Robert F. Young - Project Hi-Rise.pdf - eBooks Various - ms_lo

Finally, we have the real story behind why a certain tower in Babylon was

never finished and why all great builders, from Nebuchadnezzar to Moses

(Robert), have such a rough time.

Project Hi-Rise

by ROBERT F. YOUNG

As soon as we got word that the strike was on, we walked off the job. It was 10:40 A.M. Those of

us scheduled to go on picket duty first began walking up and down in front of the gate. The rest of us

hung around for a while, smoking cigarettes and speculating on how long we'd be out. Then we

meandered on home.

The minute she saw me, Debbie's face fell. When we voted the Union in last month, she had a fit, and

ever since then she's been dreading a walkout. How were we going to manage now, she asked me when

I came in the door, with prices the way they were and with no money coming in? I told her not to worry,

that with the Project so close to completion and the King on their backs morning, noon and night, the

Company would have to come across pronto. She said she hoped so, what with another mouth to feed

any day now and our savings account down to two figures, and what would I like for dinner —baked fish

or fried figs? I said baked fish.

Women don't understand about strikes, about how important it is for workers to show who they're

working for that they mean business when they say they want more money. Sure, I know the Project's an

important undertaking, but construction workers have to live the same as anybody else, no matter how

important what they're constructing is. Like the Organizer says, it's dog-eat-dog these days, and

workingmen have to look out for themselves, nobody else is going to.

This afternoon, Ike dropped by with a sixpac, and we sat around most of the rest of the day, drinking

beer and talking. He's up for picket duty tonight; I'm not scheduled till tomorrow morning. I'm glad,

because that'll give me a chance to attend the Union meeting tonight. Ike told me to listen real good so I

could tell him all about it, and I said I would.

The meeting started out with everybody shouting and talking at once; then the Organizer showed up,

and everybody quieted down. He climbed up on the platform, in that casual way he has, and stood there

looking down at us with his big golden eyes, his face glowing as it always does at such times, as though

there's a light inside him shining through his pores.

"Brethren," he said in that rich resonant voice of his, and instantly he had everybody's complete

attention. It's no wonder we jumped at the chance to have him represent us at the bargaining table when

he so generously offered to.

"Brethren," he repeated. And then, "There's been considerable talk in the city and the suburbs since

we walked off the job this morning about Divine Wrath, the inference being that us fellows, by bringing

the Project to a halt, are in for some. Well, don't you believe it, fellow members of Local 209 —don't

you believe it for one minute! Nobody's going to incur Divine Wrath just for making sure he's got enough

bread on the table and enough left over from his paycheck to have a couple of beers with the boys. If

anybody's going to incur it, the Company is. Because I happen to have it from a pretty good source —

and you can quote me on this if you like — that somebody up there doesn't want the Project

completed."

All of us applauded. It was just what we'd wanted to hear. After the applause died away, the

Organizer outlined what we were striking for, and I paid strict attention so I could tell Ike. It adds up to a

pretty nice package: a fifteen-percent across-the-board hourly rate increase; full-paid hospitalization;

retirement after twenty-five years service; nine paid holidays; three weeks vacation after four years on the

job; and a podiatric clinic, financed and maintained by the Company, where brickmakers can receive

immediate treatment for chilblains, arthritis and fallen arches.

After the meeting a bunch of us stopped in The Fig Leaf for a few beers. I was still there when Ike

got off picket duty and dropped by. I told him about the package and he agreed it was a nice one. By

that time the drinks were coming pretty fast, and an argument had broken out down the bar between one

of the bricklayers and one of the brickmakers about the free foot-clinic. The bricklayer said that if they

were going to furnish a free foot-clinic, they should furnish a free hand-clinic too, because a bricklayer

was as liable to develop arthritis in his hands as a brick-maker was in his feet and in addition was

performing a much more essential task. The brickmaker asked him how he'd perform it without the

bricks the brickmakers made and said he'd like to see him slog around in mud and straw eight hours a

day and see how his feet felt come quitting time. The bricklayer said that where he came from the women

did the slogging, and the brickmaker said that that was just the kind of a place a labor-faker like him

would come from. Somebody broke it up just in time.

