Thomas Covenant 03: Power That Preserves Read Free Page A

Troy had been in his dream, too. But the man had insisted that he was real, an inhabitant of the real world, not a figment of Covenant’s nightmare.
    “Hile Troy? One moment, sir.” Covenant heard the riffling of pages briefly. Then the voice said, “Sir, I have no listing for anyone by that name.”
    “Hile Troy,” Covenant repeated. “He works in one of your—in one of your think tanks. He had an accident. If he isn’t dead, he should be back to work by now.”
    The military voice lost some of its crispness. “Sir, if he’s employed here as you say—then he’s security personnel. I couldn’t contact him for you, even if he were listed here.”
    “Just get him to the phone,” Covenant moaned. “He’ll talk to me.”
    “What is your name, sir?”
    “He’ll talk to me.”
    “Perhaps he will. I still need to know your name.”
    “Oh, hell!” Covenant wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, then said abjectly, “I’m Thomas Covenant.”
    “Yes, sir. I’ll connect you to Major Rolle. He may be able to help you.”
    The line clicked into silence. In the background, Covenant could hear a running series of metallic snicks like the ticking of a deathwatch. Pressure mounted in him. The wound on his forehead throbbed like a scream. He clasped the receiver to his head, and hugged himself with his free arm, straining for self-control. When the line came to life again, he could hardly keep from howling at it.
    “Mr. Covenant?” a bland, insinuating voice said. “I’m Major Rolle. We’re having trouble locating the person you wish to speak to. This is a large department—you understand. Could you tell me more about him?”
    “His name is Hile Troy. He works in one of your think tanks. He’s blind.” The words trembled between Covenant’s lips as if he were freezing.
    “Blind, you say? Mr. Covenant, you mentioned an accident. Can you tell me what happened to this Hile Troy?”
    “Just let me talk to him. Is he there or not?”
    The major hesitated, then said, “Mr. Covenant, we have no blind men in this department. Could you give me the source of your information? I’m afraid you’re the victim of—”
    Abruptly Covenant was shouting, raging. “He fell out of a window when his apartment caught fire, and he was killed! He never even existed!”
    With a savage heave, he tore the phone cord from its socket, then turned and hurled it at the clock on the living-room wall. The phone struck the clock and bounced to the floor as if it were impervious to injury, but the clock shattered and fell in pieces.
    “He’s been dead for days! He never existed!”
    In a paroxysm of fury, he lashed out and kicked the coffee table with one numb booted foot. The table flipped over, broke the frame of Joan’s picture as it jolted across the rug. He kicked it again, breaking one of its legs. Then he knocked over the sofa, and leaped past it to the bookcases. One after another, he heaved them to the floor.
    In moments, the neat leper’s order of the room had degenerated into dangerous chaos. At once, he rushed back to the bedroom. With stumbling fingers, he tore the penknife out of his pocket, opened it, and used it to shred the bloodstained pillow. Then, while the feathers settled like guilty snow over the bed and bureaus, he thrust the knife back into his pocket and slammed out of the house.
    He went down into the woods behind Haven Farm at a run, hurrying toward the secluded hut which held his office. If he could not speak of his distress, perhaps he could write it down. As he flashed along the path, his fingers were already twitching to type out: Help me help help help! But when he reached the hut, he found that it looked as if he had already been there. Its door had been torn from its hinges, and inside the hulks of his typewriters lay battered amid the litter of his files and papers. The ruin was smeared with excrement, and the small rooms stank of urine.
    At first, he stared at the wreckage as if he had caught