Mr Gray’s airway opened. He got one breath of the cold shaft-house air… two… and then the airway closed up again. They were smothering him, stifling him, killing him.

No!! Kiss my bender! Kiss my fucking bender! YOU CAN’T DO THIS!

He yanked the dog back and turned it sideways; it was almost like watching a man already late for his plane trying to make one last bulky article fit into his suitcase.

It'li go through this way, he thought.

Yes. It would. Even if he had to collapse the dog’s bulging middle with Jonesy’s hands and allow the byrum to squirt free. One way or another, the damned thing would go through.

Face swelling, eyes bulging, breath stopped, a single fat vein swelling in the middle of Jonesy’s forehead, Mr Gray shoved Lad deeper into the crack and then began to thump the dog’s chest with Jonesy’s fists.

Go through, damn you, go through.

Freddy Johnson pointed his carbine inside the abandoned Hummer while Kurtz, stationed shrewdly behind him (in that way it was like the attack on the grayboy ship all over again), waited to see what would develop.

“Two guys, boss. Looks like Owen decided to put out the trash before moving on.”

“Dead?”

“They look pretty dead to me. Got to be Devlin and the other one, the one they stopped for.”

Kurtz joined Freddy, took a brief glance in through the shattered window, and nodded. They looked pretty dead to him, too, a pair of white moles lying entwined in the back seat, covered with blood and shattered glass. He raised his nine-millimeter to make sure of them one each in the head couldn’t hurt-then lowered it again. Owen might not have heard their engine. The snow was amazingly heavy and wet, an acoustical blanket, and that was very possible. But he would hear gunshots. He turned toward the path instead.

“Lead the way, buck, and mind the footing-looks slippery. And we may still have the element of surprise. I think we should bear that in mind, don’t you?” Freddy nodded.Kurtz smiled. It turned his face into a skull’s face. “With any luck, buck, Owen Underhill will be in hell before he even knows he’s dead.”

The TV remote, a rectangle of black plastic covered with byrus, is lying on Mr Gray’s bedtable. Jonesy grabs it. In a voice that sounds eerily like Beaver’s, he says “Fuck this shit” and slams it down as hard as he can on the table’s edge, like a man cracking the shell of a hardboiled egg. The controller shatters, spilling its batteries and leaving a jagged plastic wand in Jonesy’s hand. He reaches below the pillow Henry is holding over the thrashing thing’s face. He hesitates for just a moment, remembering his first meeting with Mr Gray his only meeting. The bathroom knob coming free in his hand as the rod snapped. The sense of darkness which was the creature’s shadow falling over him. It had been real enough then, real as roses, real as raindrops. Jonesy had turned and seen him… it… whatever Mr Gray had been before he was Mr Gray… standing there in the big central room. The stuff of a hundred movies and “unexplained mysteries” documentaries, only old. Old and sick. Ready even then for this hospital bed in the Intensive Care Unit. Marcy, it had said, plucking the word straight out of Jonesy’s brain. Pulling it like a cork. Making the hole through which it could enter. Then it had exploded like a noisemaker on New Year’s Eve, spraying byrus instead of confetti, and…

… and I imagined the rest. That was it, wasn’t it? Just another case of intergalactic schizophrenia. Basically, that was it.

Jonesy! Henry shouts. If you’re goina do it, then do it!

Here it comes, Mr Gray, Jonesy thinks. Get ready for it. Because payback’s-

Mr Gray had gotten Lad’s body halfway into the gap when Jonesy’s voice filled his head.

Here it comes, Mr Gray. Get ready for it. Because payback’s a bitch.

There was a ripping pain across the middle of Jonesy’s throat.

Mr Gray raised Jonesy’s hands, making a series of gagging grunts that would not quite attain the status of screams. He didn’t feel the beard-stubbled, unbroken skin of Jonesy’s throat but his own ragged flesh. What he felt most strongly was shocked disbelief: it was the last of Jonesy’s emotions upon which he drew. 7his could not be happening. They always came in the ships of the old ones, those artifacts; they always raised their hands in surrender; they always won. This could not be happening.

And yet somehow it was.

The byrum’s consciousness did not so much fade as disintegrate. Dying, the entity once known as Mr Gray reverted to its former state. As he became it (and just before it could become nothing), Mr Gray gave the dog’s body a final vicious shove. It sank into the gap yet still not quite far enough to go through.

The byrum’s last Jonesy-tinged thought was I should have taken him up on it. I should have gone na-

Jonesy slashes the jagged end of the TV controller across Mr Gray’s naked wattled neck. Its throat peels open like a mouth and a cloud of reddish-orange matter puffs out, staining the air the color of blood before falling back to the counterpane in a shower of dust and fluff.

Mr Gray s body twitches once, galvanically, beneath Jonesy’s and Henry’s hands. Then it shrivels like the dream it always was and becomes something familiar. For a moment Jonesy can’t make the connection and then it comes. Mr Gray’s remains look like one of the condoms they saw on the floor of the deserted office in the Tracker Brothers depot.

He’s-

-dead! is how Jonesy means to finish, but then a terrible bolt of pain tears through him. Not his hip this time but his head. And his throat. All at once his throat is wearing a necklace of fire. And the whole room is transparent, damned if it isn’t. He’s looking through the wall and into the shaft house, where the dog stuck in the crack is giving birth to a vile red creature that looks like a weasel crossed with a huge, blood-soaked worm. He knows well enough what it is: one of the byrum.

Streaked with blood and shit and the remains of its own membranous placenta, its brainless black eyes staring (they’re his eyes, Jonesy thinks, Mr Gray’s eyes), it is being born in front of him, stretching its body out, trying to pull free, wanting to drop into the darkness and fall toward the sound of running water. Jonesy looks at Henry.

Henry looks back.

For just a moment their young and startled eyes meet… and then they are disappearing, as well.

Duddits, Henry says. His voice comes from far away. Duddits is going. Jonesy…

Goodbye. Perhaps Henry means to say goodbye. Before he can, they’re both gone.

There was a moment of vertigo when Jonesy was exactly nowhere, a sense of utter disconnection. He thought it must be death, that he had killed himself as well as Mr Gray-cut his own throat, as the saying went.

What brought him back was pain. Not in his throat, that was gone and he could breathe again-he could hear the air going in and out of him in great dry gasps. No, this pain was an old acquaintance. It was in his hip. It caught him and swung him back into the world around its swollen, howling axis, winding him up like a tether-ball on a post. There was concrete under his knees, his hands were full of fur, and he heard an inhuman chattering sound. At least this part is real, he thought. This part is outside the dreamcatcher.