The Old Research Tower

The elevator was an ancient hydraulic thing that combined the noise of a locomotive with the speed of a glacier.  It also smelled like old gym socks and burnt coffee.  Worst of all, the contraption jounced along as if it teetered on the brink of collapse.  The overhead light flickered constantly, and Gordon didn’t like to think about being trapped inside the stifling, claustrophobic space.  

He scuffed his foot on the linoleum floor of the elevator car.  He tapped his pen on the side of his clipboard as he scanned his ever-expanding ToDo list.  How was he going to manage it all?  He stifled the urge to pace back and forth; the car was much too small for that.  

The head of the Division, Dean Roberts, was the source of nearly all the items on the list.  Roberts had direct budgetary control over two-thirds of all research programs, including Gordon’s.  If the dean wasn’t onboard with someone’s project, it never got done.  Work ground to a halt.  Careers were stifled.  When Dean Roberts asked you to do something for him, you did it as quickly and as well as you could manage.

Secretly, in an attempt to wriggle out from under the dean’s thumb, Gordon had been working on his own grant proposal.  As far as he could tell, his future depended on establishing a modicum of independence.  Sadly, it seemed like ages since he’d had time to work on his proposal.  “Requests” from the dean kept getting in the way. 

And now this: hand delivery of a report to someone in the old research tower.  Couldn’t Roberts have emailed it?  Or, if he was worried about security, why not use red-envelope interoffice mail? 

He shoved aside his frustration.  Just get the errand done, he told himself.  After all, the dean must have his reasons.  And if Gordon hustled, he could be back to his own office within the hour.  That wouldn’t be too bad.

At last, the elevator ground to a halt on the fifth floor.  An especially loud clunk made him jump.  Sure, he’d heard that maintenance in the old research tower was nonexistent, but weren’t elevators supposed to be certified by third-party safety inspectors?  

With a loud chime that made him start again, the doors shuddered open to reveal a dimly-lit space, and Gordon, his gaze fixed on his ToDo list, bustled across the threshold.  Unfortunately, the elevator hadn’t aligned properly with the floor.  He tripped, and the report, his clipboard, and pen all flew in different directions.  Windmilling his arms, Gordon staggered into a nearby equipment rack. 

Of course the rack hadn’t been secured, and as soon as he touched it, the whole jury-rigged assembly toppled over.  Fortunately, the neighboring rack was bolted down and halted the domino effect before it could really get going. 

A klaxon sounded, and sparks cascaded from several pieces of equipment.  Ominous smells wafted through the lab, making Gordon sneeze.  Would he be chastised for damaging an ongoing experiment?  The fifth floor, the personal fiefdom of Damien Philips, was considered almost sacred territory.  Worse, Philips and the dean had been friends since grad school.

Gordon stooped and retrieved his clipboard and the bound report.  His pen, one of his favorites, had skittered off into the jumble of equipment.  His sister had given him that pen — a present to celebrate his being accepted to a position in the institute’s Research Division.  But there was no way Gordon could paw through that untidy heap.  Who knew what lay beneath that rats’ nest of wire and metal boxes?

The klaxon cut off.  Somewhere, deep inside the shadowed warren of gadgetry, a sheetmetal door, something one might encounter on a supply cabinet, slammed shut.  A quavery voice called.  “Everyone all right?  Not on fire, I trust?”

Gordon cringed.  Maybe a bit of self-deprecating humor would help.  “Sorry about that, sir,” he called.  “I’m, er, congenitally clumsy.  It’s a wonder I…  I haven’t electrocuted myself.”

“Hold on, then.  I’ll be right there.  Time I took a break anyway.”

From off to the right came the sound of switches being thrown.  A ventilation fan kicked in.  Overhead lights came up.  A wizened little man emerged from the tangle of equipment. 

The man wore his gray hair long, pulled back and secured with a twist of wire.  At least it looked like a twist of wire.  His lab coat, though patched at the elbows, was pressed and clean.  His bright gaze took in the scene.  “Oh, I think not,” he said.  “Some of the equipment voltages run a bit high.  But the current’s miniscule.  If you touch the wrong thing, you’ll get a good wallop, but electrocution is unlikely.”

Gordon breathed a silent sigh of relief at the man’s unassuming manner.  “As long as I haven’t damaged anything, sir—”

The old man stuck out his hand.  “Not to worry,” he said.  “I’m Damien Philips, by the way.  Colleagues tend to use the surname, and I generally answer to it well enough.”  He paused and gave a hearty chuckle.  “If I’m paying attention, that is.”  

