make him well again.
Walking was impossible. He would have to crawl.
He was getting ready to start when his eye fixed upon the twisted band of sticky stuff and the bags of devil-powder. If he left the stuff here, the lobstrosities would almost surely tear the bags open. The sea-breeze would scatter the powder to the four winds. Which is where it belongs, the gunslinger thought grimly, but he couldn’t allow it. When the time came, Eddie Dean would be in a long tub of trouble if he couldn’t produce that powder. It was rarely possible to bluff men of the sort he guessed this Balazar to be. He would want to see what he had paid for, and until he saw it Eddie would have enough guns pointed at him to equip a small army.
The gunslinger pulled the twisted rope of glue-string over to him and slung it over his neck. Then he began to work his way up the beach.
He had crawled twenty yards—almost far enough to consider himself safe, he judged—when the horrible （yet cosmically funny） realization that he was leaving the doorway behind came to him. What in God’s name was he going through this for?
He turned his head and saw the doorway, not down on the beach, but three feet behind him. For a moment Roland could only stare, and realize what he would have known already, if not for the fever and the sound of the Inquisitors, drumming their ceaseless questions at Eddie, Where did you, how did you, why did you, when did you （questions that seemed to merge eerily with the questions of the scrabbling horrors that came crawling and wriggling out of the waves: Dad-a-chock? Dad-a-chum? Did-a-chick?）， as mere delirium. Not so.