The Tower

by Richard Martin Stern

“Mother—”

  “I mean it,” Mary McGraw said. “I’d rather be here alone for a bit. I’ll say a few prayers for both of us.” Her voice was stronger now. “Go along. Leave me with your father.” Dismissal.

  Outside gratefully into the bright sunlight, away from the place of, yes, think it, say it, the place of death. Not for you, Daddy, please, please. Oh, it will happen one day, but we don’t think about that: we pretend that Death, that dark man, will stay in the shadows indefinitely, even when we know that he will not.

  Where does one walk at such a time? To the park, greenery, trees in leaf? Where Daddy used to take you on Sunday Manhattan excursions to watch the monkeys at their antics, the sea lions enjoying themselves in their pool; to eat popcorn, too much popcorn, and perhaps ice cream as well? No, not the park.

  Patty walked, and afterward had no memory of her route or direction, but compulsion of some kind must have been at work because suddenly here was the great shining World Tower she had visited so often during the years of its construction. But it was crippled now, a helpless giant, like Bert McGraw its builder; with a nasty plume of smoke standing out near its top, and here in the plaza fire hoses, so like the hoses and wires leading from Bert McGraw’s bed, writhing through open doors into the concourse and disappearing in heavy smoke inside.

  There were police barricades and gaping people staring like ghouls, spectators at a public execution lusting for more blood, more terror. God! Patty wondered if she was going to faint.

  “Are you all right, miss?” A policeman with a black face, polite, solicitous. Behind him stood another cop, scowling his concern.

  “I’m fine,” Patty said. “It’s just”—she gestured vaguely at the tormented building—“this.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the black cop said. “A sad business.” He paused and studied her. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “I don’t know who is here.” Patty was conscious that her words were not making much sense and she tried to bring order out of confusion. “My father was supposed to be here. Up in the Tower Room.”

  “Your father, ma’am?”

  “Bert McGraw. He built the building.”

  The big Irish cop grinned suddenly. “A fine man, miss.”

  “He’s in the hospital with a heart attack.” It was a conversation from Alice in Wonderland: each statement sounded wilder and less connected than the one before. “I mean—”

  “And you’re here in his place,” the Irish cop said and nodded understandingly. “You see how it is, Frank.” The grin was gone, wiped away by sudden solemnity. “His building is in trouble and you’ve come in his place to give it support.” He nodded again. “Would you be knowing the other two who are here? A big fella by the name of—” Shannon looked at Barnes.

  “Giddings,” Barnes said. “And an architect named Wilson.

  “I know them,” Patty said. “But they’ll be busy. They—”

  “I’ll take you to them,” Shannon said. He caught her arm in a hand as big as Bert McGraw’s, led her past the barricade, and urged her across the plaza, past other cops, firemen, stepping over snaking hoses, avoiding puddles.

  It was a construction-site trailer office, not far from the substation. Inside there were drafting tables and file cabinets, a few chairs, telephones, and the man smells Patty had known on construction sites since memory began, now somehow comforting.

  Shannon said, “Miss McGraw here—” He got no further.

  Nat said, “Come in, Patty.” He took her hand. “We heard about Bert. I’m sorry.”

  Giddings said, “He’ll make out. He always has.” And then, “Those goddam doors can’t be locked. They can’t.”

  Assistant Commissioner Brown and three uniformed firemen stood by, watching, listening.

  Nat said, “We don’t know. They can’t be opened from the inside. Ben Caldwell verified that.” He paused and looked at Brown. “The doors are fail-safe. For security reasons under normal circumstances they’re locked by electromagnets from stairside. In an emergency, and God knows this is an emergency, or a power failure, they unlock automatically.”

  “It says here in the fine print,” Giddings said. “But something’s wrong, because they’re never supposed to be locked from the inside and they are. Unless”—he shook his head almost savagely—“they could be blocked instead of locked.”

  “So,” Nat said, “we send a man up each stairwell—”

  “A hundred and twenty-five floors,” Giddings said, “on foot?”

