SEVEN

Westehvelt was still sitting with Joe Rosenkrantz in the communications

room when Colborn's call came through. He looked over Joe's shoulder as

the operator swiveled to face his telephone viewer.

"How come you remembered the number?" he greeted Colborn. "Did the

elevator doors close on you?"

"Very-funny-ha-ha!" retorted Colborn. "Look, Joe--have you got power?"

Westervelt peered closer, thinking that the redhead looked unusually

concerned. Rosenkrantz seemed not to have noticed.

"Power?" he said. "Have I got power! I can pull in stations you never

heard of, just on willpower! _You_--you poor slob--you don't even

remember if you're on your way home or coming to work! What is it now?"

"I'll tell you what it is," shouted Colborn. "It's a power failure!

They don't even have any lights out in the street. I nearly got

trampled to death getting back in the lobby to phone you."

Westervelt and Rosenkrantz looked at each other.

"Come to think of it, Charlie," said the operator, "the lights did

blink a minute ago. I wonder if that was our own power taking over for

the whole floor?"

They saw Colborn turn his head, and heard him expostulating with

someone who plainly was impatient to get into the phone cubicle.

"I'll go check the meters," said Rosenkrantz. "Watch the space set for

me, Willie!"

"Whuh-wh-wha?" stuttered Westervelt, groping after him. "Charlie! He

went away! What do I do if a call comes in?"

Colborn finished dealing with his own problem downstairs, and returned

his attention to Westervelt. He requested a repeat.

"I said that Joe went around the corner to check the power," babbled

the youth. "What do I do if a space call comes in? He said to watch the

set."

"Oh," said Colborn. "You see the little red, star-shaped light at the

left of the board under the screen?"

"Yeah, yeah! It's out, Charlie!"

"Well, it should be. It's an automatic call indicator set for our code.

If it goes on, it shows you're getting a call even if you have the

screen too dark or the audio too low to notice. So you look for a green

one like it on the other side...."

"Yeah. I see it."

"You push the button beside it, and our code goes out automatically to

acknowledge. Then you push the next button underneath, which puts out a

repeating signal to stand by. Got that so far?"

"I got it," said Westervelt. "Then what?"

"Then you go scream for Joe at the top of your lungs. That covers

everything. You are now a deep-space operator. Just don't touch any of

those buttons until you get a license!"

"But, Charlie--!"

He was saved by the return of Rosenkrantz, for whom he thankfully

vacated space before the phone. Colborn was again engaged in making

faces at some other desperate commuter.

"You were right, Charlie," said Rosenkrantz. "We're strictly on our

own private power. The whole floor, as near as I can tell. I thought

they were being fussy when they put it in, but maybe it will pay off at

that. How does it look down there?"

"It's a mess," said Colborn. "You wouldn't believe there were so many

people working in our building."

"No, no!" said Rosenkrantz. "I mean, what's the situation? Is it just

this building that's cut off, or the whole city, or what?"

"You can't believe anything they're saying," Colborn told them, "but

they had somebody yapping on the public address system. It seems

there's a whole section of the city, about fifty blocks square, cut

off. They're talking about a main cable overloading."

"I can imagine what they're saying," said Rosenkrantz. "The poor guys

stuck with finding and replacing it, I mean."

Colborn gave a hollow laugh.

"You think they're the only ones stuck? There ain't a single subway

belt moving to the surburban heliports. All the local surface monorails

are stopped. You should see the way they're packing the ground taxis,

and the cops won't let any more helicabs come down."

"They're supposed only to pick up from the roofs," said Rosenkrantz.

"That isn't where the people are. The people are all down here with me,

and half of them are trying to get in the booth to tell their wives

they won't be home. Well, there's a lot of us won't get home tonight,

if the boys don't find that break pretty soon."

Westervelt and Rosenkrantz exchanged glances. The youth shrugged; he

had been planning on staying late anyhow.

"Tell him to come back up, Joe," he suggested. "We have food in the

locker for visitors, and he can clear a table in here to snooze on."

Colborn had heard him, and was shaking his head.

"I'd like nothing better, Willie," he said, "but I might as well start

walking. It's better on the level than on the stairs."

"What do you mean--stairs?"

"I don't know about the other buildings around here, but they

regretfully announced that there will be no elevators running above

the seventy-fifth floor in this one. In fact, they only have partial

service that high, on the building's emergency power generator."

Rosenkrantz looked worried. Broodingly, he fumbled out a box of

cigarettes.