Not long afterward I left. I didn't want to be hung-over on my first spell of picket duty. It was a cool

night, and the stars were thick in the sky. I caught glimpses of the Project as I made my way home

through the narrow streets. It dominates the whole city. The whole Plain, for that matter. It had sort of a

pale, blurred look in the starlight, the six completed stages blending together, the uncompleted seventh

one softly serrated against the night sky. Working on it every day, I've kind of forgot how high it is, how

much higher it's going to be when we get back on the job. The highest thing ever, they say. I won't

dispute that. It makes a palm tree look like a blade of grass and a man look like an ant. Looking at it

tonight, I felt proud to be one of the builders. It was as though I'd built the whole thing myself. That's the

way a bricklayer feels sometimes. It's really great. I feel sorry for brick-makers. You'd never catch me

slogging all day in a mud hole.

Picket duty wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. There's been some talk about the Company hiring

scabs, but I guess that's all it is — talk. Anyway, nobody tried to get in. Not that they'd have succeeded

if they had. The setup is ideal for picketing. You'd almost think the Company had built the wall around

the Project to make it easy for strikers to picket the place, come strike time, instead of to keep people

from stealing bricks. The gate's pretty wide, of course, but four pickets can guard it easily, and the wall's

high enough to discourage anybody from trying to scale it.

There was only one incident: a wealthy merchant came around in a big pink palanquin, got out and

began pacing up and down. He didn't say anything – just kept looking up at that half-finished seventh

stage and shaking his head. If he was aware of me, or of Zeke or Ben or Eli, the other three pickets, he

gave no sign. Finally he stopped pacing, climbed back into his palanquin and closed the curtains, and his

bearers bore him away.

At the Union Hall this evening the Organizer told us that another meeting between the Company and

the Union has been arranged and that it's scheduled to take place day after tomorrow. This time, there's

going to be a Mediator present —one that the King himself appointed. Maybe now we'll get somewhere.

I hope so. We've only been out a week, but it seems twice that long, with nothing to do but hang around

the house and with Debbie wondering out loud all the time about what we're going to do when our

savings run out. To tell the truth, I'm kind of worried myself. Being a new union, we don't have a strike

fund, and we've got six more weeks to go before we become eligible for unemployment insurance.

Meanwhile, the bills keep coming in.

The second meeting is to take place this afternoon. All of us have our fingers crossed.

I drew picket duty again this morning. Ike picketed with me, having arranged it with the Organizer to

change places with Ben. With my old buddy to talk to, time went by fast.

Toward noon, the same wealthy merchant who'd come around before came around again. After

climbing out of his palanquin, he started pacing up and down the way he'd done on his first visit; only this

time instead of looking up at the half-finished seventh stage and shaking his head, he kept glancing

sideways at Ike and Eli and Zeke and me. Finally he singled me out and came over to where I was

standing, shooting the breeze with Ike. He had pink cheeks, with jowls to match, and a big blunt nose.

You only had to take one look at his hands to know he'd never done a lick of work in his life.

"You impress me as being a sensible young man," he said. "What's your name?"

"Jake," I said.

“Jake. Well, Jake, I happen to be a wealthy merchant, as you may have guessed. In Frankincense

and Myrrh. But I'm here just as an ordinary citizen — a citizen who is doing his level best to try to

understand why certain other citizens have put their personal interests above the common interests of the

community-as-a-whole and aborted a community project."

"I thought it was a Company project," Ike said, butting in.

"The Company is in the King's employ. The King, ex officio , is the very essence of the community.

Thus, the Company, in carrying out the wishes of the King, represents the King and the community; is, in

effect, indivisible from the community."

"Not in my book," I said. "But I can see why it would be in yours. After the King lets fly with his

arrow, you guys with all the bread will be the first ones up the ladder."

The wealthy merchant stiffened. "Are you implying that my concern for the Project derives from a

selfish desire to be one of the first ones through the Gateway?"

"He's not implying it, he's saying it," Ike said. "You guys just can't wait to grease old Yahweh's palm,

can you? You can't wait to tell him you think the King is a kook."

The wealthy merchant's pink cheeks were now a shade darker than his jowls. A purplish cloud had

begun to gather on his forehead. "Young man," he said, "you sound positively paganistic. Don't you want

to get into Heaven?"

"Not if you fat cats get there first," Ike said.

