The Tower

by Richard Martin Stern

  Giddings said, “And there’s an electrical foreman and a building inspector who ought to be strung up by their”—he stopped and looked at Patty—“thumbs.”

  “Some of my men,” Tim Brown said, “let things get by that they shouldn’t have.” He shook his head angrily.

  “And,” Nat said, “some of us ought to have caught mistakes and worse while they were going on.” He was silent for a few moments. “One more thing,” he said, “maybe bigger than all the others put together.” His voice was solemn. “Just who in hell do we think we are, designing a building that size, that complicated, and that—vulnerable?”

  It was then that the walkie-talkie came to life. “Roof to Trailer,” it said.

  In the sudden silence, Nat picked it up. “Trailer here.”

  The chief’s voice said, “Something white is waving. You’d better get on the air. I have the breeches buoy and I’m holding it.”

  Nat took a deep breath. “Here we go,” he said and reached for the phone.

  33

  8P.M.-8:41P.M.

  Accounts vary; that of course is the norm. But in telling what happened there in the Tower Room, each survivor actually appears to have his own private version which holds him, if not heroic, at least blameless; and no amount of contradiction by others is even listened to. Perhaps that is the norm as well.

  On one point there is agreement: without warning, and by one of those freaks that were so much a part of this disastrous day, the air-conditioning ducts suddenly belched out quantities of hot acrid smoke. And that, like the pulling of a trigger, apparently set off the explosion.

  This was the setting:

  The transistor radio, tuned now to the city’s own station, played quiet music. The women were gone now, and there was no more dancing.

  In a corner of the large room Rabbi Stein, Monsignor O’Toole, and the Reverend Arthur William Williams spoke quietly together. The subject of their discussion has not been disclosed.

  In the loading area behind the table barricades, Harrison Paul, conductor of the city’s symphony orchestra, allowed himself to be hoisted into the breeches buoy and swung out through the window. He tried to keep his eyes closed, but the temptation to look was too great, and what he saw of the city beneath him from this terrifying and almost unsupported height made him violently sick. The storm music from the “Pastoral” Symphony thundered through his mind, he later recalled, as he clung desperately to the canvas bag, swaying and bouncing, positive that he was going to be killed. When at last he reached sanctuary, and the chief and Kronski together lifted him out of the breeches buoy, he dropped immediately to his knees to kiss the Trade Center roof.

  He was the first man out, and for a time it appeared that he would also be the last.

  The waiter with three kids was sitting on the floor now, still nursing his bottle of bourbon. The number of the crude lottery ticket in his pocket was ninety-nine. He had already decided that his chances of getting out safely were just about those of a celluloid dog chasing an asbestos cat through Hell. He did not particularly enjoy the bourbon, but he was determined that he was not going to panic; and he thought that maybe if he passed out, he wouldn’t mind so much what he was powerless to prevent.

  The two firemen, two waiters, the fire commissioner, and the secretary general were behind the table barricades. One of the waiters testified later that the room was quiet; that you could feel tension building, particularly after the women were gone, but that everything seemed under control. “Until,” he added, “the stuff hit the fan.” There was surprise in his voice that it had been so.

  Cary Wycoff was talking with a dozen men, only one of whom, another waiter, has been identified. His name was Bill Samuelson, and he had been at various times a longshoreman, a semi-pro football player, and a professional boxer of small accomplishment. No one else has ever chosen to admit being part of that group.

  It was hot and getting hotter; on that point too there is agreement. The waiter from the barricaded area told it like this:

  “It was funny. The wind coming in from the broken-out windows was cold and my hands were almost numb. But my feet were hot and the rest of me felt like, you know, like I was standing in a hot room in the gym, you know what I mean? Heat all around us, but still the cold wind, and that was what was so—funny, if you see what I mean.”

  Ben Caldwell and the Soviet ambassador were talking together about the architecture of Moscow and the nostalgia that always struck the ambassador whenever he saw in this alien land of America a Zwiebelturm, the onion-shaped tower of Eastern European design.

  Senator Peters was at the west bank of windows, quietly watching gulls over the river and the harbor. For him there was never-ending pleasure and release from tension in watching birds, and sometimes even heart-lifting surprises as well, as when once in New Mexico, movement in the sky had caught his eye and he had quickly counted thirty-five great birds in flight, heading south, their black-tipped white wings slowly beating and their long legs trailing to identify them beyond a doubt as the single remaining flock of whooping cranes, probably off their normal migrating path in order to avoid a storm, but still heading with that mystical knowledge and compulsion about which so little is known straight for their Texas nesting grounds. Now, watching the herring gulls wheeling and probably shrieking as well, free as the air in which they flew, he wondered as he had wondered infinite times before why man in his evolution had chosen to remain earthbound.

