The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,80

face than I'd ever seen him. The man looked like a stroke waiting to happen. I'd never seen him in bluejeans, either, or with his shirt misbuttoned so it bloused out on one side. Also, it was sticking to his body and his hair (what little of it there is; he keeps it cropped short) was wet.

"I was in the goddam shower, okay?" he said. "Come on."

We went to the door and I managed to get my key in the slot after three pokes. My hand was shaking so badly I had to grasp my wrist with the other one to hold it steady. At least there was no weekend security guy in the lobby to worry about. I suppose that particular paranoid virus will work its way down Park Avenue South eventually, but for the time being, building management still assumes that if you've got the right set of keys, you must be in the right place.

We got in through the door and then Herb stopped, holding my upper arm with one hand and Bill's with the other. A daffy, goony smile was surfacing on his face, where his complexion had begun to subside to a more normal pink.

"He's dead, you guys. He wasn't before, but he is now. Ding-dong, the General's dead!" And to my total amazement, Herb Porter, the Barry Goldwater of 490 Park Avenue South, actually raised his hands, began snapping his fingers, and did a little Mexican hat-dance step.

"You're sick, Herb," Bill said.

"He's also right," I said. "The General's dead and so's - "

There came a clattery, disorganized knocking on the street door. It made us all jump and clutch each other. We must have looked like Dorothy and her friends on the Yellow Brick Road, faced with some new danger.

"Let go of me, both of you," Bill said. "It's just the boss."

It was indeed Roger, hammering on the door and peering in at us, with the tip of his nose squished into a little white dime against the glass. Bill let him in. Roger joined us. He also looked as if someone had lit him on fire and then blown him out, but at least he was dressed, socks and all. Probably he was on his way out, anyway.

"Where's Sandra?" was the first thing he asked.

"She was going to Cony Island," Herb said. His color was coming back, and I realized he was blushing. It was sort of cute, in a ponderous way. "She might well turn up, though." He paused. "If it carried that far. The telepathy thing, I mean." He looked almost timid, an expression I never expected to see on Herb's face. "What do you guys think?"

"I think it might have," Roger said. "That was her gadget that went off in our heads, wasn't it? The Dark and Stormy Night whatsit." I nodded. So did Bill and Herb.

Roger took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. "Come on, let's see what kind of a mess we're in." He paused. "And whether or not we can get out of it."

The elevator seemed to take forever. None of us said anything, not out loud, anyway, and when I discovered I could turn off the run of their thoughts, I did so. Hearing all those muttering voices twined together in the middle of your head is distressing. I suppose that now I know how schizophrenics must feel.

When the door opened on the fifth floor and the smell hit us, we all winced. Not in distaste, but in surprise. "Oh man," Herb said. "All the way out here in the fucking hall. Do you suppose anyone else could smell it? I mean, anyone else but us?"

Roger shook his head and started toward the Zenith offices, walking with his hands rolled into fists. He stopped outside the office door. "Which of you has the key? Because I left mine at home."

I was rummaging for them in my pocket when Bill stepped forward and tried the knob. It turned. He looked at us with his eyebrows raised, then went in.

I'd characterize what we'd smelled when the elevator door opened on Five as a scent. In the reception office it was much, much stronger - what you would have called a reek, if it had been unpleasant. It wasn't, so what does that leave? Pungent, I suppose; a pungent, earthy smell.

This is so hard. To this point I've been racing along, wanting to get to what we found (and what we didn't), but here I find