Gordon hesitated for an instant before accepting the proffered hand.  He met the old man’s grip and found it to be surprisingly firm.  “Gordon Banks,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.  He hoped his hands weren’t too cold and clammy.

Philips’ gaze drifted off to the side.  “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Banks?  I’ve recently acquired a lovely Darjeeling.”

“Well, thank you, Professor.  But you see, I’m—”

“In a hurry, are you?”

“No.  I mean yes.  I mean, thanks just the same, but I really need to get back.”

“Shame.  The tea is quite nice.  And I’ve some biscuits around here.  Somewhere.”  Philips rummaged in a desk that Gordon hadn’t noticed, given that it was buried under layers of electronic… things.

“Dean Roberts sent me.  I’m supposed to—”

“Yes, yes.  He told me you’d be over.”

“Me?  Dean Roberts mentioned me by na—”

Professor Phillips fluttered his hands.  “Well… he said someone would be over.  Someone with legs younger than mine.  Important, that…  Strong legs, I mean.”

Okay.  Time, past time actually, to retreat.  Gordon extended the folder.  “Um, perhaps you’d like to—”

“How is Robbie, by-the-way?  We correspond regularly but rarely get together in person these days.”  The old man gestured at the surrounding chaos.  “My research, you see…”

“The dean is well, Professor.  And here’s his report.  I’ll let you get back to… to your work.”

Was Damien Philips stifling a smile?  If so, it didn’t reach his eyes.  “Lately, it’s been exciting here in the lab,” the professor said.  “I’m getting ready to take my system to the next level.”  

“I see.  Um, the dean’s report, sir?”

At last Philips accepted the document.  “Thank you,” he murmured as he absently ran his hands over the cover.  But then his expression brightened.  His eyebrows wagged up and down.  “Let’s see about that tea then, shall we, Mr. Banks?”

Gordon’s stomach lurched in sympathy.  Was the old man lonely?  Teetering on the brink of cognitive decline?  He wished he had more time, but he didn’t.  His own chances, meager as they were, depended on stealing little bits of time for himself.  “Th— Thank you, but I— I really should be going, sir,” he stammered, embarrassed for them both.

“No time for a cuppa then?  Oh, well.  Perhaps another time.”  

“Ah, yes.  Perhaps.  So… if there’s nothing else, may I have your signature?”  He patted his shirt pocket.  Right.  His favorite pen had been gobbled up by the professor’s lab.  “Do you happen to have a pen?  I seem to have lost mine.”

“You know, young man,” Philips said, brandishing the bound document as though he batted away flying insects.  “I’ve been waiting for Robbie to finish this.  Amazing, that with all his other responsibilities, he’s found time to work on the theoretical underpinnings of inter-dimensional…  Well, we won’t bore you with that.  But let me assure you; the man possesses an intellect of the highest order.”

Gordon nodded.  He held his breath and extended the clipboard.  Philips pulled a marker from his lab coat and scribbled something on the form.  Mission accomplished.

The old man bent his head, squinted at the label on the front cover of the report, and perched a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose.  He chewed on his lower lip while he paged back and forth a few times.  “Well done, Robbie,” he murmured.  “First class work.  First class indeed.”

From somewhere deep in the bowels of the lab, a chime rang three times.  Professor Philips stiffened.  He looked up from the report, arched an eyebrow, and fixed Gordon with an almost feral grin.  “Just in time,” he murmured.  “And as usual, Robbie is spot on.  You are indeed perfect.”

Gordon recoiled at the sudden change in the old man’s demeanor.  “Excuse me, sir?”  

But as quickly as it had appeared, the grin evaporated.  Philips turned away and flipped a few more pages of the report.  

Relief surged.  With the old man so engrossed, Gordon could make a graceful exit.  He detoured around the professor and pressed the elevator’s call button.  There was no response.

Philips looked up.  Again, he produced a half-smile that stopped at his lips.  “I’m afraid that won’t work, Mr. Banks,” he said.  “No, you’ll not leave by that route.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The call button for this floor is broken.  Gave up reporting it years ago.”

“Well then how do you—”

Philips pointed off to the right.

“The stairs?”

The professor chuckled good-naturedly, but the glint in his eyes telegraphed something that made Gordon take a step back.  What was going on?  

“Last I checked, the elevator button on the fourth floor works fine,” Philips said.  “Second floor too, though if you’re that far down, you might as well continue to the mezzanine.  There are some overstuffed chairs in a niche.  Perfect for a nap on a rainy afternoon.”

“Well… I’ll be sure to, hmm, keep that in mind, sir.”

