|
Page 3.
 She smiled. "Yes. I'm starting tomorrow as an assistant editor with Jonathan Grace, Publishers."
"Tomorrow?" he repeated, thinking why not today, Monday?
She rolled her eyes up, and for a moment her features reflected some interior, personal conflict. "Yes," she said with a sigh, "today I have to straighten out some family matters." It was clear they were unpleasant matters.
Before she could elaborate, the tour moved on to a lobby in which greenish-golden mosaics glimmered under a skylight.
"I was thinking of loaning you the book for a few days, if you wish," he said.
Her eyes lit up. "I'd enjoy that."
"Here," he said, "I'll write my name and number in the flyleaf." He groped for a pen.
"I'll give you mine also," she said. "I don't have cards printed up yet."
At the next stop (a hallway decorated with frosted glass lamps in the form of seashells) she handed him a bank deposit slip. The name on it was Alexa Whiston. Miss Whiston accepted the book graciously, opening to the flyleaf. She read his name aloud with a pleased look. "Jeff Maxxon. That's a nice name. What do you do?"
"I'm going to be an editor with World Anaconda. Does this mean we are birds of a feather? Are we flocking together, Miss Whiston?"
She laughed, a sensuous gurgle. "Call me Lexa. So you're going to work for the competition, huh?" The lingering hint of weariness, or sadness, as if she were carrying some burden, made her seem mysterious.
He laughed. "It appears so. I just quit as an editor in the technical division of Longcroft, Publishers, Madison Avenue, maybe you've heard of them."
"Yes, I have," she said with a glow that suggested she might have thought of working there too.
"Now I'm in Raritania. Another long story I might bore you with over lunch one day. And I'm going to work for Mr. Albert Beering"(did he observe a glimmer of shock, quickly disguised by her well-bred manner? and if so, why?)"writing a history of Raritania City. I understand he's a fussy bird. If it works out, I'll be offered a nice editorship with his firm."
"The Beering conglomerate," she said darkly.
"Yes," he said puzzled, "they have steel mills, railroads, and a whole lot else going besides."
"Of course," she said, regaining her composure. "Thank you. I will treasure the book. Would it be okay to return it by Friday?"
"Sure," he told her. "Call me."
"I will," she promised.
They shuttled to the fifty-second floor in a small elevator that required several passes to get everyone moved. Mrs. Lippert said: "When we get everyone together, we will move on to the crowning moment of our tour, the famous clock works, one of about twenty huge clocks that dominate the skyline."
Throughout the tour, as they milled about in confined spaces, Jeff seemed to keep bumping up against this Lexa Whiston. Some spark was happening between them, and Jeff wasn't sure what it was, but he felt a tingle in his toes. Her engagement ring made him hold back, but something drew him toward her; she was reaching out to him, for some reason, and on some subliminal level, his phone was ringing.
"This way," Mrs. Lippert said. She led them toward a steel door overlooking a stairwell. "Before we go in, let me just tell you that there are twenty tons of finely milled steel run by massive worm gears. Each clock was individually engineered and built to order during the 1930's, the same period that saw the construction of such magnificent works as the Queen Mary, the zeppelin Hindenburg, and the Empire State Building. In just a moment, I will throw this door open, and we will step inside into a mechanical wonderland of gears and levers. Let me just add that the neo-Egyptian clock face visible for miles is constructed of steel and tinted glass, a kind of stained glass marvel of our own late century."
"Oh darn," Lexa said in a voice that only Jeff could hear. "My purse. I left it on the elevator. I'll be right back."
Lexa ducked away, and Mrs. Lippert threw the door open, and Jeff along with the other postulants entered the breezy lace-iron clock enclosure. Immediately, Jeff knew something was wrong, and the growing gasp from the others affirmed it. There was a smell of death in the air that he recognized from his battlefield experiences.
For a moment, their eyes were blinded. Milky dawn brightness mingled with the hulking shadows of huge machinery. Then, as their eyes adjusted to the half-light, a chorus of screams grew from a dozen throats. Jeff saw a gallon or so of congealed blood on the steel floor. From there, Jeff looked up at the streams of dried blood oozing from the cogs and wicked teeth of huge gears. Then he saw the hand dangling stiffly at the end of a mangled white arm between the teeth of two enmeshed gear wheels. Finally he made out the shreds of cloth and the vacant expression on the face mauled among machine parts. The screams rose to a shrill crescendo. Jeff whirled impulsively and thrust open the door, just in time to prevent Lexa Whiston from entering the room. She came at him with a bright, innocent look, waving her purse. He threw himself against her, forcing her back. "You don't want to see this," he said.
|
