The Blue Legacy

by
E. Thornton Goode, Jr.
 PROLOGUE

What is History? Is it just a record of past events or

could it be possible it could have premonitions for the
future? Does History give us a legacy from which to learn?
But do we gather wisdom, taking heed from this knowledge?
Our story will address the possibility of historic legacy.
 The Blue Legacy

Colonel John Mason had led his company of Union

troops into the city of Atlanta several days earlier. He was an
ambitious and intolerant man and known for his piercing
gray eyes. One look from them could make anyone shudder
in his boots. Behind his back many called him ‘Ruth’
Mason. It was short for the slashing adjective, describing his
manner and demeanor. His unorthodox actions supported his
enormous ego. He realized the war could be a springboard
for his political future when all was said and done. When he
returned to New York, stories of his campaigns would surely
boost his probability of election. He’d be known as someone
who got things done even if he went out on a limb to
accomplish it. Nothing was going to stand in the way of his
successful future.

Mason halted his men and dismounted. He walked

up to the wrought-iron gates of the great house on Peachtree
Street. He stood there several moments, stroking his dark
beard and mustache. Suddenly, his eyes took on a crazed
look.

The early morning sun gave a golden glow to the

white marble of the huge Classic Revival mansion, standing
in the middle of the city block. All four sides of the square,
two-story structure had twelve-foot wide porches on both
levels, separating the columns from the white marble walls
of the house. There were ten fluted columns on each side
made of the same marble and in the High Corinthian style.
They supported not only the second story porch but the
ornate frieze above them.

The windows were large, set with diamond-shaped

beveled panes and flanked on both sides by slatted shutters,
painted a black-green. Every window and doorway had an
elaborately carved pediment.

Mason wondered why the iron of the fencing around

the property had not been taken for the war effort as he
slowly walked up the cobblestone carriageway to the three
white granite steps, leading to the main porch that extended
across the entire front façade of the house. He looked out
over the surrounding lawns and gardens. They only hinted at
their former elegance and splendor. His eyes took their time,
scanning the exterior of the house. Noticeable wisps of
smoke stain were apparent on the graceful columns. They
were the result of the burning of the city when General
Sherman came through.

Entering through the double front doors, he was in a

wide hall. In front of him, was a grand spiral staircase. A
huge French crystal chandelier hung from the highly
ornamented ceiling of the second story some twenty feet
above his head. It hung low enough such it appeared the
curved stairway was caressing the elaborate fixture.

The main floor was of marble pavers. Fluted

Corinthian columns and carved pediments adorned the
entries of the parlors on either side of the hall.

Although stripped of its fine furnishings, the house

still retained high elegance. The ornamented walls, ceilings,
mantles and glinting crystal chandeliers hinted at a charm
that once was. The images of grand parties and people in
graceful attire flashed in his mind. Such extravagance only
angered him, reminding him of how difficult his childhood
had been in an orphanage.

Walking through the entry and to the left of the great

stairway, he found himself in the huge ballroom at the back
of the house. A multitude of windows filled the rear wall,
looking out to the rear porch and the lawns beyond. At the
far right end of the room was the only remaining piece in the
house, the carved walnut piano. Not the typical square kind
but the newer, three-legged grand with the bow on the right
side.

Approaching the keyboard, he struck one of the keys.

There was no sound. He struck it several times in
succession. Still, there was no sound. The reason was
obvious. All the strings were gone. This wasn’t uncommon.
The strings were being used to wrap cannon to prevent them
from cracking, during long periods of use. The strings had a
way of strengthening the barrels when they got hot and
increased the life of the weapon. Finding a piano intact was
a real treasure.

Finishing his silent tour, he left the great house the

same way he entered. When he returned to the gates, he
recalled why the house had not been damaged. Lieutenant
Stevens had told him General Sherman had spared it when
he burned the rest of the city. He considered it a superb
example of classic architecture and didn’t want it destroyed.

