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11
They were less than halfway there； breath puffing out of their mouths in clear white vapor； feet pounding the mucky ground； when the bells in the chapel broke into a hideous； grinding jangle of sound。 A howling chorus of dogs answered the bells。
They were back； all these were…prefects。 Jack groped for Richard and found Richard groping for him。 Their hands linked together。
Richard screamed and tried to pull him off to the left。 His hand tightened down on Jack's until the fingerbones grated together paralyzingly。 A lean white wolf； a Board Chairman of Wolves； came around The Depot and was now racing toward them。 That was the old man from the limousine； Jack thought。 Other wolves and dogs followed 。 。 。 and then Jack realized with sick surety that some of them were not dogs； some of them were half…transformed boys； some grown men…teachers； he supposed。
'Mr Dufrey！' Richard shrieked； pointing with his free hand （Gee； you see pretty well for someone who's lost his glasses； Richie…boy； Jack thought crazily）。 'Mr。 Dufrey！ Oh God； it's Mr。 Dufrey！ Mr。 Dufrey！ Mr。 Dufrey！'
So Jack got his first and only look at Thayer School's headmaster…a tiny old man with gray hair； a big； bent nose； and the wizened； hairy body of an organ grinder's monkey。 He ran swiftly along on all fours with the dogs and the boys； a mortarboard bobbing crazily up and down on his head and somehow refusing to fall off。 He grinned at Jack and Richard； and his tongue； long and lolling and stained yellow with nicotine； fell out through the middle of his grin。
'Mr。 Dufrey！ Oh God！ Oh dear God！ Mr。 Dufrey！ Mr。 Du…'
He was yanking Jack harder and harder toward the left。 Jack was bigger； but Richard was in the grip of panic。 Explosions rocked the air。 That foul； garbagey smell grew thicker and thicker。 Jack could hear the soft flupping and plupping of mud squeezing out of the earth。 The white wolf which led the pack was closing the distance and Richard was trying to pull them away from it； trying to pull them toward the fence； and that was right； but it was wrong； too； it was wrong because it was The Depot they had to get to； not the fence。 That was the spot； that was the spot because this had been one of the three or four biggest American railheads； because Andrew Thayer had been the first one to see the potential in shipping west； because Andrew Thayer had seen the potential and now he； Jack Sawyer； saw the potential； as well。 All of this was of course only intuition； but Jack had e to believe that； in these universal matters； his intuition was the only thing he could trust。
'Let go of your passenger； Sloat！' Dufrey was gobbling。 'Let go of your passenger； he's too pretty for you！'
But what's a passenger？ Jack thought in those last few seconds； as Richard tried blindly to pull them off…course and Jack yanked him back on； toward the mixed bunch of mongrels and boys and teachers that ran behind the big white wolf； toward The Depot。 I'll tell you what a passenger is； a passenger is one who rides。 And where does a passenger begin to ride？ Why； at a depot 。 。 。
'Jack； it'll bite！' Richard screamed。
The wolf outran Dufrey and leaped at them； its jaws dropping open like a loaded trap。 From behind them there was a thick； crunching thud as Nelson House split open like a rotten cantaloupe。
Now it was Jack who was bearing down on Richard's fingerbones； clamping tight and tighter and tightest as the night rang with crazy bells and flared with gasoline bombs and rattled with firecrackers。
'Hold on！' he screamed。 'Hold on； Richard； here we go！'
He had time to think： Now the shoe is on the other foot； now it's Richard who is the herd； who is my passenger。 God help us both。
'Jack； what's happening？' Richard shrieked。 'What are you doing？ Stop it！ STOP IT！ STOP…'
Richard was still shrieking； but Jack no longer heard him…suddenly； triumphantly； that feeling of creeping doom cracked open like a black egg and his brain filled up with light…light and a sweet purity of air； air so pure that you could smell the radish a man pulled out of his garden half a mile away。 Suddenly Jack felt as if he could simply push off and jump all the way across the quad 。 。 。 or fly； like those men with the wings strapped to their backs。
Oh； there was light and clear air replacing that foul； garbagey stench and a sensation of crossing voids of darkness； and for a moment everything in him seemed clear and full of radiance； for a moment everything was rainbow； rainbow； rainbow。
So Jack Sawyer flipped into the Territories again； this time while running headlong across the degenerating Thayer campus； with the sound of cracked bells and snarling dogs filling the air。
And this time he dragged Morgan Sloat's son Richard with him。
INTERLUDE
Sloat in This World/
Orris in the Territories （III）
Shortly after seven a。m。 on the morning following Jack and Richard's flip out from Thayer； Morgan Sloat drew up to the curb just outside the main gates of Thayer School。 He parked。 The space was marked with a HANDICAPPED ONLY sign。 Sloat glanced at it indifferently； then reached into his pocket； drew out a vial of cocaine； and used some of it。 In a few moments the world seemed to gain color and vitality。 It was wonderful stuff。 He wondered if it would grow in the Territories； and if it would be more potent over there。
Gardener himself had awakened Sloat in his Beverly Hills home at two in the morning to tell him what had happened…it had been midnight in Springfield。 Gardener's voice had been trembling。 He was obviously terrified that Morgan would fly into a rage； and furious that he had missed Jack Sawyer by less than an hour。
'That boy 。 。 。 that bad； bad boy 。 。 。'
Sloat had not flown into a rage。 Indeed； he had felt extraordinary calm。 He felt a sense of predestination which he suspected came from that other part of him…what he thought of as 'his Orris…ness' in a half…understood pun on royalty。
'Be calm；' Sloat had soothed。 'I'll be there as soon as I can。 Hang in there； baby。'
He had broken the connection before Gardener could say any more； and lain back on the bed。 He had crossed his hands on his stomach and closed his eyes。 There was a moment of weightlessness 。 。 。 just a moment 。 。 。 and then he felt a sensation of movement beneath him。 He heard the creak of leather traces； the groan and thump of rough iron springs； the curses of his driver。
He had opened his eyes as Morgan of Orris。
As always； his first reaction was pure delight： this made coke seem like baby aspirin。 His chest was narrower； his weight less。 Morgan Sloat's heartbeat ran anywhere from eighty…five beats a minute to a hundred and twenty when he was pissed off； Orris's rarely went higher than sixty…five or so。 Morgan Sloat's eyesight was tested at 20/20； but Morgan of Orris nonetheless saw better。 He could see and trace the course of every minute crack in the sidewall of the diligence； could marvel over the fineness of the mesh curtains which blew through the windows。 Cocaine had clogged Sloat's nose； dulling his sense of smell； Orris's nose was totally clear and he could smell dus