Death of the Extremophile, Page 2

3. ‘But she’ll see this. Me atop the unnatural word.’

  ‘The weather is moving in. Can’t you see? A fine example of cumulonimbi form. Not sure what I’m talking about? Well, how about this? If you don’t get off that damned pole you’re more than likely going to get fried. That’s what.’

  There was urgency in the grumpiness that had not been there five minutes earlier. The man was named Bobby Sminton Carpets and he was considered by many a mountaineer as the most fearless guide America had produced. He had led expeditions to every corner of the world, including an honorably aborted attempt at the Matterhorn, and he rarely shied away from danger. Reaching the top of a mountain was the best feeling he knew, and the taste of triumph was even sweeter when the elements conspired to try and keep him off it. A deft hand when it came to ropes with perilous drops beneath, he had mastered every knot there was, from those holding the rigging of the junks upon China’s waterways to those transporting out the buckets of coal in the mines of Siberia, and he could do a surprising number of them with just one hand and his teeth.

  He was a short, stocky man in his early thirties; ginger hair; a flat, broad, crooked nose that removed any symmetry from his face; and glassy blue eyes. He had grown up in the mountain country of Montana, and he had vowed never to leave, primarily earning his living from walking tours for the well-healed - nice enough people who wanted mostly just to breathe fresh air and hear tales of exciting deeds - but then one day a client was so impressed by his skills and entranced by his stories that he offered him work as rigger in New York; the offer was only accepted when it came with the assurance he would only be working on New York’s tallest buildings. Randolph Skellanti was the man doing the hiring: one of the kings of the New York construction boom, his overriding passion was his quest to conquer the skies from the ground up, and he treated well those with the talent to help him accomplish it; including allowing them leave to climb their own mountains when circumstances required it - even if it were for the spring and summer, and that was what Carpets was taking. It was Carpets’s rope holding George Hope to an airship mooring mast upon the Empire State Building. As Hope leaned back to take in a glimpse of the oncoming storm, the knot was tested more than ever. The storm clouds were an ominous grey and looming beyond the afternoon haze to the east, dwarfing him still, despite being atop the world’s tallest building.

  ‘Another ten minutes,’ Hopes exclaimed back into the noticeably strengthening wind. ‘We’ve got to wait.’

  ‘Sure it’s worth the risk? The camera might have enough flash to take your picture, but a lightning bolt has the energy to crisp you like bacon.’

  Hope grinned at his guide, who remained squatting at the base of the enormous spire. With one being paid to take risks and the other to reduce them, such conversations were inevitable.

  ‘Worth the risk, Carpets,’ he assured. ‘If you hadn’t noticed by now, I’ll do anything to get my picture in the papers.’

  Carpets grumbled something, only for the winds common to such heights to shred the words as soon as they left his mouth. Hope returned his attention to what he was doing, dipping his brush into the can of grey paint attached to his heavy leather utility belt and reaching further up the mast in long strokes. He had started from the top two hours earlier and had progressed to well over halfway down, not that he was in any rush and he would not go any lower now so as to not diminish the photographs to come; and, at any rate, he was more than keen to draw the job out for another day or two. The views across New York were superlative. When Frederick Bulkhead and Errol Jones had first offered him the job, he had readily agreed, albeit quite sure the idea too farfetched ever to come to fruition, and yet barely a week later here he was, looking down on the biggest fall in New York City.

  ‘I see it!’ Carpets excitedly announced.

  He was pointing up into the sky to the north with a hand he had taken off the rope bound to his waist. Hope could not yet see the plane as, like a nefarious dogfighter, it was hidden within the sun, but the emerging dull drone was clear enough. He had met the pilot, Donald Scott, that morning to discuss logistics. Scott was a WWI fighter ace with a drunk’s shake and that odd bent of many a pilot of only knowing which way was up in the midst of a neck wrenching aerobatic maneuver.

  Hope caught a glint of wing tips at last and then the whole plane was in view: a red-bellied, grey-bodied de Havilland DH 82 Tiger Moth - the proof machinery could be something worth putting a seat on. The plane dived steeply past the building’s spire and banked hard to come again. In front was Joseph Malone, the Brooklyn Chronicle’s senior photographer, poised with a Cantax II rangefinder camera, specifically modified for aerial reconnaissance work that Bulkhead had somehow wrangled from the navy.

  Hope unfurled his well-worn Star Spangled Banner from his rucksack and fastened it tightly to the mooring pole. With the wind upon it, it immediately sprung to life and looked young again - well, at least, no longer a candidate for a Flag Day burning. The Tiger Moth leveled out and began to circle, Malone leaning out with the camera in aim. Hope smiled and waved for the first pass and then as the plane settled into its circling pattern, he went back to work, accentuating his movements so that the brush and paint were clearly visible. Oregon Prime, the name on the can, was somewhat streaky and slow drying for this kind of work, but that was of no consequence. What mattered was the company’s readiness to splash around more than just its paint; they had signed up to a sponsorship deal and were embarking on a nationwide advertising campaign, for which these shots atop the Empire State Building would form an integral part. So the streaks and splotches on the mooring pole, which had just become the highest flagpole in America, were nothing to worry about - no one could see them this high up.

  ‘They’re really going to put our picture in the paper?’ called out Bobby Carpets with a child-like enthusiasm having melted away his reticence to the weather.

  ‘Yes, they are,’ Hope called back. ‘In newspapers across the country.’

  ‘My kids are going to be knocked out. Seeing their old man in the paper.’ The pride in his voice was unmistakable and Hope made a mental note not to involve him beyond this particular aspect of the venture cooked up by the newspaper chief and the Assistant District Attorney, for despite being on a roof buffeted by a freezing wind and with perilous thunderstorms moments away, this was still the safest element of the entire scheme; it was where this contrived publicity was intended to lead, however, that the occupation was liable to get skewed: places where the stoutest knots a rope had to offer would be of no use whatsoever. So, no invitation for after-work beer. No matter what. Because that was where someone really could get hurt.

  The plane completed a few more circuits of the spire, Malone leaning further and further out the cockpit until he appeared in danger of falling out; then, with a parting dip of the wings, the plane banked away westward.

  Carpets watched it heading fast for the horizon and his no nonsense demeanor was back with a vengeance. ‘Good. Now will you get the hell off this damned building?’

  Hope replaced the lid onto the paint can and hooked the brush onto his utility belt and started untying the restraints of the flag. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘No point getting wet.’ Once the flag was folded and bagged, he abseiled down to Carpets’s position. He laughed and slapped his guide playfully on the shoulder. ‘If you enjoy the publicity, I’ve got an interview with the Brooklyn Chronicle waiting to go when we get down from here. You could join in, if you’d like. Set a few words to complement the pictures. Or if you are press-shy, I would be happy to convey a message on your behalf.’

  ‘Thanks, but no,’ replied Carpets after a moment’s thought. ‘It’s never been for a love of words that I’ve climbed my mountains. And besides, my wife doesn’t read so good, so there’s not much point. But she’ll see this. Me atop the unnatural word. She’ll like that alright.’