The Plant. Part 27

Myself I will die a virgin and I am glad.

I hope and expect to be locked away in Kenton's office by noon today.

I have plenty of snacks and two sodas in with my knives and I will be able

to "hold out" until Monday just fine.

No more dreams of "The General" and his Designated Juice. That's

a load off my mind.

And now for you, John Kenton. Betrayer of my dreams, thief of my

book. Why wait for the abbalah to do what I can do myself?

COME DEMETER!.

COME GREEN!.

E N D O F T H E P L A N T , P A R T F I V E.

Following next month's installment of this story--next month's very long installment of this story--The Plant will be going back into hibernation so that I can continue work on Black House (the sequel to The Talisman, written in collaboration with Peter Straub). I also need to complete work on two new novels (the first, Dreamcatcher, will be available from Scribner's next March) and see if I can't get going on The Dark Tower again. And my agent insists I need to take a breather so that foreign translation and publication of The Plant--also in installments, also on the Net--can catch up with American publication. Yet don't despair. The last time The Plant furled its leaves, the story remained dormant for nineteen years. If it could survive that, I'm sure it can survive a year or two while I work on other projects.

Part 6 is the most logical stopping point. In a traditional print book, it would be the end of the first long section (which I would probably call "Zenith Rising"). You will find a climax of sorts, and while not all of your questions will be answered--not yet, at least--the fates of several characters will be resolved.

Nastily Permanently.

As a way of thanking those readers (somewhere between 75 and 80 per cent) who came along for the ride and paid their dues, Part 6 of The Plant will be available free of charge. Enjoy...but don't relax too much. When The Plant returns, it will once more be on a pay-as-you-go basis.

In the meantime, get ready for Part 6. I think you're going to be surprised. Perhaps even shocked.

Best regards (and happy holidays), Stephen King

PART VI.

E D ITO R'S N OTE Z is almost certainly the most interesting doc.u.ment in the collection which makes up this story. Although remarkably coherent, the careful reader must certainly detect the work of various voices, most or all of them already encountered in the various memos, letters, and journals presented so far. In addition to this, the discovered ma.n.u.script (it would harm the unfolding story to say much about the circ.u.mstances of that discovery here) shows many different typefaces and editorial hands. About thirty per cent of it was typed on a portable Olivetti, which can be positively identified as John Kenton's by the flying d and the distinctive crack running through the capital S. Another thirty per cent is certainly the work of Riddley Walker's 1948 office-model Underwood, which was found on the desk of his study in Dobbs Ferry. The other typefaces are those produced by the sort of IBM Selectrics then in use at the Zenith House offices. Ten per cent of the ma.n.u.script was typed with the IBM type-ball "Script," which was favored by Sandra Jackson. Twenty per cent of the ma.n.u.script is in IBM's "Courier" format, which was favored by both Herb Porter and Roger Wade. The remaining work is in IBM's "Letter Gothic," which can be found on many (although not all) of Bill Gelb's business letters and in-house memos.

The most interesting thing about this collaboration, which is remarkably uni fied in spite of the stylistic interplay, is the fact that it is told in the third-person omniscient style. Information is conveyed by use of a s.h.i.+fting perspective, and include many incidents at which none of the narrators-Kenton, Wade, Jackson, Gelb, or Walker-were present. The reader may wonder if these pa.s.sages (several of which are interwoven below) are informed speculation based on the available evidence, or if they are pure imagination, no more to be believed than the plots of Anthony Las...o...b..a's "big bug" books. To these possibilities, the editor would first like to remind the reader that there was a sixth partic.i.p.ant at Zenith House during those months in 1981, and then to suggest that if what Kenton, Wade, et. al. suspected was true-that the ivy sent to them was telepathic and to some degree manipulative-then perhaps the true narrator of Z was Zenith the common ivy itself (or himself, to use Riddley Walker's most common p.r.o.nounal reference).

Although insane by all normal standards of deduction, the idea has a certain persuasive charm when taken in context with other events of that year-many verifiable, such as the crash of the commuter plane on which Tina Barfield was a pa.s.senger-and offers at least one explanation for the ma.n.u.script. The idea that a telepathic ivy plant turned the typewriters of five previously normal editors into Ouija boards is an outrage to rational thought; with that much, no sane person could fail to agree. And yet there is a certain pull to the idea, at least for this reader, a sense that yes, this is how these things happened, and yes, this is how the truth of those days came to be written down.

S. K.

From Z, an unpublished ma.n.u.script

April 4, 1981 490 Park Avenue South New York City Skies fair, winds light, temperature 50 F.

9:16 A.M.

RainBo Soft Drinks has its New York o ffices on the third floor of the building which stands at 490 Park Avenue South. Although small (market share as of 3/1/81: 6.5%), RainBo is enthusiastic, a young and growing concern. In early April of 1981, the RainBo top bra.s.s certainly has something to be excited about: they have gotten the rights (for a price they can afford) to commercially exploit the cla.s.sic Harold Arlen composition "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." They are tooling up a whole new PR campaign around the song.