Lieutenant Stevens and the other men were waiting

quietly at the gate. Mason climbed onto his horse and
looked at the house for some time. Then, in a loud booming
voice, he yelled. “Stevens! Burn it!”

At that moment, a horseman came riding up at full

gallop. He was yelling and waving his hat in the air. “It’s
over! It’s over! The war’s over! Robert E. Lee has
surrendered at Appomattox.”

A great roar of jubilation rose from the troops. They

danced around and threw their hats into the air.

The trooper rode up to Mason and saluted. “Colonel

Mason, SIR! We have word. The war is over. SIR! General
Lee surrendered at Appomattox.” He smiled. “We can go
home now.”

“Soldier! Take that smile off your face. It’s not over
till I say it’s over.” Mason stroked his beard. “We’ll go
home when we finish showing these damn Rebels they truly
lost.” He paused for a moment, then turned and yelled.
“Stevens! Burn it!”

A surprised look came to Stevens’ face. “But, Sir!

The war is over.”

Mason’s eyes riveted to Stevens’. “Are you

disobeying the orders of a superior officer?”

Stevens lowered his eyes and begrudgingly saluted.

“No, SIR!”

“Then, carry out your orders.”

“Yes, SIR!” Stevens turned to the troops. “Halsey!

Jake! Stone! Bishop! Come with me.” He dismounted and
they walked up the carriageway.

Within thirty minutes, huge billows of black smoke

and flames shot from the roof and into the clear blue sky.
The noise of the burning timbers and the cracking marble
was almost deafening. Mason reveled in the sight. A sinister
smile crossed his face. “Okay, Men! NOW, we can go
home.”

The company turned and slowly marched up

Peachtree Street, heading north and to what was left of their
own homes, families and lives. Behind them, the blackened
marble popped and crumbled in the inferno. As the roof and
floors collapsed, the walls, chimneys and columns began to
topple. Delicate capitals and ornamentation went crashing to
the ground, shattering into many pieces. By mid-afternoon,
nothing remained but a smoldering wreck of a once-great
house. The lower walls were black crags and the irregular
perimeter of columns seemed like huge dark tree stumps.

* * * * *

The lot was unused in an overgrown state until just

after the First World War. The twenty-story Trumbolt
Building was constructed on the property. Much ado was
made over the building since it was one of the first major
buildings to go up after the War. During excavation, many
pieces of the marble architectural decoration were found and
saved. They were placed in huge glass cases in the lobby as
historic memorabilia.

* * * * *

It was mid-October of 1998 and 10:15 on that Friday

morning. It was business as usual at the accounting firm of
Tindell and Berry located on the fifteenth floor of the
Trumbolt Building.

Jim Potter was almost ready to make his morning

pick-up from the mailroom. He climbed the small stepladder
to retrieve another box of business envelopes from the top
shelf. When he stepped back, he accidentally kicked the
radio console behind him. In doing so, he shifted the tuner
knob. The previous station had been playing easy-listening
music throughout the office but the shift of the knob had
tuned to a news bulletin.

“Yes. It seems to be located on the fifth and sixth

floors. Black smoke is billowing from windows on five.
This is Bert Ross, bringing you live coverage. Here. Many
are being evacuated from the lower floors by the fire
department. Excuse me, Ma’am. Bert Ross. WZMN news.
Do you know anything about the fire and how it started?”
 “Why, not really. We heard the fire alarm and
security told us to leave the building. But not to use the
elevators.”

“Well. Thank you very much. We’ll try to get more

information as soon as possible. Returning you to our
studios. This is Bert Ross. WZMN ninety-seven point eight
FM news.”

Another announcer came on. “Well, folks. It seems

we have a real problem down there on Peachtree. This is
gonna make the afternoon rush hour a real mess. We’ll keep
up the coverage as it unfolds. Now. Back to the music.” At
that, a piece of music started playing.

People got up from their desks and went to the

windows. All eyes scoured the city to see if there was any
sight of the mentioned fire.

“I have no idea where it could be.” Sandra spoke up.

