manager。 A man who cannot guide the courses of his own wife and son can hardly
be expected to guide himself； let alone assume a position of responsibility in
an operation of this magnitude。 He — 〃
〃I said I'll handle him！〃 Jack shouted suddenly； enraged。
〃Tuxedo Junction〃 had just concluded and a new tune hadn't begun。 His shout
fell perfectly into the gap； and conversation suddenly ceased behind him。 His
skin suddenly felt hot all over。 He became fixedly positive that everyone was
staring at him。 They had finished with Roger and would now mence with him。
Roll over。 Sit up。 Play dead。 If you play the game with us； we'll play the game
with you。 Position of responsibility。 They wanted him to sacrifice his son。
（ — Now he follows Harry everywhere； wagging his little tail behind him — ）
（Roll over。 Play dead。 Chastise your son。）
〃Right this way； sir；〃 Grady was saying。 〃Something that might interest you。〃
The conversation had begun again； lifting and dropping in its own rhythm；
weaving in and out of the band music； now doing a swing version of Lennon and
McCartney's 〃Ticket to Ride。〃
（I've heard better over supermarket loudspeakers。）
He giggled foolishly。 He looked down at his left hand and saw there was
another drink in it； half…full。 He emptied it at a gulp。
Now he was standing in front of the mantelpiece； the heat from the crackling
fire that had been laid in the hearth warming his legs。
（a fire？ 。。。 in August？ 。。。 yes 。。。 and no 。。。 all times are one）
There was a clock under a glass dome； flanked by two carved ivory elephants。
Its hands stood at a minute to midnight。 He gazed at it blearily。 Had this been
what Grady wanted him to see？ He turned around to ask； but Grady had left him。
Halfway through 〃Ticket to Ride；〃 the band wound up in a brassy flourish。
〃The hour is at hand！〃 Horace Derwent proclaimed。 〃Midnight！ Unmask！ Unmask！〃
He tried to turn again； to see what famous faces were hidden beneath the
glitter and paint and masks； but he was frozen now； unable to look away from the
clock — its hands had e together and pointed straight up。
〃Unmask！ Unmask！〃 the chant went up。
The clock began to chime delicately。 Along the steel runner below the
clockface； from the left and right； two figures advanced。 Jack watched；
fascinated； the unmasking forgotten。 Clockwork whirred。 Cogs turned and meshed；
brass warmly glowing。 The balance wheel rocked back and forth precisely。
One of the figures was a man standing on tiptoe； with what looked like a tiny
club clasped in his hands。 The other was a small boy wearing a dunce cap。 The
clockwork figures glittered； fantastically precise。 Across the front of the
boy's dunce cap he could read the engraved word FOOLE。
The two figures slipped onto the opposing ends of a steel axis bar。 Somewhere；
tinkling on and on； were the strains of a Strauss waltz。 An insane mercial
jingle began to run through his mind to the tune： Buy dog food； rowf…rowf； rowf…
rowf； buy dog food 。。。
The steel mallet in the clockwork daddy's hands came down on the boy's head。
The clockwork son crumpled forward。 The mallet rose and fell； rose and fell。 The
boy's upstretched； protesting hands began to falter。 The boy sagged from his
crouch to a prone position。 And still the hammer rose and fell to the light；
tinkling air of the Strauss melody； and it seemed that he could see the man's
face； working and knotting and constricting； could see the clockwork daddy's
mouth opening and closing as he berated the unconscious； bludgeoned figure of
the son。
A spot of red flew up against the inside of the glass dome。
Another followed。 Two more splattered beside it。
Now the red liquid was spraying up like an obscene rain shower； striking the
glass sides of the dome and running； obscuring what was going on inside； and
flecked through the scarlet were tiny gray ribbons of tissue； fragments of bone
and brain。 And still he could see the hammer rising and falling as the clockwork
continued to turn and the cogs continued to mesh the gears and teeth of this
cunningly made machine。
〃Unmask！ Unmask！〃 Derwent was shrieking behind him； and somewhere a dog was
howling in human tones。
（But clockwork can't bleed clockwork can't bleed）
The entire dome was splashed with blood； he could see clotted bits of hair but
nothing else thank God he could see nothing else； and still he thought he would
be sick because he could hear the hammerblows still falling； could hear them
through the glass just as he could hear the phrases of 〃The Blue Danube。〃 But
the sounds were no longer the mechanical tink…tink…tink noises of a mechanical
hammer striking a mechanical head； but the soft and squashy thudding sounds of a
real hammer slicing down and whacking into a spongy； muddy ruin。 A ruin that
once had been —
〃UNMASK！〃
（ — the Red Death held sway over all！）
With a miserable； rising scream； he turned away from the clock； his hands
outstretched； his feet stumbling against one another like wooden blocks as he