  The governor was still alone in the office with the dead telephone and his thoughts. He could hear faintly the music on the transistor radio, but other than that the big room outside was quiet. The governor’s thoughts were not.

  Why had he not even tried to pull rank and place himself among the first of the men to ride the breeches buoy to safety? On the face of it, there was no answer that made any kind of logical sense. By now, or within a very few minutes, he could have been over on that Trade Center roof instead of sitting here at this stupid desk waiting—waiting for what? The answer to that was plain. He was waiting for the end to this tragic farce, but as a participant, not a spectator. How ridiculous could the situation be?

  What thoughts a man allows himself in private! Ignoble, craven thoughts, sometimes lewd thoughts, dishonest thoughts, warped, even mad thoughts: all of the mental brew the devil’s cauldron can contain.

  But they are only thoughts, and neither obsessive nor translated into action; and there is the difference between what men call sanity on the one hand and madness on the other.

  So regardless of what he had done or not done through selfish use of power, he could wish that it had been otherwise. He told himself that he retained that privilege—and found that he was amused by his own hair-splitting. Amused, and not a little disgusted. He—

  “So solemn, Bent.” Beth’s voice from the doorway. She stood quietly, a half-smile on her lips, awaiting his judgment.

  The governor stared at her in wonder, gaping he thought. “Something happened to the breeches buoy?”

  Smiling still, she shook her head.

  The governor raised his hands, and then dropped them. It was near disbelief that he felt, colored by joy and sorrow. “You didn’t go,” he said. He paused. “I couldn’t watch.”

  “I saw.” She walked slowly forward.

  “I tried to phone to see if you were—safe.” The governor paused. “But the line is dead.” He roused himself from near-apathy. “I wanted you safe.” His voice was stronger, some of its old assurance regained.

  “I know.” Beth had reached the desk now. She perched on it as before, long legs swinging gently. She held out her hand, and the governor took it, held it tight.

  “You should have gone, damn it.”

  “No, Bent.” There was calmness and serenity in her voice, her manner. “I told you I was not going to—make believe any more.”

  “I wanted you to live.” He paused. “I still do.” True or false? Damn the analysis anyway.

  “I know. I made the
decision.”

  “It was the wrong one.” The governor pushed back his chair. “We’ll—”

  “No, Bent. I gave up my place. Even if I wanted to, there is no taking it back. When you step out, you go to the end of the line.”

  “Damn it—”

  “Bent, listen to me.” Her fingers squeezed his. “All my life I have been—decorative perhaps, maybe sometimes diverting, amusing, congenial, all of the things we are taught to be.” She paused. “And useless.” She saw objection forming on his lips and she forestalled it quickly. “Yes. Useless.” She hurried on. “But these past few hours for the first time in my life I have felt that I was—doing something useful, not very much perhaps, but far, far more than I have ever done before.”

  “All right,” the governor said, “so you’ve learned a few things while we’ve been trapped here. Then take that knowledge and go—”

  “There is another reason, Bent. Shall I say it? Because it is not the kind of thing one says and is believed. But it is true.” She paused, her hand now quietly resting in his. Her eyes were calm on his face. “It is that I would rather be here with you than be outside—alone again.”

  The office was still. Distantly, faintly, the music sounds reached them, but that was all. From the overhead air-conditioning duct a puff of black smoke appeared, spread, and settled slowly. Neither noticed it.

  “What do I say to that?” the governor said. “I’ve been sitting here alone, feeling sorry for myself—” He stopped. “Damn it, it isn’t right for you to be here! You—”

  “Where I want to be?” Beth shook her head slowly. She was smiling again, with her lips, with her eyes, with all of her. “Dear Bent—” she began.

  It was then that the first sudden sounds of strife broke out in the large room, voices raised in angry shouts, the din of furniture overturning.

  The governor shoved his chair back and stood up. He hesitated only a moment. “Stay here,” he said and hurried through the doorway.

  It was a scene from bedlam played in a haze of black smoke. One of the barricade tables was already overturned and men like animals were forcing it aside, opening a passage, tearing at one another in their frenzy.

  As the governor looked, the fire commissioner grabbed the nearest man by his jacket front, drew him close with a savage motion and drove his fist against the man’s mouth. He released him and reached for another.

  A waiter in a white coat, a large muscular man—it was Bill Samuelson—crowded through the gap, slammed two punches into the commissioner’s belly and pushed him aside to fall.

  Cary Wycoff stood near the overturned table, free of the melee, his voice raised, screeching, and as the governor trotted across the room Senator Peters, a candlestick in his right hand, poked Cary in the middle with it, doubling him over, and without pausing moved on to slam the candlestick against the big waiter’s head. The man dropped like a poleaxed steer.

  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 on 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.

  “ALL 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 n
ext 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 corner 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.