He put his loosely clenched, arthritic fist to his forehead, then bent his right knee, taking all of his weight on his trembling right leg. "Hile you last gunslinger, Roland Deschain out of Gilead, son of Steven and true descendent of Arthur Eld. I, the last of what was called among ourselves the Ka-Tet of the Rose, salute you."
Roland put his own fisted hand to his forehead and did more than make a leg; he went to his knee. "Hile Daddy Mose, godfather of Susannah, dinh of the Ka-Tet of the Rose, I salute you with my heart."
"Thankee," said the old man, and then laughed like a boy.
"We're well met in the House of the Rose! What was once meant to be the Grave of the Rose! Ha! Tell me we're not! Can you?"
"Nay, for it would be a lie."
"Speak it!" the old man cried, then uttered that cheery goto-
hell laugh once again. "But I'm f gettin my manners in my awe, gunslinger. This handsome stretch of woman standing beside me, it'd be natural for you to call her my granddaughter,
"cause I was sem'ty in the year she was born, which was nineteenand-
sixty-nine. But the truth is"-But'na troof is was what reached Roland's ear-"that sometimes the best things in life are started late, and having children"-Chirrun-"is one of m, in my opinion. Which is a long-winded way of saying this is my daughter, Marian Odetta Carver, President of the Tet Corporation since I stepped down in '97, at the age of ninety-eight.
And do you think it would frost some country-club balls, Roland, to know that this business, now worth just about ten billion dollars, is run by a Negro?" His accent, growing deeper as his excitement and joy grew, turned the last into Dis bid'ness, now wuthjus 'bout tin binnion dolla, is run bah NEE-grow?
"Stop, Dad," the tall woman beside him said. Her voice was kind but brooked no denial. 'You'll have that heart monitor you wear sounding the alarm if you don't, and this man's time is short."
"She run me like a ray'road!" the old man cried indignantly.
At the same time he turned his head slightly and dropped Roland a wink of inexpressible slyness and good humor with the eye his daughter could not see.
As if she wasn't onto your tricks, old man, Roland thought, amused even in his sorrow. As if she hasn't been on to them for many and many a year-say delah.
Marian Carver said, "We'd palaver with you for just a litde while, Roland, but first there's something I need to see."
"Ain't a bit o' need for that!" the old man said, his voice cracking with indignation. "Not a bit o' need, and you know it!
Did I raise ajackass?"
"He's very likely right," Marian said, "but always safe-"
"-never sorry," the gunslinger said. "It's a good rule, aye.
What is it you'd see? What will tell you that I am who I say I am, and you believe I am?"
"Your gun," she said.
Roland took the Old Home Days shirt out of the leather bag, then pulled out the holster. He unwrapped the shell-belt and pulled out his revolver with the sandalwood grips. He heard Marian Carver draw in a sharp, awed breath and chose to ignore it. He noticed that the two guards in their well-cut suits had drawn close, their eyes wide.
"You see it!" Moses Carver shouted. "Aye, every one of you here! Say God\ Might as well tell your gran-babbies you saw Excalibur, the Sword of Arthur, for't comes to the same!"
Roland held his father's revolver out to Marian. He knew she would need to take it in order to confirm who he was, that she must do this before leading him into the Tet Corporation's soft belly (where the wrong someone could do terrible damage), but for a moment she was unable to fulfill her responsibility.
Then she steeled herself and took the gun, her eyes widening at the weight of it. Careful to keep all of her fingers away from the trigger, she brought the barrel up to her eyes and then traced a bit of the scrollwork near the muzzle:
"Will you tell me what this means, Mr. Deschain?" she asked him.
"Yes," he said, "if you will call me Roland."
"If you ask, I'll try."
"This is Arthur's mark," he said, tracing it himself. "The only mark on the door of his tomb, do ya. 'Tis his dinh mark, and means WHITE."
The old man held out his trembling hands, silent but imperative.