“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 m 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 inside, 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 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.
“ALI 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.