The purplish cloud broke. "Well, you may rest assured you aren't going to!" the wealthy merchant

shouted. "Not if I have anything to say about it!" He pointed successively at Eli and Zeke and me. "And

neither are you or you or you!" With that, he stamped back to his palanquin, got in and yanked the

curtains closed, and the bearers trotted off with it. We stood there laughing.

Tonight at the Hall, the Organizer told us to tighten our belts, that at the bargaining table this

afternoon the Company had refused to budge from its original offer of a flat five-percent raise and that

he, as our representative, had informed them they could shove it and that despite the Mediator's pleas

both sides had walked out.

Afterward, Ike and I stopped in The Fig Leaf for a couple of beers. Ike seemed worried. "Do you

think he really has our best interests at heart, Jake?" he asked.

"Of course he does!"

"I suppose you're right. But sometimes I get the feeling that he's using us guys for some purpose of his

own."

"What purpose?"

"I don't know. It's just a feeling — that's all."

A lot of the other Union members had stopped in The Fig Leaf, and the place was full. Some of the

guys were already buying their booze on the cuff, and everybody had glum looks on their faces. I wasn't

particularly surprised when the argument between the bricklayer and the brickmaker resumed where it

had left off. This time, nobody broke it up.

It was late when I finally got home. All evening I'd dreaded having to face Debbie with the bad news.

But when I looked in the bedroom, she was sound asleep.

At long last the Mediator has got both sides to agree to another meeting. It's to take place tomorrow

morning. I think the Organizer should back down a little — settle, say, for a ten-percent raise and forget

the fringe benefits. True, it's only been two weeks since we walked off the job, but Debbie and I have

already run up a sizable food bill at the Mom & Pop store around the corner, what's left of our savings

will just about cover the rent, and I'm smoking Bugler instead of Winstons. And any day now, as Debbie

keeps reminding me, we're going to have another mouth to feed. Feeding it doesn't worry me half so

much as paying the hospital and doctor bills.

Ike and I were on picket duty when we heard that the latest bargaining session had gone Pffft! Eli

was on too, and a bricklayer named Dan. It was clear by this time that the Organizer had no intention of

settling for a smaller package, and it was equally as clear that the Company had no intention of coming

through with a bigger one.

Eli didn't see it that way. "Hell, Jake, they'll have to come through," he said. "We've got them right by

the balls!"

I told him I hoped he was right. "Look," Dan said. "We've got a visitor."

Four black bearers had appeared, bearing a long black palanquin. They proceeded to set it down

directly before the gate. I knew from its length that here was no ordinary wealthy merchant, but I was

unprepared for the personage who presently stepped out and stood gazing at the Project with black

blazing eyes. Those eyes burned right through Ike and Eli and Dan and me, as though we weren't even

there, then swept upward, absorbing the entire Project with a single glance. It dawned on me finally, as I

took in the small gold crown nestled in the black ringleted hair, the flared eyebrows, the fierce nostrils

and the defiant jaw, that I was looking at the King.

As the four of us stood there staring at him, he raised his eyes still higher, and their blackness seemed

to intensify, to throw forth fire. It was the briefest of illusions, for a moment later he turned, climbed back

into his palanquin and clapped his hands. We stared after it as the four black bearers bore it away.

"Whew!" Ike said.

I rolled and lit a cigarette to see how bad my hands were shaking. Pretty bad, I saw. I blew out a

lungful of smoke. "I wonder what he wanted," I said.

"I don't know. But I'd hate to be in the Organizer's sandals."

"The Organizer can take care of himself."

"I hope so."

We let it go at that.

* * *

You've got to give the Mediator credit. Somehow he managed to get the two sides together again.

The Organizer had the minutes of the meeting Xeroxed and distributed them among the members. I

have mine before me:

THE MEDIATOR: The Company Representative has informed me that considerable confusion exists

among the populace as to the true nature of the Project's purpose, and he would like to clear this little

matter up before proceeding further with the negotiations.

THE ORGANIZER: The purpose of the Project has no bearing whatsoever upon the reasonable

demands made upon the Company by Local 209.

THE MEDIATOR: Nevertheless, I feel that in fairness both to the Company and to the King that the

confusion should be cleared up.