“I don’t see smoke anywhere out there.” She turned and saw
Jim Potter. “Jim. Did you hear anything about where the
fire is located?”

“Sure didn’t.”

The music was interrupted. “We take you back to

Bert Ross. Bert. What can you tell us?”

“Mike. It seems the fire has spread to the seventh

floor. There’s four or five engine companies here now.
Spoke with one of the firemen who said the heat is quite
intense on five and six but they’re trying to contain it.
They’re spraying water through the broken windows on the
two floors. And the smoke is incredible. Will see if I can get
any more information. Till then, back to you, Mike.”
 “Thanks, Bert, for that update.” The music
continued.

Bob Clarke was the District Manager and heard the

news. He stepped out of his office. “Sandra. Give Tom a
call and see if he knows anything.” Then, he laughed. “And
make sure it’s not us.”

She looked through her Rolodex. “Ah. There’s Tom

Surles’ extension.” She dialed the number.

“Security. Tom Surles here.”

“Tom. This is Sandra White with Tindell and Berry,

up here on fifteen. We heard something about a big fire and
wondered if you knew where it was?”

“There’s a fire? Up there?”

“No. No. We heard it on the radio. It’s somewhere

in the city and wanted to know where it was.”

“Thank, God! That’s all I need is a fire today. No.

Haven’t heard anything. Wait. Let me turn on our radio and
see what is going on.” There was momentary silence while
Tom went to get the radio turned on. After a while, he
returned to the phone. “Sandra. I’ve checked out several
stations and there’s nothing about a fire. What station are
you listening to?”

“It’s WZMN. FM. Ninety-seven point eight, so they

said.”

“Just a minute.” There was another pause. “Yeah.

It’s coming through loud and clear. I’ll see what I can find
out. I’ll call you back. Thanks, Sandra.”

“Okay, Tom. Thanks.”

 It was difficult for everyone to concentrate on work.
Someone was always going by the windows, pausing for a
minute to look out before returning to his desk.

“I’m calling the station. They can tell me where it

is.” Sandra grabbed the business pages of the phone book
out of the bottom drawer of her desk. Her search proved
useless. There was no WZMN listed. She picked up the
phone again and dialed 411. “Hello. Information. Atlanta.
The number for radio station WZMN.” She thumped the
desk with her fingers waiting for the number. “What?
There’s no number listed? But I don’t understand. I’ve
never heard of a radio station without a phone number.
Okay. Thank you, operator.” She pressed another button on
the phone for an outside line. “Stupid phone company.
Sometimes I wonder where they get their employees and if
any of them are competent. Yes. Hello. Operator. Atlanta.
I want the phone number of a radio station. It must be new
since it’s not in the phone book. Yes. WZMN.” There was
another pause. “There’s no number and no WZMN listed?
You must be kidding. Thank you.”

“Now, back to Bert on the scene. What can you tell

us now?”

“Thanks, Mike. I had to move from my spot at the

Macon Building. The fire trucks are taking up virtually the
whole block. They’re evacuating the Macon Building, too,
since it’s right across the street from the fire. They might
have to do some rescue from the roof of the Macon
Building.”

Sandra’s eyes were filled with terror. She wasn’t

alone. A shock wave of panic hit the office. Everyone ran to
the windows. Bob bolted from his office. “Damn! It’s got
to be us! We’re across the street from the Macon Building!”
 Sandra grabbed the phone. “Hello. Tom Surles
again.” Sandra was frantic. “Tom! The fire is across the
street from the Macon Building. Are you sure we’re not on
fire?”

“Sandra. There’s no indication in the sensing system

or on the security cameras. Tell everybody to stay put. I’m
checking the building myself. I’m calling the fire
department, too. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.”

“They said there are lots of fire trucks on the scene.”

“I don’t understand. Larry was just outside checking

the outside of the building to see if he could see any smoke
and he saw nothing. No smoke and no fire trucks. But I’ll
check into this myself. Sandra. There’s no fire in the
building.”

“Thanks, Tom. We’re really crazy up here. Bye.”

