The Worlds of George O

by George O. Smith

  But if Bill Lansing thought that he had been kicked as low as any man could be kicked, he found that he had one more bitter blow awaiting him at the station. He was hailed just inside of the door by Fire Commissioner Edwards.

  "Lansing, I have a complaint against you."

  "A complaint, sir?"

  "Yes. Did you, or did you not imply that you were taking Gloria Lansing to a dance that in reality was non-existent?"

  Lansing gulped. It was a loaded question. In reality, the plan had simply been to test Fire Chief Mooney's reaction to Gloria going out on a late date with her. It had been Gloria's spur-of-the-moment picking, not his, that chose the dance. Bill could no more tell the commissioner that they were testing Mooney's reaction than he could permit himself to place the blame on Gloria. Neither was the act of a gentleman and a fire fighter; furthermore, he was at fault, anyway, because the code of the fire fighter demanded that he correct any erroneous impression that Gloria might have given.

  But Bill Lansing had no doubt at all that the commissioner knew the entire story as close as Mooney could repeat it. For the commissioner's word had been "imply," and that meant that Gloria's statement had been undersigned, or in this case, underspoken, by Lansing.

  "Yes," he said.

  "This has been an unfortunate experience for all of us, Lansing. I hope it's over. You know the penalty of the Academy of Fire Fighters for permitting an implied untruth to stand."

  "Yes."

  "While you are relieved of all duty and responsibility, you may not leave your station until the Board of Fire Regents accepts your resignation officially."

  "And if there is a fire in the interim, sir?"

  "While every hand is needed at a fire, Lansing, our code is our protection. It is clear.

  No one who has not the full confidence of the Academy of Fire Fighters may have the honor of joining us in our chosen profession."

  "But, sir--"

  The commissioner eyed Lansing coldly, and in a sepulchral intonation, he said, "You have been weighed in the balance, and found wanting."

  It was the traditional phrase of cold dismissal from the Academy. The phrase was, indeed, a translation of the handwriting on the wall.

  * * * *

  V

  With absolutely nothing to do but eat, sleep, and kill the waking hours, because those who surround you will not speak nor admit they heard you, time hangs heavy indeed.

  It was worse when your cell cannot be left. It is even worse than that when you, and they, and everybody knows that the process of separating you from your tomb could be expedited in ten minutes if anybody gave a tinkle. But the Academy of Fire Fighters was thoroughly finished with Mr. Bill Lansing; so completely finished with him that its members wouldn't lift a finger to get rid of him. To them, he had ceased to exist. To place action before the treadmill brought his card to the top was to recognize that such a person had rights.

  And it might have gone that way, right on out until Bill Lansing's life turned a corner and became part of another world of activity.

  But a new world was not to be for Bill Lansing. Clotho, the Fate who weaves the lives of men, discovered the bowline, the knot that makes the closed loop which will not slip, and this she tied into her web.

  Call it fate. Call it coincidence. Call it anything you care to; but accept, even though reluctantly, the fire that flared up in the cellar of Fire Chief Mooney's home at one o'clock in the morning.

  The alarm clangored through the station, alerting the firemen, the rookies, and the nearly-ex-rookie Bill Lansing.

  Next came the stentorian voice:

  "Now hear this! The address is one seven nine, three nine six four Rushman Avenue, in the Watchung area, near the metropolitan shopping area of Mountainside. The weather is clear. Temperature seventy-one, humidity fifty-three, wind from the southwest at ten. The time is one zero seven hours."

  Near him, Lansing heard someone mutter, "And the New York theater crowd will just be getting home, too!"

  In answer, the fire sub-chief said, "Right, Al. Look, you and Pete are temporarily detached. Get out there right now and plant traffic stoppers. Go now; we'll bring your fire gear in the equipment wagon."

  "Right, Chief. But won't that leave you short-handed?"

  "We'll make out."

  Lansing said, "I volunteer."

  For the first time in three weeks, Lansing got a reply. "We don't accept outsiders,"

  was the cold response.

  "Might as well use me," said Lansing. "I'm going anyway."

  "Not in any fire wagon this station uses!"