"What do you think, Charlie?" he asked. "I mean ... Lydman."

"That's why I called," said Colborn. "I think you better check the

stairs and tell Smith. If he starts our boy down them, the ninety-nine

floors will give him something to keep his mind busy."

The pressure from outside finally intimidated him into switching off.

The last they saw of him on the fading phone screen, he was striving

desperately to ease himself out of the booth in the face of a bellowing

rush of harried commuters for the phone. Joe sighed, trying to light

his smoke from the wrong end of the box.

"I'm going to check our elevator, Joe," Westervelt said.

He left the communications room and trotted up the corridor and around

the corner. Through the main doors, he caught sight of Pauline peering

out of her compartment. A thought struck him.

He hurried over to her and thrust his head close to the opening in her

glass partition.

"Were you still on that line, Cutie?" he demanded.

"What line?" demanded Pauline indignantly. "Oh, Willie, does this mean

we have to walk down twenty-five floors tonight?"

"You little--Listen! Don't let out a peep about this until we know

more!"

"Why not, Willie?"

"Do you want to get everybody upset? How can they dream up brilliant

ideas while they're worrying about ordering sandwiches sent up?

Promise!"

Pauline reluctantly gave her word not to say anything without

consulting him. Westervelt returned to the hall, where he pressed the

button for the elevator.

He waited about three times as long as it usually took to get a

car, then tried again with the same lack of results. Looking up, he

discovered that even the red light over the entrance to the stairs was

out. That, apparently, had not been part of the ninety-ninth floor

system now powered by their own generator.

Westervelt took the few steps to the doorway concealing the stairs.

There was a beautifully reproduced notice on the door, informing all

persons that this was an emergency exit and that the door would open

automatically in case of fire or other emergency. It further offered

detailed directions on how to leave, which in simple language meant "go

downstairs."

"The door is shut," muttered Westervelt, "so that proves there isn't

any emergency."

He tried the handle. It did not budge, except for a slight clicking.

Feeling slightly uneasy, he leaned over to squint at the crack of the

door. He spotted the latch, a sturdy bar, and saw that he was moving

it. There was, however, another bar which did not move, and the door

refused to slide open.

"Of course," he breathed. "It's made to open automatically. How would

they do that? By electricity. What haven't we got plenty of? The damn'

thing's locked! Somebody designed a beautiful set-up!"

He looked about the empty corridor, jittering indecisively.

"I could call downstairs before I tell Smitty," he reminded himself.

For the sake of having a handy shoulder to cry on, he went all the way

back to the communications room to use a phone. He made a gesture of

throwing up his hands as Joe looked around, then got Pauline on the

phone.

"See if you can get me the building manager's office," he requested.

"Don't be surprised if it's busy for a couple of minutes."

It was nearer fifteen minutes before his call went through. During

that time, he learned that Rosenkrantz took a serious view of the

inconvenience.

"I guess you heard some of the talk about Bob Lydman," said the

operator. "Well, some is imagination, but a lot of it's true. He spent

a long time in a hellhole out among the stars; and if there's anything

that might shove him off course, it's the idea that he can't get _out_.

No matter where he is, he has to know he can leave when he feels like

it!"

"But if he doesn't know about it?" asked Westervelt.

"How long can you keep it quiet? I bet you can see a blackout from the

window. Watch the set--I'll take a look."

"Aw, now, wait a minute, Joe!"

Westervelt's consternation was diverted by the call that came through

at that moment. A perspiring face with ruffled gray hair--which

Westervelt could remember having seen occasionally about the lobby

downstairs, looking extremely sleek and well-groomed--appeared on the

phone screen.

"If you're above the seventy-fifth, walk down that far. If you're

lower, walk down as far as you can," said the man hoarsely. "If you can

stay put, that's the best thing."

"Tell me, what--?"

"Power failure, not responsibility of the building management," said

the sweating gentleman. "Please co-operate!"

"But what--?"

"We're doing all we can and this phone is busy, young man! Will you

please--"

"The stairs are locked!" shouted Westervelt.

For a moment, he doubted that he had penetrated the official's panic.

Then he saw new outrage in the man's eyes.

"What did you say?"

Westervelt explained about the door to the stairs. The gentleman

downstairs clapped both hands to his moist cheeks. He had begun to look

numb.

After a long pause, he pulled himself together enough to promise that

he would look into the matter. As he switched off, Westervelt heard him

muttering that it was just too much.

"You hear that, Joe?" he asked.

