The fire commissioner said, “This is a hell of a big tree. That gives us a little more time.”
“For what?” Grover Frazee said. “Just to wait, knowing what’s going to happen?” He stood up suddenly. “Well, I’m not!’ His voice was rising.
In the doorway Mayor Ramsay said, “Sit down, man! Start behaving like a responsible adult.”
In the silence, “You ought to have been a Boy Scout leader,” Frazee said. “Probably you were. For God, for Mother, and for Yale? The old school tie and noblesse oblige?” He shook his head as he started for the doorway. “Don’t try to stop me.” He spoke directly to the governor.
“We won’t,” the governor said, and watched Frazee disappear around the comer.
The office was still. Beth opened her mouth, closed it again without a sound. The fire commissioner stirred uneasily. The mayor said, “We should have stopped him, Bent.”
“A judgment call,” the governor said. “I’ll take the responsibility.”
Fireman Howard said, “He’ll never in this world get down those stairs, Governor.”
“I am aware of it.” The governor’s face showed strain. Senator Peters appeared in the doorway. He leaned against the doorjamb.
“A judgment call,” the governor said again. “Maybe it was right, maybe wrong. I don’t know. We’ll never know. Decisions like that can be argued indefinitely.”
“You are talking,” the mayor said, “about a man’s life, Bent.”
“I am aware of that too,” the governor said. “But what gives me the right of decision over another man’s life?”
“Are you abdicating your position?”
“There, Bob,” the governor said, “is one of the differences between us. I don’t believe in the Papa-knows-best-in-all-matters theory. In areas of public concern I will take a stand. But what a grown man chooses to do, unless it directly affects others, is not my concern.”
From the large outer room the rock beat was plain. A female voice rose suddenly in laughter, shrill, alcoholic, tinged with hysteria. Somebody shouted, “Hey, look! He’s going out the door!”
“This is your total public at the moment, Bent,” the mayor said. “And they are affected by Frazee. You can’t deny that.”
“That,” the governor said, “is what makes it a judgment call. On balance I think the public is best served by letting him go. One more disruptive force—out of sight.”
Senator Peters said mildly to the room in general, “Cold-blooded son of a bitch, isn’t he?”
There was no answer.
The senator smiled. “But I’ll have to go along with you, Bent.”
The governor roused himself in the desk chair. “So what we have left,” he said, “is the hope that somehow your people, Pete, are going to be able to contain the fire before it reaches”—he smiled suddenly—“the nest.”
“Like I said,” the commissioner said, “it’s a hell of a big tree.”
Ben Caldwell said, “Has anyone had a weather report? A good drenching thunderstorm would help.”
Beth, watching, listening, could almost feel a storm in the air. Losing herself in memory, she thought of the approaching darkness as the thunderheads build. Then the first stir of the winds that mount, the first distant muttering of the storm. How often had she experienced it, and how many times, particularly as a child, had she resented the spoiling of a summer afternoon?
The drops at first would be large, heavy, widely spaced, while the lightning flashes came in faster sequence and the intervals between flash and thunderclap diminished.
One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three hippopotamus … counting the length of the intervals in seconds to estimate the distance of the flash until, with the center of the storm directly overhead, there was no longer any interval, flash and thunderclap simultaneous.
Then the heavens opened and the rain became a solid mass, sometimes with hailstones bouncing or rattling on windows and roof, and the gods themselves seeming to shake the universe.
And she had resented this? When now, merely because of Ben Caldwell’s two sentences, a thunderstorm suddenly represented hope of salvation? Incredible.
“A nice summer rain would be good,” the governor was saying. He was smiling. “Do you know any rainmakers, Ben?”
The telephone made noises. The governor flipped on the speaker switch that all might hear. “Armitage here.”
Nat Wilson’s weary voice said, “The second shot was no better than the first, Governor. It wasn’t much of a hope from the start, but we gave it the best try we could.”
“Understood,” the governor said. “We appreciate the effort.”
“Brown wants to know if his two men reached you safely.”
“They did. They are sitting here now.” The governor paused. “Did the other two get back down?”
There was a pause. Brown’s voice came on the speaker. “I’m sorry to say they haven’t, Governor. They’re on about the fiftieth floor. There’s fire in the stairwell beneath them.”
“Then send them back up, man. If they can still walk, that is.”
“There is fire above them too, Governor.”
The governor’s eyes were closed. At length he opened them. “Brown.”
“Sir?”
“Put Wilson on again.” And when Nat’s voice acknowledged, “I want a complete report prepared,” the governor said. “Chapter and verse of this—comedy of errors. I want it made now, while some testimony can still be taken. No holds barred, no sensitivities pampered. Who did what or failed to do what and, where possible, why. As long as we are able we will keep you informed of everything that happens up here, every decision we make, every fact we find.”
Plain on the speaker was a muttering voice in the background: Giddings rumbling protest.
“Tell whoever that is,” the governor said, “that this s a court of inquiry before the eventual fact, and that if properly done, this report may prevent further ridiculous episodes such as this one. At least I hope to God it will.”
“I understand, Governor,” Nat said.
“Let the facts themselves tell the story,” the governor went on. “Grind no axes. They aren’t necessary. I think under the circumstances there will be blame enough to go around.” He paused. “Including blame among some of us up here for letting our ambitions get out of hand.” He paused once more. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right,” the governor said. “We will put together—” He stopped at the sudden hush out in the big room. Someone screamed, screamed again. It was contagious. “Hold on,” the governor said and jumped from his chair to rush to the doorway and look out. “God!” he said. “God in heaven!”
Someone had opened the fire door in answer to hammered knocks. Grover Frazee stood framed in the doorway. Most of his clothing had burned away. He was burned bald and blackened, his eyes were merely dark holes in the torment of his face. His teeth showed white in a rictus grin. Flesh from his upper body hung in ragged strips and the remaining leather of his shoes smoldered. He made one wavering step forward, arms partially outstretched, a bubbling rattling sound deep in his throat. And then all at once he collapsed face forward into a huddled, blackened, smoking heap. He made one convulsive shudder, and then no further move and no sound. The big room was silent, in shock.
The governor said quietly, “Cover him up.” His face was expressionless as he turned back into the office. A judgment call, he thought, and closed his eyes briefly.
26
It could not be happening—but it was. One by one the building’s defenses tried to meet the attack and, failing, collapsed.