Free Poetic Justice by Amanda Cross Page B
Authors: Amanda Cross
Kate’s voice faded away as, between the third and fourth floors, the elevator came to a reluctant, but by no means uncertain, stop.
“There is a law of averages,” Everglade said. “There is also a law of falling bodies. We are about to prove Galileo’s theory that two bodies of different weights will, if dropped from a sufficient height, reach the ground at the same time and in the same state of dejectedness. You ring the alarm bell; I will telephone.”
Kate pressed the alarm bell in much the same spirit with which one accepts herbal tea from an ancient aunt: it probably won’t help, but it can’t hurt. Mark, meanwhile, addressed himself to a little cupboard which housed the University’s most recent attempt to grapple with the problem of its elevators: a telephone. “What do you dial for emergencies?” Mark asked Kate.
“I don’t know. It says in the front of the campus directory, but I’m afraid I never noticed.”
“Who, alas, has? We shall have to dial the operator, and we all know where that leads.”
“Do you think there is sufficient oxygen?”
“For what? Compared to the air I’ve been breathing in most meetings lately, there is probably here a smaller proportion of carbon monoxide and irritating tars than in most otherwheres.”
“May I help you?” a voice said over the telephone.
“You certainly may,” Mark happily replied. “We are stuck in an elevator and …”
“If you are on campus,” the voice continued, “youmay dial directly the number you want. Is this an outside call?”
“I can’t even get outside this elevator,” Mark said. “Help, help, help,” he mildly added.
“I will connect you with maintenance,” the voice said. “If you are on campus, will you dial one-two, one-four? Are you on campus?”
“Perhaps it’s a recording,” Kate said.
Mark pressed down the telephone button until he heard a dial tone, then dialed 1214. There was a busy signal.
“Try calling the English Office,” Kate said.
“A brilliant suggestion which I am hideously certain will not work. Ah, well.” Mark dialed the English Office.
“English,” the secretary’s voice brightly said, “will you hold on a minute?” There was a click as the secretary pushed the ‘hold’ button. Mark slammed the receiver down as violently as the small cupboard allowed. Kate put her purse and case down on the floor.
“I am reminded,” she said, “of a story my father used to tell, repeatedly, in order to drive home a moral whose application has, until this moment, escaped me. He was a friend of the president of some railroad, the New York Central or something, and one day my father asked his secretary to find out when the next train left for Tuxedo, where he was planning to meet someone. The secretary returned to tell him that she could not get through to railroad information because the line was continually engaged. ‘Nonsense,’ my father called out. ‘Get me the president of the whatever railroad.’ The poor secretary couldn’t get the president, but she did get his privatesecretary, at which point my father grabbed the telephone from her. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Fansler,’ the president’s private secretary said, ‘but Mr. Whosis is out of town. Is there any way I can help you?’ ‘There certainly is,’ my father said; ‘when is the next train to Tuxedo?’ Well, she managed to find a timetable and tell him; and the moral of the story is: always go to the president.”
“I trust,” Mark said, “that since we are without a President, the Acting President will do.”
“Perfectly,” Kate said.
“And do you happen to know his extension?”
“Yes, I do. I was recently glancing through the new directory, as one does when it first comes out, and I noticed that his number is 1837. Shall we try it?”
“How did you happen to decide to remember his number and not the emergency number? Your father’s advice?”
“Naturally not. I have never given a thought to my
“There is a law of averages,” Everglade said. “There is also a law of falling bodies. We are about to prove Galileo’s theory that two bodies of different weights will, if dropped from a sufficient height, reach the ground at the same time and in the same state of dejectedness. You ring the alarm bell; I will telephone.”
Kate pressed the alarm bell in much the same spirit with which one accepts herbal tea from an ancient aunt: it probably won’t help, but it can’t hurt. Mark, meanwhile, addressed himself to a little cupboard which housed the University’s most recent attempt to grapple with the problem of its elevators: a telephone. “What do you dial for emergencies?” Mark asked Kate.
“I don’t know. It says in the front of the campus directory, but I’m afraid I never noticed.”
“Who, alas, has? We shall have to dial the operator, and we all know where that leads.”
“Do you think there is sufficient oxygen?”
“For what? Compared to the air I’ve been breathing in most meetings lately, there is probably here a smaller proportion of carbon monoxide and irritating tars than in most otherwheres.”
“May I help you?” a voice said over the telephone.
“You certainly may,” Mark happily replied. “We are stuck in an elevator and …”
“If you are on campus,” the voice continued, “youmay dial directly the number you want. Is this an outside call?”
“I can’t even get outside this elevator,” Mark said. “Help, help, help,” he mildly added.
“I will connect you with maintenance,” the voice said. “If you are on campus, will you dial one-two, one-four? Are you on campus?”
“Perhaps it’s a recording,” Kate said.
Mark pressed down the telephone button until he heard a dial tone, then dialed 1214. There was a busy signal.
“Try calling the English Office,” Kate said.
“A brilliant suggestion which I am hideously certain will not work. Ah, well.” Mark dialed the English Office.
“English,” the secretary’s voice brightly said, “will you hold on a minute?” There was a click as the secretary pushed the ‘hold’ button. Mark slammed the receiver down as violently as the small cupboard allowed. Kate put her purse and case down on the floor.
“I am reminded,” she said, “of a story my father used to tell, repeatedly, in order to drive home a moral whose application has, until this moment, escaped me. He was a friend of the president of some railroad, the New York Central or something, and one day my father asked his secretary to find out when the next train left for Tuxedo, where he was planning to meet someone. The secretary returned to tell him that she could not get through to railroad information because the line was continually engaged. ‘Nonsense,’ my father called out. ‘Get me the president of the whatever railroad.’ The poor secretary couldn’t get the president, but she did get his privatesecretary, at which point my father grabbed the telephone from her. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Fansler,’ the president’s private secretary said, ‘but Mr. Whosis is out of town. Is there any way I can help you?’ ‘There certainly is,’ my father said; ‘when is the next train to Tuxedo?’ Well, she managed to find a timetable and tell him; and the moral of the story is: always go to the president.”
“I trust,” Mark said, “that since we are without a President, the Acting President will do.”
“Perfectly,” Kate said.
“And do you happen to know his extension?”
“Yes, I do. I was recently glancing through the new directory, as one does when it first comes out, and I noticed that his number is 1837. Shall we try it?”
“How did you happen to decide to remember his number and not the emergency number? Your father’s advice?”
“Naturally not. I have never given a thought to my