"Yeah, an' I didn't like it," replied the operator. "What does that

leave us ... no elevators, no stairs ... how about the helicopter roof?"

"You have to walk up a flight of stairs to get there," said Westervelt,

thinking of the department's three helicopters garaged on their private

tower roof. "It's the same door. I suppose the door at the top is

frozen too."

"Well, anyway, that could be worse," said Joe. "That makes two doors

to knock open, an' I bet your boys have some little gadget around that

will do that."

Westervelt felt better. There was always a way out, he told himself.

Just the same, he thought he had better let Smith know about the

situation.

He told Joe where he was going and headed back up the hall. When he

reached the corner, he tried the door again for luck. The luck was the

same.

He wondered whether to go look in the lab for some burning tool. On

second thought, he decided that if any damage had to be done to the

building, it was not his responsibility. He turned to enter the main

office, flashing Pauline a wink that he hoped would look reassuring.

Simonetta was busy with a case folder but Beryl was seizing an

opportunity to repair her nail polish of irridescent gold. She eyed him

curiously as he bent over to whisper into the brunette's ear.

"Are they still talking in there, Si?" he asked.

She drew away with a mock frown, demanding, "What's so confidential?

Are you spying for Yoleen?"

Westervelt scowled over her head out the window. It was twilight

outside, and he noted that there were only a few dim lights in nearby

tall buildings.

"I just wanted to see Mr. Smith," he forced himself to say.

"Don't tell me that you want to go home, now that you got all the rest

of us to say we'd stay?"

She softened when she saw that he had no wisecrack in readiness.

"You know I didn't mean that, Willie," she said. "Is something the

matter?"

Of all the people in the department, Simonetta was the one he found

it easiest to confide in. He had to struggle with himself, especially

since he saw no reason why she should not know.

"I ... uh ... just wanted to see him a minute," he said lamely. "I'll

come back later."

He got out of the office, feeling his neck burn under the combined

stares of the two girls.

In the corridor, he halted to survey the sealed-off means of egress.

Both the elevator and the stairway door looked normal enough except for

the red exit light being dark. Westervelt wondered if it would be smart

to go around and adjust all the window filters so that no one would

expect to see many city lights should they happen to glance outside.

He went over to the door for one last examination, wishing that it were

a hinged type instead of sliding. While he was bending to peep at the

lock, he heard a sound behind him and leaped up guiltily.

Smith stood six feet away, outside the hall door of his office. He had

planted one fist on his hip and was running the other hand through his

rumpled hair as he gaped at Westervelt.

"There's no keyhole there, Willie," he said at last.

Westervelt had the feeling that he ought to offer the perfectly simple

explanation with which he had been living for what seemed like hours.

The words refused to come.

"Does this have anything to do with the message Si just brought me?"

demanded Smith.

"What message?" asked Westervelt, clearing his throat.

"The police called and claimed someone reported seeing, from the air,

three helicopters being stolen from our roof."

"Did she say that?" asked Westervelt.

"She had the sense to write it down and show me while they were talking

about submarines. Something about the way she winked made me think I'd

better come out, so I told the boys I was going down the hall a minute."

Westervelt heaved a sigh. He would not have to be alert to duck an

aroused Lydman charging down the corridor.

"Then, Mr. Smith," he suggested, "let's walk down that way in case

someone comes out and sees us, and I'll tell you all about it."

"They shouldn't be out for a while," Smith commented, examining the

youth doubtfully. "I started a little argument before I came out."

Nevertheless, he followed Westervelt around the far corner, to the

wing leading to the laboratory and rest rooms. They had gone perhaps

ten feet past the corner when Westervelt finished the report on the

elevators and came to the frozen locks on the stairway door.

Smith stopped in his tracks, as if to run back and check for himself;

but restrained himself.

"You're absolutely sure, Willie?" he asked.

"You can check with Joe Rosenkrantz, Mr. Smith. Or you can call the

office of the building manager downstairs."

Smith rubbed his high-bridged nose as he pondered. His lips moved, and

Westervelt thought he read the name "Lydman." Then Smith checked off on

his fingers, muttering, the stairs, elevators, and helicopters.

"No wonder they were stolen," he said. "Someone saw a chance to make

some easy money with all the helitaxis taken. The police will find them

tomorrow."

"Meanwhile, I guess it's some trouble to us," said Westervelt.

"Yes, it might be some trouble," admitted Smith, and this time said it

aloud: "Lydman! We won't mention it to him yet, right, Willie?"