  From the roof of the station came the rising drone of a siren. It went up and up into a scream, undulated between shrill and ear-splitting, and then began to slide down the scale as the motor coasted to its well-balanced and near-frictionless stop. A banging scatter of cold motors came next; they settled down into a muted, vibrant roar.

  * * * *

  Stop him from going, they could, but stop him from watching them leave, they could not. He followed them to the equipment, then stood on the edge of the roof, leaning into the blast of the big choppers of the heavy equipment. They wasted no time clawing for altitude. Instead, they lurched forward off the roof, and arrowed straight across the city, no more than a hundred feet above the forest of television antennas that reached up for them.

  It was a thrilling and a noisy spectacle, but once it was over, all that Lansing could do was to go back below and wait. This was a world which had rejected him. A world which he was not permitted to join.

  He sprawled on his narrow bunk and listened to the radio. It was spilling orders and counter-orders, acknowledgements, direction data, and other information. To anyone not used to the patter, it would have been a hopeless mess of gabble. But to the ex-rookie, it was part of his nostalgia. He had the knowledge and the skill to build a radio receiver for this frequency (they could not be purchased), but once away from this station he would sever all ties. To maintain even the least of them would be more hurtful than not.

  One thing he could not envision was the spectacle of the Mooney dwelling in flame.

  That was a murky, flickering thing. But the approach of the sub-chiefs hopper he could follow without difficulty, for he knew that it would dip and circle the fire; the sub-chief would be collecting preliminary information so that he could plan his counter-attack. Then the radio became more orderly:

  "Redman, get the pyrometer over here."

  "Right, Chief."

  "Harrington, get one of your spectrographs aimed at that picture window in front. Put the second looking about ten feet above that tiled roof over on the side, and the third in the back. High, I'd say."

  "Right."

  "Now, Where's the XXX!!!XXX! hosewagon?"

  Bill Lansing grinned. The fire radio band was speech-scrambled within weeks after it had first been used. Language that would offend the delicate ear was denied to that ear because the government realized that it was easier to conceal the bad language of men working under danger and stress than it was to train them to use, "Oh my goodness!" as a verbal indication of dismay.

  The sub-chief got his reply: "Layin' hose, Chief!"

  "From where, for XXX!!!X sake?"

  "The Bound Brook Reservoir."

  "What the XX!!'s the matter with the standpipes?"

  "They ain't been used in seven years, Chief. Besides, we've got time to run a clear line before swoosh-second, and it's better that way."

  "Okay. Now--"

  "Who's in charge here?" This was a new voice.

  "I am. Sub-Chief Walter Lang. From the Newark district station."

  "Where is Fire Chief Mooney?"

  "We haven't been able to contact him."

  "Commissioner Edwards?"

  "Probably on his way. And who are you--sir?"

  "Sub-Secretary of Public Safety, James Moriarity. You mean that neither Mooney nor Edwards are present?"

  "No, sir. I--"

  "I'm here, X#% %X## it," came
the unmistakable voice of Fire Chief Mooney. "And get me out!"

  "Trapped?"

  "Second floor rear."

  "How long can you hold out?"

  "Not too long. It's hot, and it stinks of blowup."

  "Do you want to take cognizance, Chief?" asked Lang.

  "From within?" The sound of disbelief was unmistakable.

  "Well, someone has got to give the orders." Lang turned to Moriarity. "Shall we go in and get him, sir?"

  "How do you figure the fire, Mr. Lang?"

  "One mo. Redman, what do the pyros say?"

  "Hotspots running up to three hundred, bits and flares to five-fifty. Average is reasonable but going up."

  "Harrigan, what does spectro say?"

  "The usual clutch of standard volatiles. You know. Polyesters, acrylics, acetates, eurenthanes, plus a mixture of ordinary smokes, wood distillates and monoxides."

  "How bad?"

  "The mixture is deadly in concentration, you know. Right now it will give a man an awful headache if he breathes it very long--say a half-hour or more. But the temperatures recorded by Redman say that the mix isn't to the whoosh point yet."

  "Then I can't take the emergency chance, nor justify it," said Moriarity. "Where's your fire claim adjuster?"

  "He hasn't shown yet. He should have been here."

  "My God! Is there

  anyone who can work pro tem?"

