Ричард Стерн - The Tower

“I recommend two Alka-Seltzer,” the governor said. The senator smiled faintly. “I deserve. that, Bent. I admit it. But I can’t shake it. ‘And doomed to death, though fated not to die.’ In school I never knew what Dryden meant by that. Today I think I do.”

“Maybe two Alka-Seltzer and a Di-Gel,” the governor said. “You’ve got to break up those gas bubbles.”

The senator was not to be distracted. “What you were saying to Bob Ramsay today,” he said to the governor. “You probably have a point. Look.” He gestured this time at the broad expanse of windows, looking out and down on lesser but still giant buildings in the foreground, the gleaming water of the river and upper harbor, the land of the far shore drifting off into industrial haze, smog.

The governor said, unsmiling now, “It’s a mess, isn’t it?”

“It is time we handed over, Bent,” the senator said.

The governor’s chin came up. “To young Cary Wycoff?

To the paraders and protestors, those who are only against , never for?” The governor shook his head. He was looking again at the countryside spread before them, the rich, innovative, powerful, plundered countryside. “We’ve messed it up,” he said. “I won’t deny it. But in messing it up, we still have constructed something strong, durable, something around which we’ve built a nation.” He smiled suddenly at Beth. “Do I sound like a politician? Don’t answer that. I am.”

“I’ll vote for you,” the senator said. He was smiling. “Good solid campaign oratory, Bent.”

And Beth said in protest, “But I think the governor means it.”

Jake Peters nodded. “He does. We all do, my dear. At least most of us. And there is the tragedy: the gap between belief—conviction—and performance.” He looked around. “Where is that waiter with my whiskey? I’ll go find him.” The governor and Beth stood quiet, together, and it was again as if a curtain had been drawn, shutting them off from the rest of the reception guests. Both recognized the illusion, neither questioned it.

“I was married once,” the governor said. It seemed a perfectly natural thing to say. “A long time ago.”

“I know.”

The governor’s eyebrows rose. “How do you know, Beth Shirley?”

“Your Who’s Who entry. Her name was Pamela Brown and she died in nineteen fifty. You have a married daughter, Jane, who lives in Denver. She was born in nineteen forty-six—”

“Which,” the governor said, “can’t have been much after your birthdate.”

“Is that a question?” Beth was smiling. “I was born ten years earlier.” She paused. “And you won’t find me in Who’s Who , so I’ll tell you that I was married once too.

It was a disaster. I was warned, but warnings are usually worse than useless, aren’t they? I think more times than not they produce the opposite effect. I married John at least partly because I had been warned, and I got what they had told me I would—a thirty-five-year-old son instead of a husband.”

“I’m sorry,” the governor said. He smiled suddenly. “Or maybe I’m not. I like it the way it is, your standing here talking to me.” He saw Grover Frazee making his way through the guests, an unconvincing smile on his face. “Brace yourself,” the governor said quietly. “We are about to be interrupted, damn it.” Then, “Hello, Grover.”

Frazee said, “I want to talk to you, Bent.”

“You are talking to me.” The governor’s voice was unenthusiastic. “Miss Shirley, Mr. Frazee. Grover’s is the steeltrap mind behind the World Tower project.”

“I’m serious,” Frazee said. “We have a problem.” He looked hesitantly at Beth. “I’d rather—”

“I’ll leave,” Beth said.

The governor caught her arm. “You will not. I’ll never find you again.” He looked at Frazee. “What’s the problem? Spit it out, Grover. Stop mumbling.”

Frazee hesitated. He said at last, “We have a fire. Somewhere on one of the lower floors. Oh, it isn’t much, but there’s a little smoke in the air-conditioning and Bob Ramsay and the fire commissioner are on the phone about it, so I’m sure it will be cleared up in no time.”

“Then,” the governor said slowly, “why tell me, Grover?”

Ben Caldwell walked up, small, almost dainty, precise. His face was expressionless. “I heard the question,” he said. He spoke directly to the governor. “Grover is jumpy. He knows that there may have been certain irregularities in the building’s construction. He is worried.”

“And,” the governor said, “you’re not?”

The governor is a commander, Beth thought, watching, listening silently. He wastes no time in nonessentials; his questions probe.

Ben Caldwell said, “I don’t make up my mind on insufficient evidence, but I am not worried, and I see no cause for worry. I know the design of this building, and a small fire—” He shrugged.

The governor looked at Frazee. “You want your hand held while you’re told what to do? Very well. Take the fire commissioner’s judgment, and if he thinks it is prudent to get this room evacuated promptly, then, by God, see to it, no matter what kind of press—”

It was then, without warning, with, some said later, an almost convulsive shudder of the entire great building, that the lights went out, the softly humming air-conditioning stopped, the music was silenced, and all conversation was stilled. Somewhere in the room a woman screamed. The time was 4:23.

The fire sending the smoke into the air-conditioning ducts was small, and in the normal course of events ought to have been quickly and automatically extinguished.

It was in Suite 452, fourth floor, southeast corridor. The suite, already rented, was in the process of being decorated. Messrs. Zimmer and Schloss, the interior designers, did not believe in latex paint. There was something almost indecent in the ease with which a painter could clean his brushes in nothing more than soap and water. And the colors simply did not sing!

Suite 452 then, was being decorated with traditional oil-base paint. Gallon cans of paint thinner were on the floor in the center of the inner room beneath a plywood board resting on two sawhorses which the painters used as a table.

Oily rags igniting in spontaneous combustion were later believed to have started the blaze. A gallon of paint thinner apparently exploded from the heat and threw burning liquid in all directions.

The overhead sprinklers came on, but the plywood board protected the heart of the fire for a time while it gathered strength; and in any event water does not easily contain a fire of paint thinner, which like flaming gasoline merely spreads on the water and continues to bum. But without the protection of the plywood it is probable that the first tiny flames would have been smothered.

A warning light showed on the computer-control panel in the bowels of the building, but there was no one to see it.

The air-conditioning ducts in Suite 452 continued to bring in a fresh supply of air to provide oxygen for the flames.

New paint on the walls caught fire. More paint thinner cans exploded from increasing heat.

The air-conditioning stepped up its efforts to control the temperature, thereby bringing in more oxygen. Smoke began to seep through the entire system and at length reached the Tower Room ducting.

But even at this point there was no real danger or even major problem.

Primary systems went into almost immediate operation; backup systems stood by against their need.

Automatic alarms sounded in the firehouse only two blocks away. Within less than three minutes two fire trucks were on the scene, working their way through thinning crowds in the plaza.