The plant - By Stephen King Page 0,86

the joke book, and the General book, we're not just going to make a noise in the publishing industry; we're going to create a goddam sonic boom that'll startle the shit out of everyone. A lot of people are going to turn around and take notice. And for me, that's not even the best of it. The best is that we're going to stick it to those assholes at Apex."

"Tell it!" Bill cried savagely, and that gave me a shiver. It was what Sophie had said to my sister Maddy, when Maddy accused me of playing nigger up in New York. Like hearing a ghost, in other words. Because that's what my family is to me now, all of them. Ghosts.

"It took magic to make the turnaround possible," John continued, "and I admit that. But all of publishing is a kind of magic, isn't it? And not just publishing. Any company that successfully brokers the creative arts to the public is magic. It's spinning straw into gold. Look at us, for Christ's sake! Accountants by day, dreamers by night - "

"And bullshitters in the afternoon," Herb put in. "Don't forget that."

"Maybe you could get back to the point, John," Roger agreed.

"The point is no cops," John said harshly. And, I felt, with admirable brevity. "No outsiders. That ivy is helping us clean up our mess, and we're going to clean up its mess."

"Dead people, though," Sandra said. She looked quite pale, and when she reached out for my hand again, I let her take it. I was glad for the touch myself. "We're talking about dead people."

"We're talking about a couple of dead loonies who killed each other," Herb said. "Besides, only one corpse."

There was a moment of silence as we dealt with that. I think it was the crucial moment. Because, down deep, we all knew that, while the General might have killed Carlos, Zenith had taken care of Hecksler.

"Nothing bad happened here," Bill said, as if to himself.

"You got that right," Herb said. "Anyone want to defend the position that the world is worse off because those two jagoffs are no longer in it?"

A moment's silence, and then John Kenton said: "If we're not going to feed Detweiller to the plant, how are we going to get rid of him?"

Bill Gelb said: "I have an idea."

"If that's true," Roger said, "then this might be a good time to spill it."

From Bill Gelb's Diary

4/5/81

There were some doubts at first, but I'll tell you one thing: mind-reading cuts through a lot of bullshit, the emotional as well as the plain old everyday problems people have trying to communicate by word of mouth. I'm pretty sure that what got through to them was my confidence, my sense that I had the right idea and that we could carry it off. It was the way I felt in the park, shooting dice with the rest of the yuppie scum. I only wish I'd gotten to the poker game. Oh well, there'll be another time.

Besides, I did get to Paramus.

From the journals of Riddley Walker

4/5/81 (continued)

The truck was an old rattletrap, the windshield milky around the edges; the heater didn't work and the springs were shot; the seats were lumpy and the stink of cooking exhaust came up through the floorboards, presumably from a defective exhaust-pipe or manifold. But the toll-taker on the GW never even looked at us twice, so I considered it a beautiful thing. Also, the radio worked. When I turned it on, the first thing I got was John Denver: "Gee it's great to be back home again! Sometimes this old farm seems like a long-lost friend..."

"Please," Bill said. "Do you have to?"

"I like it," I said, and began tapping my feet. Between us was a medium-sized paper bag with the Smiler's logo on it. Inside it were those few of the General's effects which Zenith found indigestible. The Mad Florist's briefcase was under the seat, giving off some very nasty vibrations. And no, I do not believe that was just my imagination.

"You like this? Riddley, I don't make reference to your color lightly, but don't Afro-American gentlemen such as yourself usually enjoy folks like Marvin Gaye? The Temptations? The Stylistics? James Brown? Arthur Conley? Otis Redding?"

I thought of telling him that Otis Redding was as dead as the fellow in the back of the rattly old panel truck in which we were currently crossing the Hudson River, then decided to keep my mouth shut on that score.

"I happen