She looked at Bob, standing by her desk. “Tom said there’s
nothing wrong. He sent one of his guys out to check and
there’s nothing. He didn’t see anything wrong with any of
the buildings along the street.”

The radio report continued. “The fire’s coming out

the windows on the tenth floor. I really wonder if they’re
gonna be able to put it out. It’s really bad. And there’s a lot
of people on the floors above the fire. I have no idea how
they’re going to get out. I spoke with Captain Danny Miller
and he indicated they found a major and unforeseen flaw in
the building, allowing the fire to spread more rapidly. He
couldn’t understand how something like that could get by the
building inspector. Mike. We could have a major follow-up
story, involving possible corruption and graft. But for now,
there’s the problem of getting the rest of the people out of the
building. I see many at the windows on the floors above the
fire. Could it be they’re the pawns in some horrible tragedy?
And the smoke. It’s so thick, filling the sky with blackness.”
 Bob stood at the door to his office and raised his hand
in the air. He called out. “Okay folks. Take the rest of the
day off. Get out of here. And just in case, don’t take the
elevators. Take the stairs.” Bob turned to Sandra. “I know
we can’t be on fire. We’d see the damn smoke. Especially,
if the tenth floor was on fire. You can go if you like. I’m
staying here to find out what’s what.”

“No. Think I’ll stay, too. Think you’re right.” She

flashed a reassuring smile.

“What did the radio station tell you?”

“Can you believe it? There’s no listing for the

station. They have no phone.”

“What! That’s absurd. I’ve never heard of a radio

station without a phone.” Bob went to the windows,
scanning the city. “Nothing! Not a damn thing. I’m calling
the fire department.” Bob picked up the phone. “Hello.
This is Bob Clarke with Tindell and Berry. We’re on the
fifteenth floor of the Trumbolt Building and we’re listening
to a news report on the radio about a big fire in a building on
Peachtree Street. It’s supposed to be across from the Macon
Building. But WE are across the street from the Macon
Building. You have no report of a fire anywhere on
Peachtree. But the report said the fire is up to the tenth floor
and there are several fire trucks on the scene. It’s an FM
station. WZMN. Okay. Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
He hung up the phone. “They’re sending over a Lieutenant
Miller to check things out. He should be here in a little
while. They wanted to know what station was doing the
report. Guess they’ll find out their phone number.”

Within minutes, Tom Surles and Lieutenant Miller

entered the office. “You must be Bob Clarke. I’m Danny
Miller with the fire department. Now, what’s this about a
fire?”

The report broke in again. “Mike. The fire’s really

bad. Captain Miller said it’s a furnace in there. Wait a
minute. Looks like they’re breaking windows on the ninth
floor. They threw chairs through them. Smoke is coming
out, too. Oh, my God! Some are climbing out and hanging
from the framework. Oh, Jesus! They’re jumping! Oh,
God! They’re jumping!”

“Something’s really wrong here.” Miller clicked on

his talk phone. “Lieutenant Miller here. I’m on the fifteenth
floor of the Trumbolt Building and listening to a radio report
of a major fire in town. There’s no fire here. There’s no fire
alarm out right now? Damn! This is weird. Is there a
Captain Miller connected with the AFD? No Miller. Okay.
We’ll try to get to the bottom of this. Thanks. Miller out.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing. And they joked about
the Captain Miller. Said I’ll be up for promotion in the next
couple of years and should be eligible for Captain at that
time. Other than that, no Miller.”

The report continued. “The fire’s spread to the

fifteenth and sixteenth floors.”

“That ties it.” Bob uttered. He looked around the

entire office. “There’s no fire here.”

Lieutenant Miller scratched his head. “It’s got to be a

hoax. And the station?”

“I tried to call them. There’s no listing and no phone

number.” Sandra answered.

“Now, I know something’s wrong. Every station has

a phone.” Lieutenant Miller rubbed his face.
 Just then, Lieutenant Miller’s assistant arrived.” Hey,
Danny. What’s going on here?”