  “In the mountains,” Nat said, “you can climb a thousand feet an hour, more or less, on a trail. It’s harder here because it’s almost straight up. Say an hour and three-quarters, two hours. But how else?” He waited for no reply. To Brown he said, “Do you have any walkers? Give them axes and walkie-talkies and start them up.” He nodded at the telephone at Brown’s hand. “Tell them they’re on the way.”

  “It’s probably radio and television equipment for the mast,” Giddings said. “Piled against the fire doors. I’ve warned them about that, but they don’t listen. Heavy goddam crates, some of them are.”

  “Then,” one of the uniformed firemen said, “give them halligan tools instead of axes.”

  “And tell them,” Nat said, “to take it slow and steady, settle right down at the beginning for the long haul.” He seemed suddenly aware once more of Patty’s presence. “Have you seen Paul?”

  “Not since this morning.” She paused. “Do you need him?”

  “We need some information.”

  (On the telephone Joe Lewis, told of the mess down in the mechanical and electrical equipment subbasement, had said first, “Jesus! The whole thing gone?”

  “There’s no power at all,” Nat had said. “There are two dead men down there, one of them, what’s left of him, fried to a crisp, the firemen say.”

  “If he messed around with primary power, he would be.” Joe had paused. “You’re worried about buried fires in appliance circuits, that kind of thing? I can’t tell you offhand, man. The way we designed it a power surge couldn’t get through. There are circuit-breakers, grounds, all kinds of safety factors. The way we designed it. But if some of those changes were actually made, then I won’t guarantee anything. What does Simmons say? He’s the one who ought to know.”)

  Find Simmons.

  “I haven’t seen him,” Patty said. “I’m sorry. He saw Bert after lunch. He was with him when he had his attack. But I don’t know where he is now.” She paused. “Unless—” She stopped.

  “Unless what, Patty?”

  Patty looked around the office. Everyone was watching her, and all she could do was shake her head in silence.

  “Here,” Nat said, and taking her arm, led her to a far corner. He kept his voice low. “Unless what? Where might he be?”

  “You don’t want to know.” Her eyes were steady on his face. “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want to know any of this,” Nat said. “I don’t want to know that there are a hundred people up in that Tower Room with no way to get out, and I don’t want to know that there may be a hundred fires we haven’t seen yet, maybe a thousand, about to break out of the walls—” He stopped with effort. “Patty, if you know where he is, or even might be, then I’ve got to know because we have to know where we stand.”

  “Daddy might know.”

  Nat was silent.

  “But even if he does,” Patty said, “he can’t tell us, can he? I’m not—thinking very straight. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe Zib knows where he is.”

  Nat made no move, but the change in him was plain, and deep. “Does that mean what I think it does?” His voice was quiet.

  “I’m sorry, Nat.”

  “Stop being sorry and answer my question.”

  Patty’s chin came up. “It means,” Patty said, “that my Paul and your Zib have been, as they used to say, having an affair. I don’t think it’s even called that now. There is probably some in name for it. There is for everything else
. I am sorry. For you. For me. For the whole thing. But the point is, maybe Zib might know where Paul is. I don’t.”

  Nat walked to the nearest telephone. He picked it up and dialed with a steady hand. His face was expressionless. To the magazine’s operator, “Zib Wilson, please,” he said, and there was nothing at all in his voice.

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Her husband.” Was there angry emphasis there? No matter.

  And here came Zib’s light, easy, boarding-school-and-seven-sisters-college voice, “Hi, dear. What’s up? Or is that a bawdy question?”

  “Do you know where Paul Simmons is?”

  There was the faintest hesitation. “Why on earth would I know where Paul is, darling?”

  “Never mind the why right now,” Nat said. “Do you know? I need him. Bad.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Nat took a deep breath and held his temper firm. “We’ve got fires in the World Tower. We’ve got Bert McGraw in the hospital with a heart attack. We’ve got a hundred people trapped in the Tower Room on the hundred and twenty-fifth floor. And I need information from Paul.”

