Ричард Стерн: The Tower

There was no sense, no pattern, only madness and confusion. Someone punched the governor’s shoulder; behind the punch was the contorted face of the network executive. All the governor could think of was a mad sheep, fear-crazed.

More smoke burst from the ducts, a choking, blinding, darkened mass, and the struggles within it seemed to rise in frenzied fury.

Someone screamed. It was unnoticed in the general din.

The governor raised his voice. “Stop it! Goddammit, stop it, I say!” He was shouting into a whirlwind. He lowered his head and charged.

An elbow bashed his cheek. He pushed on through. Here was the heavy line coming through the window. Here was the window itself. He clung to the line with one hand and leaned as far out as he could to wave his handkerchief again and again. Then he pulled himself back inside and tried to make his way out of the scramble.

Somewhere, somewhere that radio still played music. ‘The governor homed on it as a beacon. *

He saw it sitting on a nearby table, and as he lunged for it, the table overturned. The radio skittered across the floor, playing still.

Someone slammed into the governor’s side and he went down on all fours, and then with all of his strength dove forward and got the radio into his hands. Guarding it, holding it tight against himself, he worked out of the melee, and then, in temporary peace, away from the struggle, he held the radio high and turned the volume full on.

Music blasted into the room. There was sudden silence. And then, at last, a giant’s voice, Nat Wilson’s voice roaring into the confusion: “NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS IN THE TOWER ROOM!”

There was a pause. Some of the sound of struggle was stilled.

“IN THE TOWER ROOM HEAR THIS!” the voice blared again. “THIS IS PLAZA TRAILER CONTROL. I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING UP THERE, BUT UNTIL IT STOPS THE BREECHES BUOY WILL REMAIN ON THE TRADE CENTER ROOF. IS THAT CLEAR? I REPEAT UNTIL THERE IS ORDER AGAIN, THE BREECHES BUOY WILL NOT RETURN TO THE TOWER ROOM. IF YOU READ ME, WAVE SOMETHING WHITE FROM THE WINDOW.”

The great room was silent, still. All eyes watched as slowly the governor walked toward the loading area, the radio still in his hand. He passed it to the senator, took a tablecloth from a nearby table, and, leaning out as before, waved it in the direction of the Trade Center roof.

The silence held.

“ALI RIGHT,” Nat’s voice blared suddenly. “ALL RIGHT! NOW RESUME YOUR DRILL. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD? RESUME YOUR DRILL OR THE ENTIRE OPERATION STOPS. WE‘RE DOING EVERYTHING WE CAN TO GET YOU ALL OUT ALIVE. IF YOU COOPERATE. WE MAY SUCCEED. IF YOU DON’T, NOBODY GETS OUT. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD? NOBODY!”

The governor looked around at the faces, some of them bruised, some bloody. Bill Samuelson, the big waiter, was on his hands and knees, shaking his head. He looked up at the governor like an angry beast.

“Any comments?” the governor said.

There was no reply.

“IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?” Nat’s voice roared. The governor leaned out the window again. He waved the tablecloth. There was again that pause for transmission from rooftop to trailer.

Then, “OKAY,” Nat’s, voice said. “STAY ON THIS WAVELENGTH, AND RESUME YOUR OPERATION. THE BREECHES BUOY IS COMING BACK. BUT”—the voice paused—“AT THE FIRST SIGN OF MORE DISTURBANCE IT STOPS AGAIN. I REPEAT: AT THE FIRST SIGN OF MORE DISTURBANCE WE STOP THE RESCUE.” The voice was stilled.

The senator looked down at the radio in his hand. He was smiling as he turned the volume down. Music began once more to play.

The secretary general said quietly. “Number fifty-two, if you please, number fifty-two.”

One of the waiters not involved in the disturbance moved forward. He had his slip of paper held tight in both hands.

In the trailer Nat put down the phone and let his breath out in a long sigh. Into the walkie-talkie he said, “Okay, Chief? Do you think—”

“As far as I can see,” the chief said, his voice still calm, “you’ve made them knock it off. I’ll let you know if it looks different.”

Nat put the walkie-talkie down. He looked around the trailer.

Tim Brown said, “What an unholy stink there’s going to be. How many people were tuned in and heard that—threat, ultimatum, whatever you want to call it?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” This was Giddings.

“It worked,” Patty said. She looked down at Nat and smiled.

“Number fifty-three,” the secretary general said, “if you please.”

Fireman Howard said, “What’s your number?”

The secretary general smiled. “It is sixty.” There are seven more ahead of me.”

“And I’m one of them,” Howard said. “Fifty-eight.” The secretary general smiled again. “My congratulations.” He paused. “It has been a pleasure working with you.”

“Maybe,” Howard said, “we can have a drink together on that when all this is over.”

“I will look forward to it.”

The senator walked over to Cary Wycoff. The senator still held the candlestick in his hand. “The next time, Cary,” he said softly, “I will crack your skull.” He paused. “You can believe that.”

She was sitting still where the governor had left her, perched on the comer of the desk, long clean legs swinging gently, calm blue eyes seeming to smile.

This, the governor thought, was how he would always remember her.

Always?

Always. Through eternity.

“You are leaving now,” he said. He saw objection forming in her face and he attacked it immediately. “Yes,” he said. “You are going. Because, my dear,” he said, “it is my wish, my plea, and if that sounds stilted, I can’t help it. At times like this you hide behind formality.”

“Bent—” She stopped. Her eyes no longer seemed to smile.

“I will not end a long life with an act of craven selfishness,” the governor said. He smiled suddenly. “That in itself is selfish, I’ll admit. I can’t help posturing.” He walked toward her and held out his hands. “Come along.”

They came out of the office holding hands. The big room was subdued now, spiritless. The transistor radio played quietly; no one listened.

To the secretary general, “Number forty-nine was overlooked. Walther,” the governor said “Here she is.”

Cary Wycoff, watching, listening, opened his mouth and then closed it again in silence.

The room was still.

The secretary general smiled at Fireman Howard. “I was wrong,” he said. “There were eight ahead of me.”

Beth said, “Oh, Bent!”

“Goodbye, my dear.” The governor hesitated. He smiled. “Catch a trout for me some day.” He turned away then and walked back to the empty office.

“Sixty-one!” The fire commissioner’s voice.

“Sixty-two!”

Cary Wycoff started forward. The senator stepped in front of him. “I’m number sixty-five,” Cary Wycoff said and held up his slip.

The senator merely glanced at it. He nodded and stepped back. “You would be,” he said.

Within the giant structure the heat continued to rise. Floor by floor the incandescence crept up, following the evening shadows.

In the plaza it was almost completely night now, and standlights had been rigged. In their glare the moving men and equipment cast strange contorted shadows against the building, into the smoke.

Behind the police barricades the crowds stood quiet, no signs waving, no chanting, no voices raised.

Patrolman Shannon said, “It is a scene out of Hell itself, Frank.”

“It is.” Frank Barnes’s voice was quiet, solemn. “Only the poor damned souls are hidden.”

High above them, still in sunlight, the breeches buoy swung again down the catenary curve toward the Trade Center roof.

“You don’t think they’ll get them all out?” Shannon said.