“Hey, Scott. Seems there’s a radio report about a big

fire. But there’s no evidence of a fire anywhere in the city to
match this one. Think we’ve got a hoax on our hands.”

The phone on Sandra’s desk began to ring. “Tindell

and Berry, Sandra speaking. Oh, yes. Just a minute. Tom.
It’s for you.”

“Tom here. Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Interesting. Thanks.

Bye.” He hung up the phone. “Larry called the main
security office for them to see what they could find out.
They could find nothing on the FM radio at ninety-seven
point eight. Just static. Others checked their car radios and
nothing. None of the TV stations have anything about a fire
and you know they’d be champing at the bit to be there. This
is really bizarre.”

The report continued. “The fire’s on the nineteenth

and twentieth floors. They’re jumping! They’re jumping!
Flames have engulfed the entire base of the building. There
go the windows somewhere around the twenty-eighth floor.
It’s horrible. So many are dying. How many will die in this
tragedy? The fire department is helpless.”

“Twenty-eight? But this building has only twenty

floors. Could this be a story? A play?” Scott interjected.

Bob pounded his palm with his fist. “That’s it! It’s
like that radio broadcast back in the thirties. The one in New
York about the Martians invading the world everyone
thought was real. That’s got to be it. It was done as a
Halloween prank and here it’s getting close to Halloween.”
 “Miller here. Seems it must be a radio drama. Even
the station must be fictitious. I’ll be back to the station in a
short while. Miller out.”

“Have to admit. Sure had me going there.” Bob

laughed.

“Hey. Glad it’s not real. There’s nothing worse than

trying to fight a fire in a high-rise. It’s the nightmare of
every fireman.”

“I really appreciate you coming by.” Bob shook

Miller’s hand. You, too, Tom.” He shook Tom’s hand.
“Sorry, Tom, for the confusion.”

“Got my adrenaline going.” Tom laughed.

Bob and Sandra gathered their things while the report

continued. Finally, Bob turned off the radio. They got into
the elevator.

“But it was so real.” Sandra broke the silence.

“Yeah. It was.”

The elevator doors opened and they headed for their

cars. “Have a good weekend, Sandra. See you on Monday.”

“You, too, Bob.”

The event of the day in the Trumbolt Building made

the Six O’clock News. “A strange radio drama took place
today in the Trumbolt Building, totally interrupting business.
Seems the drama was about a fire and it even had the fire
department hopping. As of this newscast, there’s no
information on what station was doing the broadcast. Maybe
it was shades of the nineteen thirty-eight Mercury Theater
broadcast but Halloween is a few more days away. We’ll
keep you updated when this mystery unfolds.”

* * * * *

It’s present-day and a significant event is scheduled

for the late morning hours. Local TV and radio stations have
their equipment readied to record it. Even helicopters have
positioned themselves for a bird’s eye view. The moment
finally arrives and the countdown comes to an end.

When the timer hit zero, all eyes were fixed on the
Trumbolt Building. Loud multiple ‘booms’ resounded down
Peachtree Street. The sound subsided. The building gave a
quiver and then slowly started sinking to the ground in a
great cloud of dust. One reporter compared it to a great ship
slipping beneath the sea.

The visual was truly awesome. Over two hundred

feet of brick and concrete, crashing to the ground in one
giant dust cloud. Whistles and roars from the crowd joined
the tremendous noise. It seemed strange. It took only
seconds to demolish something that took almost two years to
construct.

Marc Carpenter packed away his video camera and

headed for the airport. The footage would be incorporated
into his presentation. Completion of the first phase of his
new concept along with its corresponding presentation had to
be finished in the next two weeks. At that time, the whole
thing would be unveiled to his wealthy client and also the
world.