  "Of course not. There never is when they're needed."

  * * * *

  Mooney's voice broke in, "Is Gloria safe?"

  "Isn't she with you?"

  "No. She has her own apartment on the top floor of this building."

  "Front or rear?"

  "Front."

  "And your wife?"

  "With me. But about Gloria--?"

  "Redman! Top floor front?"

  "About the same as below, maybe a bit cooler in the hot spots. Less total variation."

  "Harrigan?"

  "Rough, chief. The whole, standard list of hot, flammable volatiles are thick, plus traces of phosgene, hydrogen chloride and some nitrides. By comparison, Gloria's folks are breathing pure mountain air."

  "That's an emergency, Chief! Can we go in"

  "General call! Isn't there anybody who can certify this spot as an emergency?

  Anybody?"

  Bill Lansing could stand it no more. He got up from his bunk and snapped the press-to-talk switch on his radio. He said, "Sub-Secretary Moriarity from Bill Lansing. I am an ex-rookie fireman, and therefore disqualified to talk, act, or participate on that basis.

  However, I am also the son of James Lansing, a journeyman and fellow of the College of Fire Claim Underwriters, through whom I was granted my certificate of competence in fire evaluation."

  "How fast can you get here?"

  "A matter of minutes if I can commandeer the hopper on the roof."

  Mooney's voice broke in, "Make him a #%& &#%% present of it, but get us the $#&& out of here!"

  Lansing headed for the roof on a dead run. Meanwhile, a new voice came in, thin and wavering, on the edge of radio contact. "Am I within range yet? Do you hear me? This is Commissioner Edwards. Respond, please, over and out."

  "We hear you now, Commissioner. Go ahead."

  "How does it stand?"

  "It apparently started below, point and cause of origin unknown. The dwelling is a special, belonging to Fire Chief Mooney, You know the place, Commissioner."

  "Yes. Well, the elder Mooney dwelling, I do. But their daughter has a separate on the third floor that I haven't been in."

  "And the fire conditions?"

  "Top-floor apartment, front side, isn't as separate as if the place were truly unconnected. Therefore a lot of the volatile stuff has been seeping up through the stair wells and halls. It's been collecting in Gloria's apartment."

  "Any sign of the girl?"

  "None. Harrigan?"

  "No trace of animal charcoal nor hydrocarbon vapor. She may be suffocated, but she isn't burned."

  "Stop talking like that," yelled Mooney. "Get me out of here and I'll go up there myself!"

  "Is that an order, Chief?"

  "Yes, #%& &#%% it!"

  Moriarity said, "Commissioner, the only fire claim adjuster on the spot is ex-rookie Lansing. You know him?"

  "Yes, I know him," said Commissioner Edwards wearily. "Lansing? Will you authorize a breach of Mooney's section?"

  "Does Fire Chief Mooney waive his insurance?"

  "Now, see here! This is no time to--"

  "If you're going to accuse me of vindictiveness, don't. Spectro and pyro give the Mooneys a good fifty-five minutes before the whoosh point, and threaten them with no more than a headache. I'm mindful of their lives and of their comfort, but I have the property to protect. Furthermore, the real danger is to the girl in the top floor front."

  "Shall we go in there?"

  "Without seeing it, I shouldn't grant permission. But the reports say--yes, go in. Use the clear-out, grab, and re-containment process, but be fast."

  "Pyro, what's the draft-coefficient?"

  "Fairly slow. But once that roof is open, you'll have a furnace condition in the whole place in a matter of minutes. All it takes is one tongue of flame to lick through a firebreak, and--"

  "Yes, yes, we know. Sky crew? Go in!"

  * * * *

  VI

  Lansing's hopper crossed the ring of billowing red flares that barred all surface traffic from entering the area. Then he saw the stricken dwelling. Fire apparatus hung in the sky on their helicopter blades, hovering about the scene. As for the fire itself, there was not much to see to indicate how dangerous it was. Only a flicker and a flash of yellow flame showed at the windows. And, of course, the inevitable group of civilians huddled together in night clothing; the dwellers on either side and to the back of the Mooney place that fronted on the next street.

