"To the left of the Staircase," the voice went on, "you will observe the Edmond Cenotaph, erected in memory of Edmond Crawford, second Boss of Colorado." This was an enormous wedding cake of granite and white metal; there was an inscription, which they were too far away to read, and the whole thing seemed to form a base for what Dick guessed was a heroic figure of some kind, but only the feet were visible.
The group was straggling off to the left, into a large and temporary-looking open elevator. There was room for them all, and to spare; a small truck could have been driven onto the car. With nothing but a flimsy folding gate between them and vacancy, the car jerked and slowly rose.
Above the first stage, the ulterior of the Tower revealed itself as a dim, hollow shell of scaffolding in which tiny figures were at work like bees in a honeycomb. Some portions of the inward-sloping/framework had been covered with great arabesques of wrought-metal, intricate figures that curved and looped back upon themselves; others were being faced with what looked like enamel or ceramic tiles. "Each and every square inch of the Tower," said their guide, "inside and out, at completion will be ornamented with unique works of art by Eagles craftsmen gathered from all over the world. Here you see one of the fifty cineramas which will be set in motion throughout the Tower." This was a floating platform, almost invisibly suspended, on which gigantic bright-colored automatons knelt stiffly -- a man and two boys, all with jointed snakes wrapped around them. "Mythological scenes are represented," the guide added.
At the next stage the car came to a halt, and they all trooped out across a clattering floor to another and smaller elevator. This took them into twilit gulfs above, where the sounds of labor echoed but dimly, and then into a sudden and dazzling glow of light. They had risen above the area of scaffolding into the sun again, and in rows of tall windows they could see the sky.
The second elevator also stopped short of the summit, and they climbed a narrow echoing stair, beyond which the wind whistled, to reach a triangular platform under a domed roof.
Dick paused at the nearest window and looked down. He could not see the base of the Tower, but down there, directly below, lay Eagles like a many-colored carpet dropped on the mountain top. From this giddy height the mountain itself dropped away into distance; the window frame trembled under his hand to the wind's buffeting, and the wall seemed about to tilt over into emptiness.
Clay's hand at his elbow roused him. "Come on, don't daydream or you'll miss it."
The rest of the group was crowding around the center of the platform, where a railing surrounded a circular open shaft. This must be the central pillar around which the stairway was built, Dick realized; for some reason, it was hollow. He found a place next to Clay and peered down.
The shaft was about ten feet across, perfectly circular and smooth, and dropped straight down until the successive rings of light from recessed lamps melted into one. The bottom was a dot, a mere mathematical point. A cool air breathed up the shaft, carrying a faint, unpleasant odor. Dick found himself trembling.
"Sixteen hundred feet down," said Clay, beside him. He took out a handkerchief, tied a knot in it, and dropped it over the rail. The winged, white shape floated downward, drifted, diminishing, crawled endlessly toward the center of light, and was gone.
"No metal objects, please," said the guide. Across the shaft, the red-faced man was about to drop a metal flask. "Cloth, paper or wooden objects may be dropped," the guide said, "but you are asked not to drop metal, glass or plastic."
The red-faced man dropped his flask in. It struck something protruding from the wall of the shaft with a sharp tink, glanced off and receded, whirling.
"Mister," said the guide, advancing, "I asked you not to drop metal objects."
The red-faced man turned unsteadily, fishing a cigar lighter out of his pocket. "Don't tell me," he said, and threw the lighter in. He scowled into the officer's face. "Are you a man, or are you a slob?" he demanded. "Don't no slob tell me what to do, by God." Here -- "He struggled to get something out of his pocket.
The officer signed to the two guards, who were hurrying up. They seized the red-faced man by the elbows and started to manhandle him toward the stair. He resisted, shouting obscenities, and managed to kick a middle-aged lady in the hip as he passed. The lady fell with a shriek; the officer, biting his mustache, stepped up and hit the red-faced man on the temple with a little, leather-covered blackjack.
The blow did not look hard, but the red-faced man slumped instantly and was carried off like dead meat. After a moment, the rest of the crowd began to straggle after; the injured lady was helped to her feet and left with the rest.
Following, Dick stumbled against a stack of paper bags, heavy and solid; a dusting of white came off on his shoe. Curiously, he paused and bent to read the label, half obscured by white powder: UNSLAKED LIME.
He caught up with Clay halfway down the stair, "that Guard officer is a slob," he said. "I saw his mark. But he hit a man -- hit him hard."
Clay nodded. "He had his orders."
"But you can't have slobs hitting people," Dick said. "What's going to happen to him now?"
Clay glanced at him with a faint smile. "What do you think?"
They entered the elevator and rode down in silence. The Guard officer, who was pale, looked straight ahead. The red-faced man hung, breathing heavily, between the two guards who supported him. At the ground floor they propped him in a corner while the officer telephoned; that was the last Dick saw of either of them.
10
Melker's reception, as usual, was crowded and colorful. Melker himself was there for a wonder, a gnomish, unpleasant little man with a really repulsive beard. His rooms were big but rather shabby; Melker had vague Army connections but was nobody himself, as far as Dick could determine: why everybody seemed to come to his Saturday night receptions, he couldn't tell; but since everybody did, he went too. The entertainment was good -- two accomplished dancers tonight, and a comedian who had once been attached to the Household. Towards eleven o'clock, though, as always, the evening turned unaccountably dull; all the pretty women began to go home, the waiters with the drinks disappeared, some old gasbag like Colonel Rosen would take the floor and start fighting the War of Establishment all over again -- people would be yawning all over the suite, and at this point, Dick always drifted out with a gang of acquaintances who were looking for something livelier.
Tonight, however, Clay drew him aside as he was moving toward the door. "Going so soon? Wait a while."
Dick nodded toward Colonel Rosen, who was holding forth in a parade-ground voice at the other side of the room. "And listen to that? No, thanks."
Clay didn't release his arm. "There's a reason. Wait."
Puzzled and intrigued, Dick found a seat and watched more alertly. For a while, if anything, the assemblage merely got more desperately dull. Then, after one incoherent drunk was helped out, the atmosphere miraculously changed. Colonel Rosen shut up and poured himself a neat drink; waiters were again moving among the chairs; there was a murmur of talk and laughter; even the lights seemed brighter but less glaring.
Dick looked around him. Most of those present were men in their prime; there was a sprinkling of young men and oldsters, and only three women -- two dowagers who had settled themselves close together, each with her own body-servant at hand, and a youngish but very plain woman in the far corner.
Melker, who was seated near the fireplace, now rapped for attention with a wineglass. "Men and ladies," he said, "the subject for tonight is 'Slavery.' Colonel Rosen, will you oblige us by opening with the traditional view?"