He was the protégé of the New York firm of Burns,

Tyler and Matthews. His creativity and new ideas had been
recognized even in his college days. His concepts were
beyond futuristic. They were innovative and visually
spectacular. A major architectural magazine had crowned
him ‘the next Frank Lloyd Wright and more’. Only wealthy
architectural firms could recruit him. Others couldn’t afford
to hire him. But Marc was not only extremely talented, he
was unbelievably arrogant. It was rather fitting his first
major design would be for one of the wealthiest and most
arrogant men in the business field. Each in their own area of
expertise was brilliant but they were ruthless in their means
to stay on the top.

There were stories about Marc’s college days and

things he did. Vicious things. To other students and their
work, so his would outshine them all. Although there was no
real proof of his vengeance, it was known in whispers he’d
done them. Strangely, he didn’t have to be that way. His
designs and ideas were revolutionary and would have stood
above the rest on their own merit. Many believed it was
because inside he was insecure and had no conscience.

So. Here it was. Two weeks to go. Architectural

firms knew of the project and were anxious to see what it
was. Paul Lewis was president of Marc’s firm and had
invited many to see the presentation even some members of
the competition. He wasn’t afraid of losing Marc to another
firm. None could meet his growing salary. Many weren’t
willing to deal with his self-centered, lack of modesty and
enormous ego. He’d wondered why Marc didn’t start his
own firm but Marc had indicated, working for others had its
advantages, too.

* * * * *

Paul and Marc waited patiently for their client at the

elevator in the reception lobby. It was the day of reckoning.
He would be there shortly. Paul had the many guests ushered
to the conference room earlier. Anyone arriving after the
designated time wouldn’t be admitted.
 “I know he’s going to like it. I have no doubt.” Marc
was antsy but incredibly sure of himself. This project could
be a major stepping stone to his future. His move up the
ladder in the firm would be assured. He wanted to see his
name on the door and in first place.

“It’s spectacular. You have nothing to worry about. I

know they say no one can please him. This will be different.
It speaks to his huge ego. You’ll see.”

All was in readiness in the conference room. The

video and verbal presentation would begin there then move
to the main reception lobby where there was a huge box
shape wrapped in a cover.

“I understand he’s a real son-of-a-bitch. And he’s

from one of New York’s old families. Right after the Civil
War, his great something grandfather went into politics.
Several coup d’états landed the family with vast fortunes.
How or what happened makes no difference. It doesn’t
change the fact he’s one of the wealthiest and influential men
alive. He’s made and broke many.” Marc recalled
information, regarding their client.

Paul looked at his watch. “Well. The moment of

truth is here. He should be arriving any minute.”

They stood several feet in front of the elevators in the

reception area. The large, covered box shape loomed up
behind them. There was a ‘ding’. The doors opened and out
stepped a tall, well-dressed man surrounded by six others.
He had intense gray eyes that seemed to look into one’s very
soul. His angular face and his dark black beard and
mustache were streaked with touches of gray.

“Good morning. I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad.”

Paul extended his hand, shaking that of the man in front of
him. “And this is Marc Carpenter. Marc, this is Mister
Frank Mason.”

Marc extended his hand to grip a stern shake. “Good

morning, sir.”

Mason looked Marc up and down then spoke in a

gruff tone. “Isn’t he a bit young for this project?”

“He might be young but he’s centuries ahead in

concept and design.” Paul smiled.

Mason gave a sly smile as he continued to stare at

Marc. “Yeah. I’ve been finding out a lot about him. Seems
he’s supposed to be the next ‘big thing’ in architectural
design. We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”

Paul led the group to the large conference room

where everyone was already seated. While an underling got
coffee and pastries for Mason, Paul seated him in the place
of honor, so he could see the presentation without distraction
or interference. Then, he went to the front podium. “Good
morning, gentlemen. I hope everyone is comfortable. You
all know why you’re here, so I’d like to turn the program
over to Mister Marc Carpenter. Marc.” He gestured in
Marc’s direction as there was pleasant applause.

“Gentlemen. I’d like to explain I won’t be standing

up here in front of you for this presentation. The entire thing
is video with musical interludes and verbal comments. The
video will begin with touches of historic value then conclude
with the site of the project. Afterward, we’ll finish in the
reception area. So, let’s begin.”