  “Darling”—Zib’s voice was the patient voice of a kindergarten teacher explaining to a backward child—“why don’t you ask Patty? She—”

  “Patty is right here with me. She said to ask you.”

  There was a pause. “I see,” Zib said, and that was all.

  The temper broke. “I’ll ask you once more,” Nat said. “Where is the son of a bitch? If you don’t know where he is, find him. And get him down here. On the double. Is that clear?”

  “You’ve never talked to me like this before.”

  “It was a mistake. I probably ought to have paddled your patrician ass. Find him and get him here. Is that clear?”

  “I’ll—do what I can.”

  “That,” Nat said, “isn’t good enough. Find him. Get him here. Period.” He hung up and stood staring at the wall.

  Giddings and Brown looked at each other and said nothing.

  The walkie-talkie one of the uniformed firemen was holding came abruptly to life. “Chief?”

  Chief Jameson raised the walkie-talkie. “Right here.”

  “Walters. The original fire started on the fourth floor. It’s almost under control.”

  “Beautiful,” Jameson said. “Beautiful.” He was smiling.

  “Not so beautiful,” Walters said. “There are a dozen fires. More. Above us, below us.” He coughed, a deep retching sound. “It’s got to be wiring. Whatever let go down in the subbasement sent just a hell of a jolt through the whole building.”

  There was silence. Nat turned from the wall. He looked at Giddings. “Now we know,” he said slowly. “From here on we don’t need to guess.”

  Giddings nodded, an awkward, strained movement. “Just pray,” he said.

  13

  4:39P.M.-4:43P.M.

  In the office off the Tower Room the fire commissioner listened on the telephone, nodded, said, “Keep in touch,” and hung up. He looked around the office. “They’re sending men up the stairs.” His voice was expressionless.

  The governor said, “How long does it take to climb a hundred and twenty-five floors?” He waited, but nobody answered. The governor nodded. “All right, then we’d better try some things ourselves.” He was silent for a moment, pondering the problem. “Ben, you and the commissioner commandeer three or four of those waiters. There are some husky lads. Start working on one of those doors.” He paused and looked at the fire commissioner. “If we get a door open, we’re in the clear, aren’t we? A protected stairwell all the way to the ground?”

  The commissioner hesitated.

  The mayor said, “Speak up, man. Answer the question.”

  “It ought to be clear,” the commissioner said. His tone was reluctant.

  “Let’s be plain,” the governor said. “You’re dragging your feet. Why?”

  Beth Shirley stood quietly, watching, listening. Moment by moment, she thought, the governor was growing in stature, dwarfing the other men in the room. Well, not entirely. Senator Peters in his own sometimes crude, sometimes erudite and understanding way bore up well under scrutiny too. It was a truism, of course, that in crisis you saw more clearly a man’s quality, or a woman’s for that matter; but she had never before realized how vivid the demonstration could be.

  The commissioner was still hesitating, and now he glanced quickly at Beth. “The lady—” he began.

  The governor’s hand tightened on hers. “The lady,” the governor said, “is just as interested in our predicament as anyone else. You haven’t said it yet, but the implication is clear. The stairwells aren’t the havens we thought them to be. Why?”

  “The men on the stairs,” the commissioner said, “have walkietalkies. They’re—reporting smoke.”

  The office was still. “That means what?” the governor said at last. He turned to look at Ben Caldwell.

  “I couldn’t say without more information,” Caldwell said. He studied the fire commissioner. “What have you left out?”

  The commissioner took a deep breath. “The first fire is contained. By itself it wouldn’t have amounted to much. But what happened down in the main transformer room killed two men and apparently started fires”—he spread both hands—“throughout the structure.”

  Grover Frazee waggled his head in denial. “A modern fireproof building—that’s ridiculous. How could it be? You heard it wrong.” He looked at Caldwell. “Isn’t that right, Ben? Tell him.”

  Caldwell said, “Fireproof, no. Fire resistant, yes. Now, be quiet, Grover. Let’s find out exactly where we stand.” He pointed at the commissioner. “Call them back. I want to speak to Nat Wilson.”

