shrimp with his gun in one hand and a hole in his head. Susannah thought he’d committed suicide. In a way, she supposed that made sense. Because things had gone wrong, hadn’t they? And unless Mia’s baby found its way to where it belonged on its own, Big Red Daddy was going to be mad. Might be mad even if Mordred somehow found his way home.
His other father. For this was a world of twins and mirror images, and Susannah now understood more about what she’d seen than she really wantedto. Mordred too was a twin, a Jekyll-and-Hyde creature with two selves, and he—or it—had the faces of two fathers to remember.
They came upon a number of other corpses; all looked like suicides to Susannah. She asked Nigel if he could tell—by their smells, or something—but he claimed he could not.
“How many are still here, do you think?” she asked. Her blood had had time to cool a little, and now she felt nervous.
“Not many, madam. I believe that most have moved on. Very likely to the Derva.”
“What’s the Derva?”
Nigel said he was dreadfully sorry, but that information was restricted and could be accessed only with the proper password. Susannah tried chassit, but it was no good. Neither was nineteen or, her final try, ninety-nine . She supposed she’d have to be content with just knowing most of them were gone.
Nigel turned left, into a new corridor with doors on both sides. She got him to stop long enough to try one of them, but there was nothing of particular note inside. It was an office, and long-abandoned, judging by the thick fall of dust. She was interested to see a poster of madly jitterbugging teenagers on one wall. Beneath it, in large blue letters, was this:
SAY, YOU COOL CATS AND BOPPIN’ KITTIES!
I ROCKED AT THE HOP WITH ALAN FREED!
CLEUELAND, OHIO, OCTOBER 1954
Susannah was pretty sure that the performer on stage was Richard Penniman. Club-crawling folkiessuch as herself affected disdain for anyone who rocked harder than Phil Ochs, but Suze had always had a soft spot in her heart for Little Richard; good golly, Miss Molly, you sure like to ball. She guessed it was a Detta thing.
Did these people once upon a time use their doors to vacation in various wheres and whens of their choice? Did they use the power of the Beams to turn certain levels of the Tower into tourist attractions?
She asked Nigel, who told her he was sure he did not know. Nigel still sounded sad about the loss of his eyes.
Finally they came into an echoing rotunda with doors marching all around its mighty circumference. The marble tiles on the floor were laid in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern Susannah remembered from certain troubled dreams in which Mia had fed her chap. Above, high and high, constellations of electric stars winked in a blue firmament that was now showing plenty of cracks. This place reminded her of the Cradle of Lud, and even more strongly of Grand Central Station. Somewhere in the walls, air-conditioners or -exchangers ran rustily. The smell in the air was weirdly familiar, and after a short struggle, Susannah identified it: Comet Cleanser. They sponsored The Price Is Right, which she sometimes watched on TV if she happened to be home in the morning. “I’m Don Pardo, now please welcome your host, Mr. Bill Cullen! ” Susannah felt a moment of vertigo and closed her eyes.
Bill Cullen is dead. Don Pardo is dead. Martin Luther King is dead, shot down in Memphis. Rule Discordia!
O Christ, those voices, would they never stop?
She opened her eyes and saw doors marked SHANGHAI/FEDIC and BOMBAY/FEDIC and one marked DALLAS (NOVEMBER 1963)/FEDIC . Others were written in runes that meant nothing to her. At last Nigel stopped in front of one she recognized.
NORTH CENTRAL POSITRONICS, LTD.
New York/Fedic
Maximum Security
All of this Susannah recognized from the other side, but below VERBAL ENTRY CODE REQUIRED was this message, flashing ominous red:
#9 FINAL DEFAULT
SEVEN
“What would you like to do
His other father. For this was a world of twins and mirror images, and Susannah now understood more about what she’d seen than she really wantedto. Mordred too was a twin, a Jekyll-and-Hyde creature with two selves, and he—or it—had the faces of two fathers to remember.
They came upon a number of other corpses; all looked like suicides to Susannah. She asked Nigel if he could tell—by their smells, or something—but he claimed he could not.
“How many are still here, do you think?” she asked. Her blood had had time to cool a little, and now she felt nervous.
“Not many, madam. I believe that most have moved on. Very likely to the Derva.”
“What’s the Derva?”
Nigel said he was dreadfully sorry, but that information was restricted and could be accessed only with the proper password. Susannah tried chassit, but it was no good. Neither was nineteen or, her final try, ninety-nine . She supposed she’d have to be content with just knowing most of them were gone.
Nigel turned left, into a new corridor with doors on both sides. She got him to stop long enough to try one of them, but there was nothing of particular note inside. It was an office, and long-abandoned, judging by the thick fall of dust. She was interested to see a poster of madly jitterbugging teenagers on one wall. Beneath it, in large blue letters, was this:
SAY, YOU COOL CATS AND BOPPIN’ KITTIES!
I ROCKED AT THE HOP WITH ALAN FREED!
CLEUELAND, OHIO, OCTOBER 1954
Susannah was pretty sure that the performer on stage was Richard Penniman. Club-crawling folkiessuch as herself affected disdain for anyone who rocked harder than Phil Ochs, but Suze had always had a soft spot in her heart for Little Richard; good golly, Miss Molly, you sure like to ball. She guessed it was a Detta thing.
Did these people once upon a time use their doors to vacation in various wheres and whens of their choice? Did they use the power of the Beams to turn certain levels of the Tower into tourist attractions?
She asked Nigel, who told her he was sure he did not know. Nigel still sounded sad about the loss of his eyes.
Finally they came into an echoing rotunda with doors marching all around its mighty circumference. The marble tiles on the floor were laid in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern Susannah remembered from certain troubled dreams in which Mia had fed her chap. Above, high and high, constellations of electric stars winked in a blue firmament that was now showing plenty of cracks. This place reminded her of the Cradle of Lud, and even more strongly of Grand Central Station. Somewhere in the walls, air-conditioners or -exchangers ran rustily. The smell in the air was weirdly familiar, and after a short struggle, Susannah identified it: Comet Cleanser. They sponsored The Price Is Right, which she sometimes watched on TV if she happened to be home in the morning. “I’m Don Pardo, now please welcome your host, Mr. Bill Cullen! ” Susannah felt a moment of vertigo and closed her eyes.
Bill Cullen is dead. Don Pardo is dead. Martin Luther King is dead, shot down in Memphis. Rule Discordia!
O Christ, those voices, would they never stop?
She opened her eyes and saw doors marked SHANGHAI/FEDIC and BOMBAY/FEDIC and one marked DALLAS (NOVEMBER 1963)/FEDIC . Others were written in runes that meant nothing to her. At last Nigel stopped in front of one she recognized.
NORTH CENTRAL POSITRONICS, LTD.
New York/Fedic
Maximum Security
All of this Susannah recognized from the other side, but below VERBAL ENTRY CODE REQUIRED was this message, flashing ominous red:
#9 FINAL DEFAULT
SEVEN
“What would you like to do
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