begged them to stop； to take him； Danny； Wendy； to take the whole world if they
wanted it； but only to stop and leave him a little sanity； a little light。
The ballroom was empty。
The chairs with their spindly legs were upended on tables covered with plastic
dust drops。 The red rug with its golden tracings was back on the dance floor；
protecting the polished hardwood surface。 The bandstand was deserted except for
a disassembled microphone stand and a dusty guitar leaning stringless against
the wall。 Cold morning light； winterlight； fell languidly through the high
windows。
His head was still reeling； he still felt drunk； but when he turned back to
the mantelpiece； his drink was gone。 There were only the ivory elephants 。。。
and the clock。
He stumbled back across the cold； shadowy lobby and through the dining room。
His foot hooked around a table leg and he fell full…length； upsetting the table
with a clatter。 He struck his nose hard on the floor and it began to bleed。 He
got up； snufing back blood and wiping his nose with the back of his hand。 He
crossed to the Colorado Lounge and shoved through the batwing doors； making them
fly back and bang into the walls。
The place was empty 。。。 but the bar was fully stocked： God be praised！
Glass and the silver edging on labels glowed warmly in the dark。
Once； he remembered； a very long time ago； he had been angry that there was no
backbar mirror。 Now he was glad。 Looking into it he would have seen just another
drunk fresh off the wagon： bloody nose； untucked shirt； hair rumpled； cheeks
stubbly。
（This is what it's like to stick your whole hand into the nest。）
Loneliness surged over him suddenly and pletely。 He cried out with sudden
wretchedness and honestly wished he were dead。 His wife and son were upstairs
with the door locked against him。 The others bad all left。 The party was over。
He lurched forward again； reaching the bar。
〃Lloyd； where the fuck are you？〃 he screamed。
There was no answer。 In this well…padded
（cell）
room； his words did not even echo back to give the illusion of pany。
〃Grady！〃
No answer。 Only the bottles； standing stiffly at attention。
（Roll over。 Play dead。 Fetch。 Play dead。 Sit up。 Play dead。）
〃Never mind； I'll do it myself； goddammit。〃
Halfway over the bar he lost his balance and pitched forward； hitting his head
a muffled blow on the floor。 He got up on his hands and knees； his eyeballs
moving disjointed from side to side； fuzzy muttering sounds ing from his
mouth。 Then he collapsed； his face turned to one side； breathing in harsh
snores。
Outside； the wind whooped louder； driving the thickening snow before it。 It
was 8：30 A。M。
》
STAPLETON AIRPORT；
DENVER
At 8：31 A。M。； MST； a woman on TWA's Flight 196 burst into tears and began to
bugle her own opinion； which was perhaps not unshared among some of the other
passengers （or even the crew； for that matter）； that the plane was going to
crash。
The sharp…faced woman next to Hallorann looked up from her book and offered a
brief character analysis： 〃Ninny；〃 and went back to her book。 She had downed two
screwdrivers during the flight； but they seemed not to have thawed her at all。
〃It's going to crash！〃 the woman was crying out shrilly。 〃Oh； I just know it
is！〃
A stewardess hurried to her seat and squatted beside her。 Hallorann thought to
himself that only stewardesses and very young housewives seemed able to squat
with any degree of grace； it was a rare and wonderful talent。 He thought about
this while the stewardess talked softly and soothingly to the woman； quieting
her bit by bit。
Hallorann didn't know about anyone else on 196； but he personally was almost
scared enough to shit peachpits。 Outside the window there was nothing to be seen
but a buffeting curtain of white。 The plane rocked sickeningly from side to side
with gusts that seemed to e from everywhere。 The engines were cranked up to
provide partial pensation and as a result the floor was vibrating under their
feet。 There were several people moaning in Tourist behind them； one stew had
gone back with a handful of fresh airsick bags； and a man three rows in front of
Hallorann had whoopsed into his National Observer and had grinned apologetically
at the stewardess who came to help him clean up。 〃That's all right；〃 she
forted him； 〃that's how I feel about the Reader's Digest。〃
Hallorann had flown enough to be able to surmise what had happened。 They had
been flying against bad headwinds most of the way； the weather over Denver had
worsened suddenly and unexpectedly； and now it was just a little late to divert
for someplace where the weather was better。 Feets don't fail me now。
（Buddy…boy； this is some fucked…up cavalry charge。）
The stewardess seemed to have succeeded in curbing the worst of the woman's
hysterics。 She was snuffling and honking into a lace handkerchief； but had
ceased broadcasting her opinions about the flight's possible conclusion to th