THE ORGANIZER: Very well. But keep in mind that the typical member of Local 209 is concerned

solely with how much his efforts will net him, not with the use to which their end result will be put.

THE COMPANY REPRESENTATIVE: I will be brief. Common people, even uncommon ones,

tend to romanticize reality, often to fantastic extremes, and invariably in these days romanticism acquires

religious overtones. In the present instance a perfectly practical under taking has been interpreted, on the

one hand, as an attempt on the part of the King to get high enough above the ground so he can shoot an

arrow into Heaven and, on the other hand, as an attempt on the part of the local citizens, especially the

rich ones, to provide themselves with an avenue into Heaven. The two interpretations have somehow

intermingled and become one. The absurdity of the second is self-evident and unworthy of closer

scrutiny. The absurdity of the first is also self-evident, but for the record I'd like to cite a few pertinent

facts.

According to the best estimates of our astronomers, Heaven is located 1,432 cubits above the world.

The Project, if it is completed, will reach a height of 205 cubits. This means that the King's arrow would

have to travel 1,227 cubits —straight up. Now, it is a well-known fact that the King is a great hunter —

a mighty hunter. No one can bend a bow the way he can. But 1,227 cubits? Straight up?

Thus, the facts alone make it clear that the King has no such intent. His real purpose in building the

Project is to provide a haven. A haven to which the people can flee should a second phenomenal rainfall

again cause the Twin Rivers to overflow their banks to such an extent that the entire Plain becomes

inundated. Living on that Plain, the members of Local 209 stand to benefit from the Project as much as

the rest of the people. For them to have, in effect, sabotaged such a noble undertaking is, frankly, beyond

my comprehension, unless their motive for doing so can be partially attributed to their unwitting

acceptance of the popular interpretation of the Project's purpose.

THE ORGANIZER: If the Project's real purpose is to provide a haven, why weren't they and the

rest of the people so informed in the first place?

THE COMPANY REPRESENTATIVE: I cannot, of course, speak for the King. But I should

imagine that he considered it so glaringly obvious that there was no need for the dissemination of such

information.

THE ORGANIZER: To me, it was never obvious. It still isn't. In the first place, only minimal flooding

has occurred since the Inundation; in the second, it's highly unlikely that Yahweh will again choose that

particular form of chastisement should future foul-ups on the part of the human race necessitate additional

punishment; and in the third, if he does decide on a second Inundation, you can rest assured that it will be

of such dimensions that the only thing the Project will be a haven for will be fish. But I'll play the game

fair: I'll see to it that the members of Local 209 have access to these minutes; and if, after reading them,

they wish to take another strike vote, I won't stand in their way. Meanwhile, the package stays as is.

There was a special meeting tonight at the Union Hall. At it, the Organizer asked if everybody had

read the minutes he'd distributed, and when everybody raised their hands. He asked did we want to take

another strike vote. There was a big chorus of nays and not a single yea. That shows how union brothers

stick together when the chips are down.

I've got to admit, though, that before I yelled my nay I had a bad moment. I'm still not sure I did right.

Suppose the Company Representative was telling the truth and the Project really is for the benefit of

common people like ourselves? If that's so, then we aren't acting in our own best interests at all; we're

just pulling the rug out from under our own feet.

The Company has pulled out!

Zeke brought us the news while we were on picket duty this morning. He came running up to the

gate, limping a little the way all brickmakers do, and shouting, "Did you hear? Did you hear? The

Company's gone! They've struck their tents and left!"

I stood there stunned. So did Ike. So did Eli and Dan. Ike got his breath back first. "Where's the

Organizer?" he asked Zeke in a sort of whisper.

"He's gone too. We can't find him anywhere."

There was a silence. Then Zeke said, "I've got to go tell the rest of the guys." He looked at us kind of

helplessly. "I guess there's not much sense picketing any more."

"No, I guess not," I said.

After he left, none of us said a word for a long time. Then Ike whispered, "It was like I said all along.

The Organizer was using us."

"But why?" Dan asked.

Ike shook his head. "I don't know."

"We've got company," Eli announced.

We looked. It was that long black palanquin again. Out of it stepped the King.

This time, he had brought his bow with him. It was slung diagonally across his back. His right hand

held an arrow.

Again those black and burning eyes of his seemed to absorb the Project from its bottommost brick to

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