He snapped the head which was for a moment his head around in a fast backward glance.

The door was still there, still behind him. It stood open on his own world, its hinges buried in the steel of this peculiar privy. And, yes, there he lay, Roland, the last gunslinger, lying on his side, his bound right hand on his stomach.

I’m breathing, Roland thought. I’ll have to go back and move me. But there are things to do first. Things . . .

He let go of the prisoner’s mind and retreated, watching, waiting to see if the prisoner knew he was there or not.

4

After the vomiting stopped, Eddie remained bent over the basin, eyes tightly closed.

Blanked there for a second. Don’t know what it was. Did I look around?

He groped for the faucet and ran cool water. Eyes still closed, he splashed it over his cheeks and brow.

When it could be avoided no longer, he looked up into the mirror again.

His own eyes looked back at him.

There were no alien voices in his head.

No feeling of being watched.

You had a momentary fugue, Eddie, the great sage and eminent junkie advised him. A not uncommon phenomenon in one who is going cool turkey.

Eddie glanced at his watch. An hour and a half to New York. The plane was scheduled to land at 4:05 EDT, but it was really going to be high noon. Showdown time.

He went back to his seat. His drink was on the divider. He took two sips and the stew came back to ask him if she could do anything else for him. He opened his mouth to say no . . . and then there was another of those odd blank moments.

5

“I’d like something to eat, please,” the gunslinger said through Eddie Dean’s mouth.

“We’ll be serving a hot snack in—”

“I’m really starving, though,” the gunslinger said with perfect truthfulness. “Anything at all, even a popkin—”

“Popkin?” the army woman frowned at him, and the gunslinger suddenly looked into the prisoner’s mind. Sandwich . . . the word was as distant as the murmur in a conch shell.

“A sandwich, even,” the gunslinger said.

The army woman looked doubtful. “Well . . . I have some tuna fish . . .”

“That would be fine,” the gunslinger said, although he had never heard of tooter fish in his life. Beggars could not be choosers.

“You do look a little pale,” the army woman said. “I thought maybe it was air-sickness.”

“Pure hunger.”

She gave him a professional smile. “I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

Russel? the gunslinger thought dazedly. In his own world to russel was a slang verb meaning to take a woman by force. Never mind. Food would come. He had no idea if he could carry it back through the doorway to the body which needed it so badly, but one thing at a time, one thing at a time.