Ричард Стерн - The Tower

The analogy between the World Tower and the Titanic was strained. Only the fact of inevitable disaster linked the two, because the one setting for tragedy was strangeness and the other was everyday familiarity.

The Titanic was a ship crossing the ocean in a day when crossing an ocean was not at all the usual thing to do. Within that strange setting unknown dangers lurked; their existence could be accepted as real.

But this was a building, a known world, with differences only of degree, not of kind. You enter buildings and ride elevators every day—and nothing happens. This time something had happened, but it was beyond total belief that it could be as serious as some tried to make it out. The fact of the breeches buoy had allayed many fears.

Oh, there was still some singing, and some praying, and a few people drinking or dancing while they waited their turns at deliverance. But there is singing, drinking, and dancing every day, and praying every Sunday with no immediate crises in sight.

What was left of Grover Frazee was already forgotten beneath the white tablecloth. Paul Norris was merely a hearsay death. Singed eyebrows on the two firemen were scant proof that actual disaster was at hand.

There was the breeches buoy, and one by one women rode it across the gap between the buildings to safety. Still…

The fact of the matter was that of all the people in the Tower Room, only a handful understood and accepted not only that catastrophe was in the making, but that it was inevitable.

Ben Caldwell understood and accepted. He needed no complicated calculations to convince himself; simple arithmetic sufficed:

One hundred and three persons had drawn numbers.

The round trips of the breeches buoy averaged very close to one minute.

One hour and forty-three minutes, then, would be necessary to evacuate the Tower Room.

With heat in the building’s core already sufficient to distort steel elevator rails, would the Tower Room remain a sanctuary for one hour and forty-three minutes?

No.

So be it.

With far less technical knowledge the governor nevertheless understood and accepted the situation. “The need is for haste,” he said to Beth, “but we can’t hurry.” He was remembering Nat Wilson’s cautionary words.

It was becoming hotter in the office. The governor thought of Fireman Howard’s analogy of the nest in the treetop: sooner or later the fire would reach it, and that would be the end of the nestlings. We are nestling, he thought, as unable as they to fly. The temptation was strong to hammer his fist on the desk in sheer frustration. He stifled it.

Mayor Ramsay appeared in the doorway. “Paula has gone,” he said. “I watched her land safely—if that’s the word.” She had turned to wave. He paused, remembering. “Thank God for that.”

“Good for her,” the governor said. “And I’m happy for you, Bob.”

Beth was smiling. “I’m glad,” she said.

The governor said, “What is your lottery number, Bob?”

“Eighty-three.” The mayor’s voice was expressionless.

The governor smiled. “I’m eighty-seven.”

“It isn’t fair!” Beth said suddenly. “There are people out in that room who aren’t worth any part of you! Of either of you! And what is Senator Peters’s number? I’ll bet it’s high too!”

“Easy,” the governor said. “Easy.” He stood up, took off his jacket and loosened his tie. He sat down again and began to roll up his sleeves. He smiled at Beth. “It’s probably cooler out in the big room,” he said, “but for now, at least, I prefer it here.” He paused. “Unless you disagree?”

Beth hesitated and then shook her head slowly. Her lower lip was tucked between her teeth. When she released it, tooth marks showed. “I’m sorry, Bent.”

“They’re behaving very well so far, Bent,” Bob Ramsay said. “I’ve been watching Cary Wycoff, and for the moment, at least, he is—defused. And I don’t think anybody else is in his class as a rabble-rouser.”

The last-moment rush to the lifeboats, the governor thought, or the inevitable jamming of the exits when flames appeared. He had never seen either, but he well understood that in sudden panic terrible things could happen. He said slowly, thoughtfully, “But it might be just as well, don’t you think, to have barricades set up?” He gestured with his hands at right angles. “Some of those heavy tables set in place surrounding the loading area with room for only one person at a time to come through?”

The mayor’s immediate smile was faint, bitter. He nodded. “And the opening guarded against gate-crashers.” He nodded again. “I’ll see to it.”

“Maybe,” the governor said, “we’re seeing shadows.” He paused. “But I’m afraid I don’t think so.” He leaned back in his chair and waited until the mayor was gone. Then, to Beth, “How do you walk the tightrope between cynicism and reality?” He shook his head.

“Is there going to be trouble, Bent?”

“We’ll try to anticipate it.”

“How?”

“Like this.” The governor picked up the phone and spoke into it. Nat’s voice answered instantly. “Everything,” the governor said, “is going beautifully, young man. You and the Coast Guard have my thanks.”

Beth smiled. It was lordly of him to make it his thanks; and yet it was also fitting, because from the beginning of the problems, it was one man. Bent Armitage, who had automatically taken charge and spoken for all. And so the imperiousness lacked arrogance and was thereby acceptable. More than acceptable. Beth’s smile turned fond and gentle.

“Everything is orderly now,” the governor was saying, “but when the pressure starts to build, and people begin to understand that maybe there isn’t going to be time for everybody—” He left the sentence hanging, implications plain.

“Yes, sir,” Nat’s voice said. “I’ve been thinking about that too.”

“Good man.” The governor waited.

Nat said slowly, “We have the leverage, or the chief on the roof has, and maybe he’ll do what I say.”

The governor was nodding. “Which is?”

“We can issue an ultimatum,” Nat said. “At the first sign of trouble we can put it that unless the process stays orderly, as you’ve planned it, we’ll shut the entire operation down, because slow and easy, one person at a time, is the only way it can work. It may look simple, but it’s touchy, and one mistake can spoil it for everybody.” The governor was nodding again. “And can you make the ultimatum stick?”

“If we have to,” Nat said, “we will.”

For the third time the governor nodded. “You may have to,” he said. And then, “For the moment, that’s all.” He paused. “Bless you for standing by.” He leaned back in his chair again and closed his eyes.

“Bent,” Beth said. She hesitated. “Oh, Bent, why does it have to be like this?”

“I wish I knew.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Beth said, “and I know it, but I can’t help asking the big question: Why me? Why any of us individually, but most particularly why me? What have I done to be here, to meet you and then have it—like this?”

The governor was smiling faintly. “I’ve asked the same question many times. He paused. “And, you know, I’ve never yet found the answer?”

The senator walked in. “I’ve just come to make a report, Bent. Bob is having tables moved into place around the buoy-loading area. Your idea, no doubt. And all is more or less quiet.” He smiled. “So far.” The smile spread. “Bob said you asked his lottery number.” He took his time. “Well, I’ll watch you both go. Mine is one hundred and one.”

Beth closed her eyes.

“I’ve also been thinking,” the senator said, “and lo and behold, a limerick came to mind fullblown: