Ричард Стерн - The Tower

“We don’t know,” Nat said. His voice was quiet, almost resigned. “I haven’t heard a standby generator starting up. Maybe we wouldn’t.”

“And maybe we would too, and it hasn’t functioned,” Giddings said. “Maybe it was damaged too. Computer control should have—”

“Should have, shouldn’t have,” Nat said. He was thinking of Ben Caldwell’s comment. “The words have no meaning.”

A fireman came stumbling out of the nearest concourse door, vomiting. Once in the open air he stopped and stood wearily, bent almost double, retching helplessly. He saw the battalion chief, and he straightened up and wiped his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. “Bad down there.” The words were almost incoherent. “The whole—like a ship’s engine room—burning.” He paused for another retching spasm. Black vomit dribbled down his chin. “We found one man,” he said. “Fried like bacon.” He paused. “And at what looks like a computer panel there’s another one—dead.”

An ambulance attendant led the fireman away.

Brown was looking at Nat. “What about that substandard wiring and a big short-circuit overheating it?”

“What he means,” the battalion chief said, “is that instead of a fire in the subbasement and another on the above-grade floors that we know about, we may have a hundred potential fires from buried wiring that burst its insulation when an overload hit.” He was looking at the building’ ? gigantic face in awe.

“It couldn’t happen,” Brown said.

The battalion chief looked at him. “Yeah,” the chief said. “I know. None of this could happen.” He paused. He said slowly, “But maybe, just maybe, it has.”

Brown looked again at Nat. His question was wordless, but plain.

“What do we do now?” Nat said. “We try to figure out what’s happened. We toss ideas to Joe Lewis the electrical engineer and he does with them what he can. We try to figure out some way to get those people down even if they have to come down on their asses because their legs won’t hold out. You people keep doing what you can, and we’ll try to think.” He spread his hands. “What else is there to do?”

Even with the fluorescent lights dead, there was ample light coming through the tinted windows in the Tower Room and the candles still burned. The governor said to Ben Caldwell, “What does it mean? No lights? No power at all?*’ His voice was steady, his tone almost accusatory.

“I don’t know,” Caldwell said.

“You’re the architect. Find out.”

The governor was the man in command, Beth Shirley thought, and took comfort from the concept. What was that old song from South Pacific —“Some Enchanted Evening”? Listening to him in this moment of crisis as he took command without hesitation, it was difficult to control what she felt—like a schoolgirl with her first sudden crush. Well, so be it. She put her hand gently on the governor’s forearm.

“It’s all right,” the governor said immediately. “We’ll get it sorted out, whatever it is.”

“I know you will, Governor.”

“My name,” the governor said, “is Bent. Don’t ever use the title again.” He took time to favor Beth with a swift grin. Then, to Grover Frazee who had not stirred, “Where is the Fire Commissioner? And Bob Ramsay? You said you have a telephone. Lead the way.”

Across the broad, no longer silent room, on all sides conversation buzzing, Beth on the governor’s arm, Grover Frazee leading the parade. Someone said, “What is it, Governor? Can you tell us?” And there was sudden silence in the vicinity.

The governor paused and raised his voice. “We don’t know yet. But we’ll find out, and when we do, you’ll be told. That’s a promise.” Again that familiar grin. “Not a campaign promise,” he added. It got a small murmur of amusement. They went on, following Frazee.

It was a pleasant office abutting the building’s core, dimly lighted now by two candles. The mayor was at the desk, telephone at his ear. He nodded to the governor and said into the phone, “Then get him. I want a report from Assistant Commissioner Brown in person, is that understood?” He hung up.

Frazee said, “What do we do? Do we clear the room?” He spoke to the mayor and to the fire commissioner, who stood large and solid beside the desk chair.

“You heard the man,” the governor said. “Before we do anything, we find out where we stand, how it looks from outside. We know there is a fire—”

“It wasn’t the fire that shook this building,” the fire commissioner said. There was truculence in his tone. “Unless there was an ammunition dump somewhere.

We’ve got other trouble and I want to know what before we let anybody go anywhere.”

“Nobody’s arguing,” the governor said. “But there are some things we can do up here while we wait. Are the elevators operable? There should be standby power, shouldn’t there?”

“There sure as hell ought to be,” the fire commissioner said, “but I haven’t seen any indication of it.” His truculence had faded. He watched the governor and waited.

“Stairs,” the governor said. “There are fire stairs, aren’t there?”

“Two sets,” the commissioner nodded.

“AH right,” the governor said. “Grover, have Ben Caldwell check the elevators. You check the stairs. Oh, yes, and have those waiters start passing drinks again. We don’t want a bunch of drunks, but we don’t want panic either. Get moving, man, and come back here before you tell anybody anything.” He paused and looked down at the mayor. “It’s your city, Bob. Objections?”

The mayor smiled faintly. “You seem to be in charge. Carry on.”

If the governor felt the faint proud pressure of Beth’s hand on his arm, he gave no indication. “It’s probably nothing to get concerned about,” he said, “but let’s play it straight anyway.”

Senator Peters walked in, nodded to the room in general, and leaned against the wall. “There was this young bank robber,” he said without preamble in his normal voice and harsh accent. “His first job and he was uptight. He had his mask on and he rushed into the bank waving his gun. ‘All right, you motherstickers,’ he said, ‘this is a fuckup!’”

Some of the tension went out of the room. The governor looked at Beth. She was smiling at the crudity. “That’s our Jake,” the governor said. “He can quote Shakespeare too, by the yard. He alters his repertoire to fit the situation.” He paused. “You are getting a cram course in behind-the-scenes-and-the-speeches politics, aren’t you?” He was smiling too. “Disillusioning?”

“No.” She shook her head slowly in emphasis. “You are the people in charge. I am content.”

“Lady—” the commissioner began, and stopped at the sudden ringing of the telephone.

The mayor picked it up, spoke his name, listened briefly. “All right, Brown,” he said. “I’ll put the commissioner on. Give him your report.” He paused. “The whole report, no punches pulled, is that understood?” He handed the phone to the fire commissioner.

The senator said, “When somebody’s on the phone and you can hear only his side of the conversation—” He shook his head. “I never “know whether to look at him or stare out the window.” Then, with no change of tone, “Quite a little party you people are throwing, Bent.” He was remembering his vague hunch back in Washington.

“In case you were wondering,” the governor said, “it wasn’t planned quite this way.”

“Understood,” the senator said. “The topless waitresses failed to show, so you had to do something, no?”

Ben Caldwell walked in. He looked at the fire commissioner on the phone, glanced around at the rest, and nodded without expression. He said nothing.