On this Sat.u.r.day morning, executive vice president George Patella ("I'm a knee man" is his favorite singles-bar pickup line...not that he is single) has driven in from his home in Westport because a brilliant concept has come to him in the middle of the night. He wants to memo it and lay it on his superior's desk before noon. And after noon, there's a certain new t.i.ttybar over on 7th Avenue that he's been meaning to check out.

His head full of animated soda bottles dancing over the rainbow in cunning little red shoes, George Patella barely registers the man who follows him in, catching the door and murmuring "Thank you" after George has used his key. All he notices is an older gentleman, in his late sixties or early seventies, handsome in a haggard sort of way, and wearing a green military uniform.

If asked later to be more speci fic about this uniform, Mr. Patella would be unable to add much, although he is by nature a friendly and helpful man (albeit one with a tendency to put his wedding ring into a rear compartment of his wallet on certain occasions). If his head hadn't been so full of thosedancing soda bottles, he might have seen that the elderly fellow with the steel gray brush-cut wore no insignia and no badges of rank. If chivvied into total recall (or hypnotized into it), Patella might have said this of the man who stepped into the elevator with him that Sat.u.r.day morning: he was wearing a dark green s.h.i.+rt, a black tie held to the s.h.i.+rt with a plain gold bar, and dark green pants, sharply creased and cuffed, over brightly s.h.i.+ned black shoes. An outfit of military aspect, in other words, but one that could have been purchased at the Army-Navy store a block over for a total cost of under forty dollars.

It is the way he wears what he has on that gives the impression of military dress; once the older gentleman has pushed the b.u.t.ton for his floor (George Patella has no idea which one), he stands perfectly straight and perfectly still, with his hands clasped in front of him and his eyes on the lighted floor-indicator. He doesn't fidget or call attention to himself in any way, certainly not by attempting to chat. And there is nothing in his posture which suggests discomfort. This is a man who has stood so-not quite at attention, but certainly not at ease-many times before. His face communicates that. That, and the idea that he perhaps enjoys such a posture.

All and all no surprise that George Patella, preoccupied with his own concerns (he's too deep within them to even realize he's softly whistling "Somewhere Over the Rainbow"), does not question the man's right to be there. All else aside, the man in the green s.h.i.+rt and trousers radiates that sense of right place-right time. And certainly George Patella does not recognize the man sharing his elevator car as General Anthony "Iron-Guts" Hecksler (U.S. Army Ret.), madman, murderer, and fugitive from justice. Patella gets off on Three to write his memo about the dancing soda bottles. The man in the green pants and s.h.i.+rt stays aboard the elevator car. Patella the soft-drink seller has one last glimpse of the military fella as he (Patella) turns the corner toward the RainBo offices: an elderly gent standing quietly erect, looking straight ahead, hands clasped in front of him, the fingers of those hands slightly bunched by arthritis. Just standing there, just waiting for the elevator to go up, so he can get on with his own business.

Whatever that business might be.

April 4, 1981 Cony Island Skies fair, winds light, temperature 51 F.

9:40 A.M.

As soon as Sandra Jackson and Dina Andrews step o ff the train, eleven-yearold Dina expresses her desire to go on the Wonder Wheel, which has just resumed operation for another season.

On their way down there, they are huckstered cheerfully from both sides of the mostly empty midway. One cry makes Sandra smile: "Hey, pretty blonde lady! Hey, you little red-headed cutie! Come on over here and try your luck! Make my day!"

Sandra diverts to the Wheel of Chance and sizes the game up. It's a little like roulette, only with prizes instead of money if you win. Hit red or black, odd or even, and win a small prize. Hit one of the triples and win a bigger one. Hit a four-way and win a bigger one yet. And if you should pick a single number and hit, you win the prize of prizes-the big pink teddy bear. All this possibility for a quarter!

Sandra turns to Dina (who is indeed both a redhead and a cutie). "What are you going to name your new bear?" she asks her.

The guy running the Wheel of Chance grins. "Confidence!" he cries. "Sweetheart, that's the best thing in life!"

"I'll name him Rinaldo," Dina says promptly. "If you win him."

"Oh, I'll win him, all right," Sandra says. She takes a quarter from her purse and surveys the numbers, which run from one to thirty-four and include such ringers as FREE SPIN, BYE-BYE NICE TRY, and double zero. She looks at the concessionaire, who is checking out her bod in a way that is thorough without being creepy. "My friend," she says to him, "I want you to remember that I'm only putting a floor under you. From this point, your season is only going to get better."

"Gosh, you are confident," he says. "Well, pick your number and I'll let er rip."

Sandra lays her quarter down on seventeen. Three minutes later the concessionaire is watching with wide eyes as the pretty lady and her pretty young friend continue to walk down toward the Wonder Wheel, the pretty young friend now in charge of a pink teddy-bear almost as big as she is.

"How'd you do it, Aunt Sandy?" Dina wants to know. She is all but bursting with excitement. "How'd you do it?"

Aunt Sandy taps her forehead and grins. "Psychic waves, sweetheart. Call it that. Come on, let's see what the world looks like from way up high."

Sometimes life exhibits (or seems to exhibit) an observable pattern. This is certainly one of those times. Because, as the two of them begin to skip hand in hand toward the Wonder Wheel, Sandra Jackson begins to sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and Dina quickly joins in.