remmers
|
|
About that elevator...
| 
Dec 25 11:53 UTC 1997 |
The men stood in a crowded elevator. Outside, the sound of
pigeons flapping wings. The beacon traversed the night sky,
exposing the undersides of furtive clouds. The city held
its breath.
G 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 ... the elevator rose swiftly to its
rendezvous with the summit. The sunburned man fumbled in
his pocket for a cigarette, found one. He opened his match-
book, but the glares of the others dissuaded him from
lighting up.
Heavy, humid, and still, the air. Soon it would rain. Owls
sat motionless on the middle limbs of trees, awaiting the
downpour. Upward the elevator climbed. 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
18 19 20 ... The little wrinkled man with the moustache
stood in the corner, sobbing quietly, unobserved amidst the
chatter.
Half a dozen tiny two-seater airplanes circled the radio
tower mounted atop the skyscraper, glowing like fireflies
when the roving beacon would cross their path. Still the
elevator climbed, never stopping: 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28
29 30... The man with the guilty conscience joked nervously
with the older man to his right.
The philosopher-king observed and laughed. "Those petty men,
ascend however far they may in their motorized cage of chrome,
steel, and glass, will never approach the heights I have
achieved by power of thought alone." Chuckling still, he
strolled along the path though the sunlit rose garden,
toward home.
|