“Perhaps I should accompany you?  Make certain you reach the… proper door, as it were?”

Suddenly, Gordon wanted nothing more than to get away from that steely gaze, that fake smile.  “Thank you, no.” 

The professor’s voice sharpened.  “Quite sure, are you?  You realize how treacherous stairs can be, don’t you?   It would be a shame if you were to—”

“Really, Professor.  It’s not necessary.”  Gordon dragged open the heavy door.  The stairs were metal, the walls unfinished masonry.  At some point in the building’s past, lamps had been strung, but they were obsolete globes that buzzed and flickered unpleasantly.

As the door swung closed behind Gordon, Damien Philips called out.  “A bit of advice, Mr. Banks.  Do not tarry…  Oh, and do I suggest you count the flights.  Remember, there are two flights per floor!”

Count the floors?  Now that was strange.  Why would he need to do that?  Gordon hurried down the stairs, turned at the landing and continued until he reached a blank, gray-painted, steel door, a twin to the one on the floor above. 

There, he thought.  Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?  

But the knob didn’t turn in his hand.  He knocked on the door, softly at first, but then harder.  “Hello?” he called.  “Anyone there?” 

Heavy silence answered.  Well, the professor had mentioned the second floor.  Gordon puffed out a sigh, turned away from the door and continued his descent. The lights suddenly dimmed, and as he turned the corner, several lamps failed altogether.  He stumbled, barely catching himself on the safety rail.  His heart thudded in his chest as he imagined himself tumbling down the metal stairs.  Faint illumination trickled down from the upper floors.  He took a deep shuddering breath and, taking care to keep his hand on the railing, walked a few more steps.  

Gordon paused.  He craned his neck to look up.  The stairs climbed toward the roof.  How many floors did the research tower possess?  Nine, was it?  A dozen?  He peered down, over the railing.  The stairs descended into deepening gloom… perhaps all the way to the basement.  At any rate, he couldn’t make out the bottom.  A new thought bubbled up.  What if the second floor were locked as well?

Maybe it would be prudent to retreat.  He reversed course, but as he climbed, more lights winked on and off.  Somewhere above him, heavy machinery began to drone.  At least he thought it was the upper floors.  The acoustics in the stairwell made certainty impossible.  

Shadows closed in as more lamps failed.  The lights flared briefly, dazzling his vision before going out altogether.  Panting, his heart pounding, Gordon clutched the stair rail and peered into the darkness.  How many people even used the old research tower?  What if Professor Philips were the only one?  Suddenly, Philips didn’t seem like such bad company after all.  Perhaps he should return to the fifth floor and regroup.

A few lights flickered on and Gordon began to run up the stairs.  As he climbed the noise from the machinery grew louder, so loud he that he could no longer hear his feet on the treads.  He passed the third floor and continued to the fourth.  At least he thought it was the fourth.  Breath ragged, he staggered up the next two flights and grasped the handle of the stairwell door.  

The knob came off in his hand.  Shocked, he flinched back, and the doorknob slipped from his grasp.  It bounced over the edge of the stairs and fell into the darkness.  He lunged after it, only to drop his clipboard, which followed the doorknob into the depths.  

Gordon Banks pounded on the door, but the dynamo or motor or whatever-it-was thundered in his ears.  The floor vibrated.  The air rippled, and the stairwell seemed to tilt, to spin around him.  What was happening?  Little-by-little, machinery spun down.  Dizzy, he continued up the stairs.  The door to the next level was locked, as was the next.  And the one after that.  He sank onto the steps and tried to collect his thoughts.  

What floor was he on?  The seventh, he thought, but he was no longer sure.  Well, there was one way to find out for certain.  Hand on the rail, he trotted, just as fast as he dared, down the poorly-lit stairway.  He counted the floors as he descended.  One, two, three…  But the floors went on and on.  Panic surged, and he forced it down.  His legs burned and his knees throbbed. 

When the count reached sixteen, panic overtopped his resolve and he screamed for help.  He began to try every door.  Most were locked.  One opened on pitch darkness, another on dense fog and the reek of death.  Some knobs burned his hand; icicles depended from others.  One door opened to reveal red sands that extended to a barren horizon.  Another gave access to a thin strand.  He peered out, bitter cold making his eyes stream.  Beyond the strand, a great, tentacled beast surged from slate gray waves, flinging itself upon the beach.  He slammed the door in terror.

And deep down, farther than he’d dared travel, voices echoed through the darkness.  There were screams and shouts.  Curses and insane gibbering.  

Gordon realized that finishing his research proposal was no longer a priority.

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.