* * * * *
It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking female
receptionist "My name is Rice!" I bellowed. "Edmund Rice! I live on the
hundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and----"
"The-elevator-is-disconnected." She said it very rapidly, as though she
were growing very used to saying it.
It only stopped me for a second. "Disconnected? What do you mean
disconnected? Elevators don't _get_ disconnected!" I told her.
"We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible," she rattled. My bellowing
was bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen.
I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,
giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, as
rationally as you could please, "Would you mind terribly telling me
_why_ the elevator is disconnected?"
"I-am-sorry-sir-but-that----"
"Stop," I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw her
looking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blankly
at her screen and parroted her responses.
But now she was actually looking at _me_.
I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, "I
would like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you just
what you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You have
ruined my life."