  Frazee said, “There. There’s your proof. The telephone works, so we can’t be out of electricity. Don’t you see that?” He looked around at them all.

  Caldwell said almost wearily, “Telephones have their own power source. There is no connection.” He accepted the phone from the commissioner. “Nat?” he said, and punched the telephone’s desk speaker.

  “Yes, sir.” Nat’s voice was hollow in the office. “You’ll want a rundown. The fourth-floor fire is under control now. What happened down in the subbasement isn’t clear yet, and there may not be enough left to find out ever, but whatever happened somehow managed to short out primary power, and we think, Joe Lewis, Giddings, and I, that the short sent a surge through the entire building and wiring overheated and burned through its insulation and conduit.” Nat was silent.

  “That,” Caldwell said slowly, “could account for smoke in the stairwells?”

  “We think so.” Nat was unaware that he had dropped the “sir.” “The men on the stairs report that in places the walls are too hot to touch. What’s happening inside the fire doors is anybody’s guess.” Nat paused. “Only it isn’t a guess. It’s practically a goddam certainty. When Simmons gets here, we may know a little more.”

  Caldwell thought about it. “Simmons,” he said, and was silent for a little time. Then, “Joe Lewis agrees that there could have been a current surge?”

  “Yes.” They were speaking in shorthand, implications plain.

  “And you think Simmons—” Caldwell stopped. “Bert McGraw—”

  “Bert’s in the hospital with a heart attack,” Nat said. Then, intuitively, “That may be Simmons’s doing too.”

  Caldwell took his time. “The question here,” he said, “is whether or not to try to break down the fire doors. If—”

  “Are you getting much smoke through the air-conditioning ducts?”

  “Not too much.”

  “Then,” Nat said, “leave the doors alone.” His voice was firm, commanding.

  Another one, Beth thought, although she had never seen the man, who in an emergency would take charge. She looked up at the governor and watched him nod in understanding.

  Ben Caldwell was hesitating.

  Nat’s voice said, “We know there’s smoke in the stairwells. T
here’s nothing to stop it from rising all the way to your floor. If you’re more or less smoke-free now, keep it that way. Leave the doors shut.”

  “I think you are right,” Caldwell said.

  “Giddings,” Nat said, “thinks the doors may be blocked by radio and TV equipment being taken up into the tower. They’ve done it before, he says, and I’ve seen it myself. If that’s so, the stairs may be blocked too.”

  Caldwell smiled his tight little smile. “Conditions scarcely anticipated in the design, Nat.” He paused. “A concatenation of errors.” He shook his head.

  “We’ve got through to the Army,” Nat said. “You’ll see a couple of chopper’s around in a few minutes.”

  Caldwell’s eyebrows rose. “Your idea?”

  “Brown made the call. He’s assistant fire commissioner, and they listened to him where they wouldn’t bother with me.” Nat paused. “I don’t know what they can do, to be honest with you, but I thought it would be good if they had a look.”

  Again Caldwell smiled. “Keep thinking, Nat.”

  “And it might be a good idea to keep this line open.”

  Caldwell nodded. “I agree. I think that is all for now.” He turned back to the room. “Comments?” He addressed them all. “Questions?”

  “Just one,” the governor said. “How did all this happen?”

  CONSTRUCTION TIME

  For some from the start it was one of those jobs you writhed in dreams about and awakened sweating. The sheer magnitude of the World Tower was frightening, but it was more, far more than that. The building taking shape seemed to develop a personality of its own, and that personality was malign.

  On a cold fall day a freak wind whipped through the huge empty space where the plaza would be, picked up a loose piece of corrugation, and scaled it as a boy might scale a flattened tin can. A workman named Bowers saw it coming, tried too late to duck, and was almost but not quite decapitated.

  The front tire of a partially off-loaded truck standing perfectly still suddenly blew out with sufficient force to shift the untied load of pipe, burying three men in a tangle of assorted fractures.

  On another cold fall day a fire started in a subbasement, spread through piled lumber, and trapped two men in a tunnel. They were rescued alive—just.