and that sense of debilitating weakness fell on him again, sinking into his heart like the pointed ends of a clawhammer. He realized that if he had business to do up here, he had better do it quickly and scoot back down to the Short-Time level before he was stripped clean of life-force.
He looked at the doors again. For a moment there was still nothing but the fading auras of Short-Timers like himself -... and then what he was looking for suddenly came clear, rising into his view as a message which has been written in lemon-juice rises into sight when it is held close to a candle-flame.
He had expected something which would look and smell like the rotting guts in the bins behind Mr. Huston's knacker's shop, but the reality was even worse, possibly because it was so unexpected. There were fans of a bloody, mucusy substance on the doors themselvesmarks made by Atropos's restless fingers, perhaps-and a revoltingly large puddle of the same stuff sinking into the hardened residue in front of the doors.
There was something so terrible about this stuffso alien-that it made the color-bugs look almost normal by comparison. It was like a pool of vomit left by a dog suffering from some new and dangerous strain of rabies. A trail of this stuff led away from the puddle, first in drying clots and splashes, then in smaller drips like spilled paint.
Of course, Ralph thought. That's why we had to come here. The little bastard can't stay away from the place. It's like cocaine to a dope addict.
He could imagine Atropos standing right here where he, Ralph, was standing now, looking... grinning... then stepping forward and putting his hands on the doors. Caressing them. Creating those filthy, filmy marks. Could imagine Atropos drawing strength and energy from the very blackness which was robbing Ralph of his own vitality.
He has other places to go and other things to do, of course-veri dai, is undoubtedly a buy day when you're a supernatural Psycho like(' him-but it must be hard for him to stay away from this place for long, no matter how busy he is. And how does it make him feel?
Like a tight fuck on a summer afternoon, that's how.
Lois tugged his sleeve from behind and he turned to her. She was still smiling, but the feverish intensity in her eyes made the expression on her lips look suspiciously like a scream. Behind her, Connie Chung and Rosenberg were strolling back toward the building.
"You've got to get me out of here," Lois whispered. "I can't stand it anymore. I feel like I'm losing my mind."
["Okay-no problem."] "I can't hear you, Ralph-and I think I can see the sun shining through you. Jesus, I'm sure I can!"
["Oh-wait-"] He concentrated, and felt the world slide slightly around him. The colors faded; Lois's aura seemed to disappear back inside her skin.
"Better?"
"Well, soldier, anyway."
He smiled briefly. "Good. Come on."
He took her by the elbow and began guiding her back toward where Joe Wyzer had dropped them off. It was the same direction in which the bloody splashes led.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Yes."
She brightened at once. "That's great! I saw you go up, you know-it was very odd, like watching you turn into a sepia-toned photograph. And then... thinking I could see the sun shining through you... that was very peculiar." She looked at him severely.
"Bad, huh?"
"No... not bad, exactly. just peculiar. Those bugs, now... they were bad. Ugh!"
"I know what you mean. But I think they're all back there."
"Maybe, but we're still a long way from being out of the woods, aren't we?"
"Yeah-a long way from Eden, Carol would have said."
"Just stick with me, Ralph Roberts, and don't get lost."
"Ralph Roberts? Never heard of him. Norton's the name."
And that, he was happy to see, made her laugh.
Part III THE CRIMSON KING CHAPTER 24
They walked slowly across the asphalt parking lot with its gridwork of spray-painted yellow lines. Tonight, Ralph knew, most of these spaces would be filled. Come, look, listen, be seen... and, most important, show your city and a whole watching country beyond it that you cannot be intimidated by the Charlie Pickerings of the world.
Even the minority kept away by fear would be replaced by the morbidly curious.
As they approached the racetrack, they also approached the edge of the deathbag. It was thicker here, and Ralph could see slow, swirling movement, as if the deathbag were made up of tiny specks of charred matter. It looked