Lights blinked unseen in the computer-control console for a time, but when all power failed, they too went dead.
On floor after floor sprinklers went into action, their fusible metal links melted by the heat. But much of the heat was within the structure itself, unreachable by sprinkler spray, and when fire did burst into the open, gulping fresh air to fuel its fury, temperatures rose so rapidly that water within the sprinkler pipes turned to steam, and the pipes burst; and one more enemy attack had carried.
Within the building’s core not one but a hundred, a thousand vertical crevices turned swiftly into chimneys, carrying heat up and concomitantly reaching down to suck in more fresh air, first to generate and then to support combustion.
Heated air rises—the statement is axiomatic—and super-heated air rises more quickly than air merely warmed. But heat can be transmitted by conduction as welclass="underline" quickly through steel structure, more slowly but still inexorably through paneling and tiling and flooring, through ducts themselves, wiring and piping and curtain walls. And a fire once well begun becomes almost self-sustaining, raising temperatures above combustion levels, causing materials seemingly to ignite spontaneously. Prometheus has much to answer for.
Word had spread. The great building which was to have been a world communications center was now focus for world communications of a different kind. Around the world it was known, and in some places the knowledge was received with pleasure, if not joy, that in the richest country on earth, in the newest, tallest building man had ever conceived, a peacetime catastrophe was in the making, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men were helpless to cope.
Not quite.
They had covered what was left of Grover Frazee with a white tablecloth and left the body where it had fallen. The fire door was again closed, but to everyone in the room it was clear now that fire doors were only temporary protection. The invading enemy would break through in his own time. Unless—
“They are trying to contain the fire in the lower floors,” the governor said. He was again standing on the chair. “That is our best hope.” He had almost said only hope.
He no longer had a full audience. Over in one comer of the big room the transistor radio again played rock music. Half a dozen people were dancing, if that was what it could be called. Well, the governor thought, he had said it himself: it was either that or hymns and prayer. He ignored the spectacle.
“I am sorry to report that the elevator attempt failed.” He paused. “Considering what happened to the first attempt, maybe that is just as well.” Jesus H Jumping Christ, he thought, I am reduced to platitudes. He made himself smile suddenly. “I won’t say that everything is ginger-peachy. It isn’t. On the other hand, we are all right here for the present, and I for one intend to hold the thought that our fire-fighting friends will get here in time.” He paused. “And now I am going to have a drink. After all, this started out as a reception.”
He stepped down from the chair and took Beth’s arm. “A drink,” he said, “and somewhere to talk. I am tired of grinning like an idiot to show how confident I am.” With her, Beth thought, he did not feel that he had to dissemble. There was the miracle.
Together they walked to the bar, and then carried drinks to a deserted corner. The governor swung two chairs into proximity. They sat companionably close, their backs to the room.
It was Beth who broke the silence. “Thoughts, Bent?” she said;
“Gloomy and angry.” The governor smiled suddenly, this time with meaning. “I’m Slinking of waste. Regretting it. Hating it.” He paused. “Mentally shaking my fists at the sky. Exercise in childish futility.”
She could understand the feeling, even share it. She forced it aside. “When I was a child,” she said, “and being punished, confined to my room”—she made herself smile—“I used to try to think of what I would most like to do, concentrate on that. What would you most like to do, Bent?”
Slowly, even perceptibly some of the tension flowed from him. His smile turned easy and gentle. “Retire from politics,” he said. “I have the means and I have had the fun. That ranch out in New Mexico—”
“Just that. Bent? Nothing more.”
He took his time. At last he shook his head. “No. You make me look at myself. I would hate total retirement.” Again the meaningful smile. “I am a lawyer. I’d like to find out how good a lawyer I am.”
“You would be good at anything you decided to do.”
“But the fishing would always be there,” the governor said, almost as if she had not spoken, “and I would see to it that there was always time for it.” He paused. “And since I am painting a picture of Utopia, you would always be there too.”
There was warmth in her mind, in her being. “Is that a proposal?”
Without hesitation, “It is.”
“Then,” Beth said slowly, “I accept with pleasure.”
Nat walked to the door of the trailer and down the steps to stand on the plaza level and stare up at the immensity of the building. Until she spoke, he was unaware that Patty had followed him.
“All the people,” Patty said.
Nat looked then at the huge crowd beyond the barricades. “Times Square New Year’s Eve,” he said. There was anger in his voice. “Goddam ghouls. Maybe we ought to bum people at the stake in public, sell tickets, make millions.”
Patty was silent.
“We’re all to blame,” Nat said. “That’s the first thing. I’m glad Bert never knew.”
“Thank you for that.” Patty paused. “And remember it. Others are involved too. Even Daddy. Everybody’s had a hand in it, not just you, don’t you see?”
He could smile then with effort. “You’re a cheerer-upper.” Unlike Zib, who tended to be stylishly downbeat. And that, he thought, was another of the big city’s characteristics he did not like: the firm conviction that nothing was ever what it appeared to be; that there was nothing really to be for, only against; the ubiquitous you-aren’t-going-to-make-a-sucker-out-of-me defense thrown up like a barbed-wire entanglement to protect the insecure inner compound; all of it in the name of worldly sophistication. Sophistry, perhaps, but not sophistication.
“What is going to happen to all those people, Nat?” Patty’s voice was quietly intense. “Will they—” She left the question unfinished.
“They’re hauling hose in and up,” Nat said, “a floor at a time. Every step is a fight. There are one hundred and twenty-five floors to go.”
“But what is burning? That’s what I don’t understand.”
“Everything. Some of the offices have been leased. Furniture, carpeting, paneled doors, paper records—those are the first to burn. And that raises the temperature to the point where paint will bum and floor tiling and plaster will melt, and that in turn raises the temperature even more until things you wouldn’t believe combustible start to go too.” Nat paused. “I’m not a fire expert, but that in general is how it goes.”
“Suppose,” Patty said, “that the building had been occupied when this happened. Thousands of people instead of a hundred.” She paused. “But numbers aren’t really important, are they? If it were only one person, it would still be—tragic.”
In the midst of her own grief over Bert McGraw’s death, Nat thought, she could still concern herself with others. Maybe because of McGraw’s death, the loss somehow making all men kin.
“What are you going to do, Nat?”
The question caught him off balance. “That,” he said, “is what I’m trying to think of.”
“No,” Patty’s voice was gentle now. “I mean when all of this is over.”