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.

3 responses total.

Unfortunately, he fell through a gopher hole and wound up lower than even the
first floor.  A pity, really.

darn groundhogs

Yes, exactly! See what I mean?

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