blindly, the gunslinger sought the jawbone, but it was gone, lost somewhere, used up. He laughed above them and the sound crashed around them, reverberating like surf in a filling cave. The boy screamed and tottered, a windmill again, arms gyrating through the scant air. Metal ripped and sloughed beneath them; the rails canted through a slow and dreamy twisting. The boy plunged, and one hand flew up like a gull in the darkness, up, up, and then he hung over the pit; he dangled there, his dark eyes staring up at the gunslinger in final blind lost knowledge. "Help me." Booming, racketing: "Come now, gunslinger. Or catch me never." All the chips on the table. Every card up but one. The boy dangled, a living Tarot card, the hanged man, the Phoenician sailor, innocent lost and barely above the wave of the stygian sea. Wait then, wait a while. "Do I go?" The voice so loud, he makes it hard to think, the power to cloud men's minds.... Don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better.... "Help me." The trestle had begun to twist further, screaming, pulling loose from itself, giving - "Then I shall leave you." "NO!" His legs carried him in a sudden leap through the entropy that held him, above the dangling boy, into a skidding, plunging rush toward the light that offered, the Tower forzen on the retina of his mind's eye in a black frieze, suddenly silence, the silhouette gone, even the beat of his heart gona as the trestle settled further, beginning it's final slow dance to the depths, tearing loose, his hand finding the rocky, lighted tip of damnation; and behind him, in the dreadful silence, the boy spoke from too far beneath him. "Go then. There are other worlds than these."