— you already know, there is only Chüd. and your friends.

Please oh please —

son, you've got to thrust your fists against the posts and still insist you see the ghosts . . .

that's all I can tell you. once you get into cosmological shit like this, you got to throw away the instruction manual

He realized the voice of the Turtle was fading. He was beyond it now, bulleting into a darkness that was deeper than deep. The Turtle's voice was being overcome, overmastered,

by the gleeful, gibbering voice of the Thing that had thrust him out an d into this black void — the voice of the Spider, of It.

— how do you like it out here, Little Friend? do you like it? do you love it? do you give it

ninety-eight points because it has a good beat and you can dance to it? can you catch it on

your tonsils and heave it left and right? did you enjoy meeting my friend the Turtle? I thought

that stupid old fuck died years ago, and for all the good he could do you, he might as well

have, did you think he could help you?

no no no no he thrusts no he thuh-thuh-huh-huh-rusts no

— stop babbling! the time is short; let us talk while we still can. tell me about yourself,

Little Friend . . . tell me, do you love all the cold dark out here? are you enjoying your grand

tour of the nothingness that lies Outside? wait until you break through, Little Friend! wait

until you break through to where I am! wait for that! wait for the deadlights! you'll look and

you'll go mad . . . but you'll live . . . and live . . . and live . . . inside them . . . inside Me . . .

It screamed noxious laughter, and Bill became aware that Its voice was beginning both to fade and to swell, as if he was simultaneously drawing out of Its range . . . and hurtling into it. And wasn't that just what was happening? Yes. He thought it was. Because while the voices were in perfect sync, the one he was now rushing toward was totally alien, speaking syllables no human tongue or throat could reproduce. That's the voice of the deadlights, he thought.

— the time is short; let us talk while we still can

Its human voice fading the way the Bangor radio stations faded when you were in the car

and travelling south. Bright, flaring terror filled him. He would shortly be beyond sane communication with It . . . and some part of him understood that, for all Its laughter, for all Its alien glee, that was what It wanted. Not just to send him out to whatever It really was, but to break their mental communication. If that ceased, he would be utterly destroyed. To pass beyond communication was to pass beyond salvation; he understood that much from the way his parents had behaved toward him after George had died. It was the only lesson their refrigerator coldness had had to teach him.

Leaving It . . . and approaching It. But the leaving was somehow more important. If It wanted to eat little kids out here, or suck them in, or whatever It did, why hadn't It sent them all out here? Why just him?

Because It had to rid Its Spider-self of him, that was why. Somehow the Spider-It and the It which It called the deadlights were linked. Whatever lived out here in the black might be invulnerable when It was here and nowhere else . . . but It was also on earth, under Derry, in a form that was physical. However repulsive It might be, in Derry it was physical . . . and what was physical could be killed.

Bill skidded through the dark, his speed still increasing. Why do I sense so much of Its talkis nothing but a bluff, a big shuck-and jive? Why should that be? How can that be?

He understood how, maybe . . . just maybe.

There is only Chüd, the Turtle had said. And suppose this was it? Suppose they had bitten deep into each other's tongues, not physically but mentally, spiritually? And suppose that if It could throw Bill far enough into the void, fa r enough toward Its eternal discorporate self, the ritual would be over? It would have ripped him free, killed him, and won everything all at the same

—   you're doing good, son, but very shortly it's going to be too late It's scared! Scared of me! Scared of all of us!

—   skidding, he was skidding, and there was a wall up ahead, he sensed it, sensed it in the dark, the wall at the edge of the continuum, and beyond it the other shape, the deadlights —

—   don't talk to me, son, and don't talk to yourself — it's tearing you loose, bite in if you care, if you dare, if you can be brave, if you can stand . . . bite in, son!

Bill bit in — not with his teeth, but with teeth in his mind.

Dropping his voice a full register, making it not his own (making it, in fact, his father's voice, although Bill would go to his grave not knowing this; some secrets are never, known, and it's probably better so), drawing in a great breath, he cried: 'HE THRUSTS HIS FISTSAGAINST THE POSTS AND STILL INSISTS HE SEES THE GHOSTS NOW LET ME GO!'

He felt It scream in his mind, a scream of frustrated petulant rage . . . but it was also a scream of fear and pain. It was not used to not having Its own way; such a thing had never happened to It, and until the most recent moments of Its existence It had not suspected such a thing could.

Bill felt It writhing at him, not pulling but pushing — trying to get him away.

'THRUSTS HIS FISTS AGAINST THE POSTS, I SAID!

'STOP IT!

'BRING ME BACK! YOU MUST! I COMMAND IT! I DEMAND IT!'

It screamed again, Its pain more intense now — perhaps partly because, while It had spent Its long, long existence inflicting pain, feeding on it, It had never experienced it as a part of Itself.

Still It tried to push him, to get rid of him, blindly and stubbornly insisting on winning, as It had always won before. It pushed . . . but Bill sensed that his outward speed had slowed, and a grotesque image came into his mind: Its tongue, covered with that living spittle, extended like a thick rubber band, cracking, bleeding. He saw himself clinging to the tip of that tongue by his teeth, ripping through it a little at a time, his face bathed in the convulsive ichor that was Its blood, drowning in Its dead stench, yet still holding on, holding on somehow, while It struggled in Its blind pain and towering rage not to let Its tongue snap back —

(Chüd, this Chüd, stand, be brave, be true, stand for your brother, your friends; believe, believe in all the things you have believed in, believe that if you tell the policeman you're lost he'll see that you get home safely, that there is a Tooth Fairy who lives in a huge enamel castle, and Santa Claus below the North Pole, making toys with his trove of elves, and that Captain Midnight could be real, yes, he could be in spite of Calvin and Cissy Clark's big brother Carlton saying that was all a lot of baby stuff, believe that your mother and father will love you again, that courage ts possible and words will come smoothly every time; no more Losers, no more cowering in a hole in the ground and calling it a clubhouse, no more crying in Georgie's room because you couldn't save him and didn't know, believe in yourself believe in the heat of that desire)

He suddenly began to laugh in the darkness, not in hysteria but in utter delighted amazement.

'OH SHIT, I BELIEVE IN ALL OF THOSE THINGS!' he shouted, and it was true: even at eleven he had observed that things turned out right a ridiculous amount of the tune. Light flared around him. He raised his arms out and above his head. He turned his face up, and suddenly he felt power rush through him.

He heard It scream again . . . and suddenly he was being drawn back the way he had come, still holding that image of his teeth planted deep in the strange meat of Its tongue, his teeth locked together like grim old death. He flew through the dark, legs trailing behind him, the tips of his mud-crusted sneaker laces flying like pennants, the wind of this empty place blowing in his ears.