  As Lansing approached, the sky crew went into action. The first 'copter lowered carefully down onto the flat roof. On the bottom a six-foot, circular object began to rotate--the well-known but seldom seen sawing circle. When the cylindrical saw-teeth hit the material of the roof, the crunching noise could be heard above the racket of the many engines. It ground and it sawed, and the backlash from its effort made the pilot fight his stick to maintain hoverage.

  Then, with a final crash, three things happened in so close a serial order that they appeared to have taken place at once.

  A slow-motion picture would have shown first that the thrust of the sawing circle and its helicopter drove the equipment down when the final resistance ceased; second that the pilot fought me thrust deftly by revving the engine and throwing the bite of the rotor blades to full life; and third that when the plug of the roof was lifted free, the gout of hot volatiles belched forth to carry the helicopter high, precariously pitching in the turbulence.

  "Where's the sky hook?"

  "Coming in, with hot papa in the iron claw."

  "Ready with the flush tank?"

  "Ready!"

  "Toss it!"

  From one of the helicopters, a small, glistening object arched out. With computer accuracy it curved through the air to plunge into the newly made opening in the roof. There was no sound, but all at once the final billow of dirty smoke gushed forth, and there was no more.

  "Snappy, now!"

  Hot papa, in his glistening fire-reflecting suit, was lowered through the opening. The iron claw line went slack; the pilot of the helicopter hovered and fought his stick, for despite flushing the smoke out of the apartment with a tank of clear helium, the air above the scene was turbulent. Indeed, the helium did no more than to provide visibility. It was non-poisonous, but just as deadly for the human lungs.

  "Got baby!" came the cry. The iron claw line went taught again.

  "How is she?"

  "Alive and wrapped in baby's bunting, double-folded with cold feet."

  "All right! No re-contain!"

  * * * *

  The sawing circle lo
wered again, hovered, turned, and fitted the roof-plug back in place.

  Some battens were slapped over the circular cut, and then there came a rapid-fire series of sharp detonations as anchor-fasteners were driven home with cartridge guns. The sawing circle rose, followed by the first of a thin trickle of smoke that began to seep through the cut.

  Mooney asked, "My daughter?"

  Someone replied, "She's being treated for smoke and vapor inhalation, some poisoning, and a mild anoxia. No burns."

  "Thanks.

  "Now let's take care of the Mooneys," said Commissioner Edwards.

  "Shall we go in?"

  "Lansing?" asked Edwards.

  "Look," interjected Mooney, "if pyro and spectro say we're in no imminent danger, we'll play it by the rules."

  "Yes, but as fire chief you should be here. Lansing?"

  "Mr. Commissioner, will the Academy of Fire Fighters undertake Fire Chief Mooney's insurance? I can't underwrite it and accept the additional losses just to place him in his rightful command."

  "Now I think you are being vindictive."

  "Put yourself in my shoes, Commissioner, and take a look from a long way outside. If I go in too soon, someone is going to accuse me of trying to curry favor with the very obvious combination of fire chief and father of the girl I love. Aren't they?"

  "You'll find, young Mister Lansing, that no matter what you do, someone will criticize."

  "Then the best way is to do what I think right, isn't it?"

  "Um--"

  "All right! Now get off the air, Commissioner, and let your data gang go to work."

  Sub-Chief Walter Lang took over. "Data gang?"

  "Pyro here," said Redman. "General room ambient is about four-sixteen, with hot spots to seven-fifty."

  "Spectro," said Harrigan, "nothing new to report. The same crosssection of gases from burning or decomposed plastic fabrics, artificial leathers, and so forth."

  "All right, plug your data directly into the computer."

  The voices on the fire-radio band ceased. In their place there came a tuneless, and apparently pattemless, mixture of short pulses in many frequencies from low to high pitch. It was digital data covering the composition of the flammable gases within the confined dwelling, the temperatures found at a number of places within each room, and the rate at which each factor was changing. From the computer there spilled lengths of tape, carrying their own computer code in punched holes. These would be used for analysis later; the information they contained was already used and coded by the computer. From the collectable evidence, estimates and a computer-grade reconstruction were made of the conditions that existed in parts of the dwelling that could not be seen from the outside.