Marc pressed a button, electric blinds covered all the

windows and the lights dimmed out. The program was
underway.
 At its end, there was, again, a polite applause as the
lights came on and the blinds opened.

Mason stood, grinned and looked at Marc. “Good

shot of the building at the end. It always amazes me what a
few well-placed charges can do.”

“Thank you, sir. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll go to the

reception area, I’d appreciate it. We’ll have the finale there.”

Shortly, all were standing around the large tall box in

the reception area. Momentarily, the doors closed, blinds
covered the windows and the lights dimmed out. Marc had
seen the visual several times in rehearsal but this was the real
thing. His heart raced in excitement. He spoke in a loud and
distinct voice. “Gentlemen. I give you…” He paused for a
second and pulled the drape off the Plexiglas box. “The
Mason Tower.” He pressed another button.

Within the case, stood a fourteen-foot tall model of a

140 story building. Its many spires rose like a conglomerate
of quartz crystals. The entire model was lighted along with
the other models of buildings in the vicinity. The elegant
lines of the design made the tower seem taller than it really
was. Shafts of multicolored light beamed from the many
pinnacles as if broken by a hundred prisms.

There was an audible gasp of amazement from the

darkness around the model then a raucous affirmation of
satisfaction.

Mason yelled out. “By God! Damn! You’ve done it!

My boy, you’ve done it!”

Words like ‘unbelievable’, ‘spectacular’, ‘incredible’

and ‘brilliant’ circulated through the room.
 After several minutes, the lights slowly returned to
normal again and the blinds opened. The model was visible
by the light of day.

“It’s perfect.” Mason boomed. “It makes a

statement. A statement of all statements.” He moved closer
to the case to observe the details of the model. A power
sensation went through him when he saw how it dwarfed the
surrounding structures. “How poetic. A monument of
northern commerce, standing in the capital of the South. It
just makes me feel terrific. And my office will be right up
there. On the top floor.” Mason’s ego was about to explode.
“Those damn Rebels. It’s not over till I say it’s over.” A
sinister mood flashed across his face. “A toast!”

The sound of champagne bottles opening echoed

through the room. Mason raised his glass. “To Marc
Carpenter. A genius.”

“Hear! Hear!” Resounded throughout.

“Now. Let’s go show those Rebels whose boss.”

Mason yelled.

A loud applause filled the room and all wanted to

shake the hand of the new, soon to be famous, architect.

Marc’s ego burst. “I’m now unstoppable. I’m on the

top and it feels good. No one can touch me. And my office
will be right there on the same top floor, too. Right next to
that arrogant bastard’s.” He whispered to himself then
quietly gave a sinister laugh.

* * * * *

Even as the backslapping was going on in New York,

heavy equipment removed the last remains of the Trumbolt
Building and started excavating for the deep underground
garage of the new Mason Tower. Much blasting had to be
done to go into the granite beneath the surface. In a few
months, the site would be ready for commencement of
construction.

The model was eventually moved from New York

and put on display on the main level of the Five Points
MARTA Station in downtown Atlanta where the east-west
and north-south transit lines intersect. The model became a
local attraction.

Although many were glad for the new structure and

the business it would bring, many others were disappointed.
Much of the contract work was being done by companies
from New York owned by Mason. Only the ‘grunt’ work
was contracted out to local companies. Some even said
many of the businesses to occupy the building were coming
from up north, bringing their employees with them. Many
connected to the Mason Empire. But this was just hearsay.
Only time would tell.

The early morning sun put a bright glow on the new

spring day. Construction started that morning with the first
concrete truck pulling up to unload. The sounds of electric
welding and operating cranes combined with those of the
surrounding city traffic.

Among it all, a young man walked up Peachtree

Street, listening to his radio. He stopped and began to turn
the selection dial. Finally, he stopped on a station that came
in loud and clear.

“Hello, Atlanta. This is your new Easy Listening

station. WZMN. Ninety-seven point eight on your FM
dial.”

THE END