Michael Crichton - Airframe

She did not look down.

Looking to her left, she saw the two men on the small high platform. The man in the red shirt, and the man in the baseball cap. They were standing there, staring at her, trying to decide what to do. She was about five feet below them, on the outside of the girders, hanging on.

She saw one of the men pull on a pair of heavy work gloves.

She realized she had to get moving again. Carefully, she unhooked her arms, and started down. Five feet. Another five feet. Now she was level with the horizontal elevators, which she could see through the crisscrossed girders.

But the girders were shaking.

Looking up, she saw the man in the red shirt climbing down after her. He was strong, and moved quickly. She knew he would reach her in just a few moments.

The second man was climbing back down the stairs, pausing now and again to peer at her through the girders.

The man in the red shirt was only about ten feet above her.

Casey went down.

Her arms burned. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The scaffolding was greasy in unexpected places; her hands kept slipping. She felt the man above her, descending toward her. Looking up she saw his big orange work boots. Heavy crepe soles.

In a few moments he would be stomping on her fingers.

As Casey continued to scramble down, something banged against her left shoulder. She looked back and saw a power cable, dangling from the ceiling. It was about two inches thick, covered in gray plastic insulation. How much weight would it support?

Above her, the man was descending.

The hell with it.

She reached out, tugged at the cable. It held firm. She looked up, saw no junction boxes above her. She pulled the cable close, wrapping her arm around it. Then her legs. Just as the man's boots came down, she released the scaffolding and swung out on the cable.

And began to slide.

She tried to go hand over hand, but her arms were too weak. She slid, hands burning.

She was going down fast.

She couldn't control it.

The pain from the friction was intense. She went ten feet, another ten feet. She lost track. Her feet slammed into a junction box and she stopped, swinging in the air. She lowered her legs around the junction box, gripped the cable between her feet, let her body weight go down-

She felt the cable pull away.

A shower of sparks flared from the box, and emergency alarms began to sound loudly throughout the building. The cable was swinging back and forth. She heard shouts from below. Looking down, she realized with a shock that she was only about seven or eight feet above the floor. Hands were reaching up to her. People shouting.

She let go, and fell.

She was surprised how quickly she recovered, getting right to her feet, embarrassed, brushing herself off. "I'm fine," she kept saying to the people around her. "I'm fine. Really." The paramedics ran over; she waved them away. "I'm fine."

By now the workers on the floor had seen her badge, seen the blue stripe, and were confused-why was an executive hanging from the gardens? They were hesitant, stepping away a little, unsure what to do.

"I'm fine. Everything is fine. Really. Just… go on with what you're doing."

The paramedics protested, but she pushed through the crowd, moving away, until suddenly Kenny Burne was at her side, his arm around her shoulder.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing," she said.

"This is no time to be on the floor, Casey. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," she said.

She let Kenny walk her out of the building, into the afternoon sun. She squinted in the glare. The huge parking lot was now filled with cars for the second shift. Sunlight glinting off row after row of windshields.

Kenny turned to her. "You want to be more careful, Casey. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," she said. "I do."

She looked down at her clothes. There was a big streak of grease running across her blouse and skirt.

Bume said, "You got a change of clothes here?"

"No. I have to go home."

"I better drive you," Burne said.

She was about to protest, but didn't. "Thanks, Kenny," she said.

John Marder looked up from behind his desk. "I heard there was a little upset in 64. What was that about?"

"Nothing. I was checking something."

He nodded. "I don't want you on the floor alone, Casey. Not after that nonsense with the crane today. If you need to go down there, have Richman or one of the engineers go with you."

"Okay."

"This is no time to take chances."

"I understand."

"Now." He shifted in his chair. "What's this about a reporter?"

"Jack Rogers is working on a story that might turn ugly," Casey said. "Union allegations we're sending the wing offshore. Leaked documents that allegedly say we're offsetting the wing. And he's relating the leaks to, ah, friction in the executive suite."

"Friction?" Marder said. "What friction?"

"He's been told that you and Edgarton are at loggerheads. He asked if I thought management conflicts would affect the sale."

"Oh, Christ," Marder said. He sounded annoyed. "That's ridiculous. I'm behind Hal one hundred percent on this. It's essential for the company. And nobody's leaked anything. What did you tell him?"

"I stalled him," Casey said. "But if we want to kill the story, we have to give him something better. An interview with Edgarton, or an exclusive on the China sale. It's the only way to do it."

"That's fine," Marder said. "But Hal won't do any press. I can ask him, but I know he won't do it."

"Well, somebody needs to," Casey said. "Maybe you should."

"That could be difficult," Marder said. "Hal has instructed me to avoid the media until the sale is finalized. I have to be careful here. Is this guy trustworthy?"

"In my experience, yes."

"If I give him something on deep background, he'll cover me?"

"Sure. He just needs something to file."

"All right. Then I'll talk to him." Marder scribbled a note. "Was there anything else?"

"No, that's all."

She turned to leave.

"By the way, how's Richman working out?"

"Fine," she said. "He's just inexperienced."

"He seems bright," Marder said. "Use him. Give him something to do."

"All right," Casey said.

"That was the problem with Marketing. They didn't give him anything to do."

"Okay," she said.

Marder stood. "See you tomorrow at the IRT."

After Casey had gone, a side door opened. Richman walked in.

"You dumb fuck," Marder said. "She almost got hurt in 64 this afternoon. Where the hell were you?'

"Well, I was-"

"Get this straight," Marder said. "I don't want anything to happen to Singleton, you understand me? We need her in one piece. She can't do this job from a hospital bed"

"Got it, John."

"You better, pal. I want you next to her at all times, until we finish this thing."

She went back down to her fourth floor offices. Norma was still at her desk, a cigarette dangling from her lip. "You got another stack on your desk, waiting for you."

"Okay."

"Richman's gone home for the day."

"Okay."

"He seemed eager to leave, anyway. But I talked to Evelyn in Accounting."

"And?"

"Richman's travel at Marketing was billed to customer services in the program office. That's a slush fund they use for baksheesh. And the kid spent a fortune."

"How much?"

"Are you ready? Two hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars."

"Wow," Casey said. "In three months?'

"Right."

"That's a lot of ski trips," Casey said. "How were the charges billed?"

"Entertainment. Customer not specified."

"Then who approved the charges?"

"It's a production account," Norma said. "Which means it's controlled by Marder."