Ричард Стерн - The Tower

“That,” the governor said, “is what makes it a judgment call. On balance I think the public is best served by letting him go. One more disruptive force—out of sight.”

Senator Peters said mildly to the room in general, “Cold-blooded son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

There was no answer.

The senator smiled. “But I’ll have to go along with you, Bent.”

The governor roused himself in the desk chair. “So what we have left,” he said, “is the hope that somehow your people, Pete, are going to be able to contain the fire before it reaches”—he smiled suddenly—“the nest.”

“Like I said,” the commissioner said, “it’s a hell of a big tree.”

Ben Caldwell said, “Has anyone had a weather report? A good drenching thunderstorm would help.”

Beth, watching, listening, could almost feel a storm in the air. Losing herself in memory, she thought of the approaching darkness as the thunderheads build. Then the first stir of the winds that mount, the first distant muttering of the storm. How often had she experienced it, and how many times, particularly as a child, had she resented the spoiling of a summer afternoon?

The drops at first would be large, heavy, widely spaced, while the lightning flashes came in faster sequence and the intervals between flash and thunderclap diminished.

One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three hippopotamus … counting the length of the intervals in seconds to estimate the distance of the flash until, with the center of the storm directly overhead, there was no longer any interval, flash and thunderclap simultaneous.

Then the heavens opened and the rain became a solid mass, sometimes with hailstones bouncing or rattling on windows and roof, and the gods themselves seeming to shake the universe.

And she had resented this? When now, merely because of Ben Caldwell’s two sentences, a thunderstorm suddenly represented hope of salvation? Incredible.

“A nice summer rain would be good,” the governor was saying. He was smiling. “Do you know any rainmakers, Ben?”

The telephone made noises. The governor flipped on the speaker switch that all might hear. “Armitage here.”

Nat Wilson’s weary voice said, “The second shot was no better than the first, Governor. It wasn’t much of a hope from the start, but we gave it the best try we could.”

“Understood,” the governor said. “We appreciate the effort.”

“Brown wants to know if his two men reached you safely.”

“They did. They are sitting here now.” The governor paused. “Did the other two get back down?”

There was a pause. Brown’s voice came on the speaker. “I’m sorry to say they haven’t, Governor. They’re on about the fiftieth floor. There’s fire in the stairwell beneath them.”

“Then send them back up, man. If they can still walk, that is.”

“There is fire above them too, Governor.”

The governor’s eyes were closed. At length he opened them. “Brown.”

“Sir?”

“Put Wilson on again.” And when Nat’s voice acknowledged, “I want a complete report prepared,” the governor said. “Chapter and verse of this—comedy of errors. I want it made now, while some testimony can still be taken. No holds barred, no sensitivities pampered. Who did what or failed to do what and, where possible, why. As long as we are able we will keep you informed of everything that happens up here, every decision we make, every fact we find.”

Plain on the speaker was a muttering voice in the background: Giddings rumbling protest.

“Tell whoever that is,” the governor said, “that this s a court of inquiry before the eventual fact, and that if properly done, this report may prevent further ridiculous episodes such as this one. At least I hope to God it will.”

“I understand, Governor,” Nat said.

“Let the facts themselves tell the story,” the governor went on. “Grind no axes. They aren’t necessary. I think under the circumstances there will be blame enough to go around.” He paused. “Including blame among some of us up here for letting our ambitions get out of hand.” He paused once more. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right,” the governor said. “We will put together—” He stopped at the sudden hush out in the big room. Someone screamed, screamed again. It was contagious. “Hold on,” the governor said and jumped from his chair to rush to the doorway and look out. “God!” he said. “God in heaven!”

Someone had opened the fire door in answer to hammered knocks. Grover Frazee stood framed in the doorway. Most of his clothing had burned away. He was burned bald and blackened, his eyes were merely dark holes in the torment of his face. His teeth showed white in a rictus grin. Flesh from his upper body hung in ragged strips and the remaining leather of his shoes smoldered. He made one wavering step forward, arms partially outstretched, a bubbling rattling sound deep in his throat. And then all at once he collapsed face forward into a huddled, blackened, smoking heap. He made one convulsive shudder, and then no further move and no sound. The big room was silent, in shock.

The governor said quietly, “Cover him up.” His face was expressionless as he turned back into the office. A judgment call, he thought, and closed his eyes briefly.

It could not be happening—but it was. One by one the building’s defenses tried to meet the attack and, failing, collapsed.

Lights blinked unseen in the computer-control console for a time, but when all power failed, they too went dead.

On floor after floor sprinklers went into action, their fusible metal links melted by the heat. But much of the heat was within the structure itself, unreachable by sprinkler spray, and when fire did burst into the open, gulping fresh air to fuel its fury, temperatures rose so rapidly that water within the sprinkler pipes turned to steam, and the pipes burst; and one more enemy attack had carried.

Within the building’s core not one but a hundred, a thousand vertical crevices turned swiftly into chimneys, carrying heat up and concomitantly reaching down to suck in more fresh air, first to generate and then to support combustion.

Heated air rises—the statement is axiomatic—and super-heated air rises more quickly than air merely warmed. But heat can be transmitted by conduction as well: quickly through steel structure, more slowly but still inexorably through paneling and tiling and flooring, through ducts themselves, wiring and piping and curtain walls. And a fire once well begun becomes almost self-sustaining, raising temperatures above combustion levels, causing materials seemingly to ignite spontaneously. Prometheus has much to answer for.

Word had spread. The great building which was to have been a world communications center was now focus for world communications of a different kind. Around the world it was known, and in some places the knowledge was received with pleasure, if not joy, that in the richest country on earth, in the newest, tallest building man had ever conceived, a peacetime catastrophe was in the making, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men were helpless to cope.

Not quite.

They had covered what was left of Grover Frazee with a white tablecloth and left the body where it had fallen. The fire door was again closed, but to everyone in the room it was clear now that fire doors were only temporary protection. The invading enemy would break through in his own time. Unless—

“They are trying to contain the fire in the lower floors,” the governor said. He was again standing on the chair. “That is our best hope.” He had almost said only hope.

He no longer had a full audience. Over in one comer of the big room the transistor radio again played rock music. Half a dozen people were dancing, if that was what it could be called. Well, the governor thought, he had said it himself: it was either that or hymns and prayer. He ignored the spectacle.