“I am what ka and the King and the Tower have made me. We all are. We’re caught.”

Callahan remembers the dream-west through which he traveled: the forgotten silos, the neglected sunsets and long shadows, his own bitter joy as he dragged his trap behind him, singing until the jingle of the very chains that held him became sweet music.

“I know,” he says.

“Yes, I see you do. Keep moving.”

Callahan’s back in the stable now. Once again he can smell the faint, almost exhausted aroma of old hay. Detroit seems impossible, a hallucination. So do all his memories of America.

“Don’t open that thing,” Callahan says, “and I will.”

“What an excellent Faddah you are, Faddah.”

“You promised not to call me that.”

“Promises are made to be broken, Faddah.”

“I don’t think you’ll be able to kill him,” Callahan said.

Walter grimaces. “That’s ka’s business, not mine.”

“Maybe not ka, either. Suppose he’s above ka?”

Walter recoils, as if struck.I’ve blasphemed, Callahan thinks. And with this guy, I’ve an idea that’s no mean feat.

“No one’s above ka, false priest,” the man in black spits at him. “And the room at the top of the Tower is empty. Iknow it is.”

Although Callahan is not entirely sure what the man is talking about, his response is quick and sure. “You’re wrong. There is a God. He waits and sees all from His high place. He—”