The lattice tower was falling apart at many places. Malcolm leapt and swung around the criss-crossing steel bars. At this rate, this bridge will fall to pieces in 30 minutes. Malcolm reached out his right hand to ignite his own stylus but hesitated. Instead, he pull some steel wires from his coat and focused his attention on the lattice bars ahead.
In his vision, the chain of bars unfurled into a concentric stairway. He looked up and tapped lightly on the handrail and released into the white space around the stairway bolts and fasteners. He touched one of screws and it produced in bold letters, the manufacturer's name, date and composition integrity. He looked up once more and there was above a display of signages moving and indicating the "High Integrity" and safe areas of the way ahead.
Malcolm withdrew from the vision and pressed onward across the fallen tower. Turning to the nearest intersection of bars, he tied his steel cables to secure his way. Soon, he formed a network of wires tightening down the key cross-sections he passed.
I was not the least bit satisfied with this gesture. As I struggled with shuddering vehicle to drive it straight, I could only wonder just why wasn't he using any of his powers. Where was his stylus? The conductor's baton. The factory we had been to hours earlier had a conductor's dome which was the place where he showed me how to construct a jet from thin air with nothing more than metal ore, latex and paint powder sprayed from nozzles built into the ground. He would draw out the airframe, pitched it in mid-air and grow wires directly across the skeleton fuselage.
Then, he willl turn and bow and continue to play. Like throwing a volleyball into the air, he will fling his right hand upwards to turn on all nozzles to spray the ore powder at full jets. He conducts the final symphony with powerful strokes and flourishes catching every particle in the air. Sheets of metal appear with lines of running over their surfaces. They bend according to the angled measurements and form into the sheet casings. Cool cinders fill the room and disappear and the parts descend from the roof above us and rest over the fuselage. The bolts floated to the exact designations and secured the sheets to form a completed plane. He would let it down slowly till it sat safely on the floor of the dome. Then, he would ask me for an applause, which I obliged happily.
The dome which we visited was now manufacturing Chicago Typewriters for Albernia and Gulran. And the assembly and roll-out domes were abandoned. People have lost their jobs. It was unlike Malcolm to walk away from all these, unless he had lost his mind somewhere along the way. And I fear somehow he just did.
Malcolm reached the top edge of the tower. He sees the lone man in a blue suit sitting at the edge of the satellite dish. He wrote his final message into the air in glowing cursive letters, saved the message into his pen and hurled it down into the edge. Malcolm changed his accent and put up mock police name tag on his shoulder pocket.
"What are the chances of anyone picking up your message from down below?!"
The man startled and turned to him.
"Have you come to arrest me?"
"No. Not today. I was just thinking about the story you just threw down there. Must have been quite a shame."
"No. Detective. It wasn't a shame. Before I jump you should know that was 27 years of my life down there. Someone's gonna pick it up and read it. And know just how great it was."
"You think so? Do you see anyone down there stopping and having a look?"
He looked down and said, "No."
"Then, look at me and tell me just why would anyone else bother about what you've got to say? Why should my chief give me another minute with you when there are 2 jumpers on my schedule?"
He looked at Mal who read his past through his eyes. He was startled by what he saw but kept his cool.
"Because I built this tower! And worked up the company to be CEO! I did it all from scratch! You've no right to say that it was all for nothing!"
"Well. The police case files say a lot about what you did. I am sure not even the security guard who showed me up here knows that he has already lost his job."
"Wait a minute. I've never told anyone about that." Then he looked a little closer at the man in the coat.
"Hey. I know you! You're Malcolm Eddings! The celebrtiy guru of Breaking News! "
Malcolm at last breathed a sign of relief and dropped off his accent.
"That's right. Malcolm Eddings at your service. Come on down here so we can fix your problem."
"No! I am in this fix because of some small-time FS who claimed that Miners Initiative in Gulran would make me a trillion. He had some fanciful simulation skills, a rosy forecast and some fail-proof plan for market domination in the High North."
Malcolm caught hold of the hint which pointed some energetic young wannabe he once knew some years ago. Someone he had spent time training in the symphony hall. He almost did a face-palm in knowing that his apperentice was once again up to mischief. The dramatic exchange sent ripples through the tower that made the rusting structure groan. Malcolm heard and pressed in for the rescue.
"Look Jerrod, we all have problems. You must have read about mine. If you don't care for anyone else, then just focus on prospects of your untimely end. You will go down in this ship, and people are gonna be sad for a while. Then, they'll just get up and get on with their lives. And your story will end right here at this tower. What's your choice?"
"I want to go back to the time before I screwed up." He croaked.
"Then, come on down here. I will help you fix things." Jerrod relented and climbed down from the dish towards Malcolm. The steel wires tighten and strained as Malcolm began to feel more vibrations pulsating through the structure. "We better get off this wreck right now." He urged Jerrod as they clambered back down towards the Acadia New Building.
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