The Model Makers

As the protective hyper-glass case was lowered over the newly transubstructurated model of the Drexler Building, Frankie Waxman rolled her eyes and clapped along with everybody else.

Finally, the ReSkale Corporation executives were finding their way off stage and trays of drinks were beginning to appear amongst the crowd. Reaching out, Frankie snagged a glass of champagne and got to it. Pretty soon she would be back to the daily grind and three or four of these would help her turn out those fifty-seven mid-century modern end tables for the Continental Hotel.

“Hello, Ms. Waxman.”

A middle-aged, diminutive man had stepped alongside her. She peered down to inspect his face and confirmed that it was her boss, Henry Hart. “Could you spare a moment and come with me, please?”

Frankie groaned. “What do you want, Henry? Can’t you see that I’m busy?” She pointed to the glass, which was empty. She had pressing business to attend to, such as obtaining a refill.

“This will only take a moment, Ms. Waxman,” said Henry. He started off, wagging as he walked, the corners of his elongated mustache twitching spasmodically. Reluctantly, Frankie grabbed another drink and trailed after him as he made his way towards the model of the Drexler building.

“Now’s the best part,” said Henry. He took out a gold pocket watch, inspected the time, put it away and leaned against the protective railing, peering down. “Watch.”

Frankie leaned with him, one hand gripping the railing, another gripping a highball. The Drexler Building was now the tallest skyscraper in the United States; though a model, it was nearly as tall as Frankie herself, and Frankie, as everyone regularly reminded her, was tall for a woman. She stared down at the model street in front of the model building. Her eyesight was bad after years of turning out miniature furniture in fine detail and she had to squint to clearly make out the sidewalk below.

After a few moments, Frankie saw the first one: an impossibly small figure of a be-suited man or woman, no larger than a flea, making their way along the sidewalk, pausing now and again to inspect the new building. More arrived; a crowd was gathering on the sidewalk. And then, on Thirty-Ninth Street in Toronto, U.S.A, some two thousand miles away, one of the tiny figures approached and unlocked the front doors and the crowd began to filter into the building.

“It’s happening so far away,” Henry mused. “And yet, at the same time, it’s happening here. Incredible, isn’t it?”

Frankie twitched. She had heard his romanticisms before. Yes, the two were one in the same, model and building, thanks to what Henry referred to constantly as the “technological wonder of transubstructuration”.

Frankie turned and peered down at Henry. “That was great,” she deadpanned. “See you later.”

“Just wait a moment,” said Henry, his eyes still intent on the building. “Tell me what you feel. How does the technological wonder of transubstructuration strike you?”

It was like asking how a hyper-jet struck her, or a proton toaster, or a deluxe scubbler. “It’s fine, Henry. It’s really swell. Look, I have a lot of work to do and-”

“It can wait,” said Henry. “I know you put on a cynical façade. As a manager, it is my job to know people. I want to know how it makes you feel, Frankie. Tell me honestly.”

Frankie drained her glass. “I think it’s lovely and a boon to the world. We do great work here and I’m proud of it. The technological wonder of transubstructuration ranks alongside the Great Pyramid and the Martian canal system. How’s that? Can I go now?”

“Did you really mean any of that?” asked Henry.

“No.”

“Well,” Henry said patiently. “How do you really feel?”

Frankie concentrated hard and little lines formed all over her face. Fact was, she tried all the time to not think about work. “I really don’t think anything about it,” she finally admitted.

“Why?”

Frankie huffed. “Heck, I dunno. It doesn’t even seem real. Little buildings, little people. And those little people sitting in the little pieces of furniture that I turn out with micro-tools under my scope. It means nothing to me. It’s a job. So somebody tells me all that little stuff is really big stuff somewhere out there,” she waved her hand. “So who cares? I’d feel just the same if I were making doll houses for children.”

“Yes,” said Henry, nodding. “Yes, you’re quite right, Ms. Waxman. I understand completely. The human brain can never quite accept transubstructuration at face value. The animal part of us is incredulous. It requires faith.”

“Well, Henry, you’ve certainly set me straight,” Frankie said. “I’ll be faithful from now on, cross my heart. Thanks for the pep talk. But now I’d really better be going. I’ve got a lot of furniture to turn out today, as you know.”

“I know,” said Henry. “The Continental model. Follow me.” Henry turned and walked off. Frankie groaned and followed him, sulking. As they walked, Henry continued to talk. “I know we’ve had our differences, Frankie. I’m a big believer in the value our company provides to the world. You might even call me an ardent fan. And I know you do it for the paycheck. You’d be perfectly happy elsewhere, as long as the pay was better.”

Frankie squinted at Henry, suspiciously.

Henry put his hand up. “It’s ok. It is the truth. But, regardless, the company’s board has noticed your work. They think you have real talent and-”

“Am I being promoted?” asked Frankie. Suddenly, she realized the purpose of their little chat.

“Yes,” said Henry slowly. “You’re to be given the title of Project Manager for our renovation of the Edelman Hotel in New Orleans, Louisiana. You’re to oversee all aspects of its refurbishment, including design. And you’ll have a team working under you.”

Frankie’s head was swimming. Control of a project like Edelman’s was a substantial step forward in her career. After all, the hotel had been one of the ReSkale’s first transubstructuration projects, after the Skylark Building and the firm’s own headquarters building, where Frankie and Henry stood now. And then came Edelman’s. It was thirty years old. It was a prestige project. It was…

“Frankie? Are you listening to me?” It was Henry, glaring at her disapprovingly. She had managed to lag a good twenty feet behind while daydreaming.

“All ears,” She began to hurry after him, but then caught herself and slowed. She advanced at the deliberate, professional pace befitting her new role. “Yes, please proceed, Mr. Hart.”

Henry glared upward at her, then continued on across the floor. “I’m going to give you your first look at Edelman’s. It’s been brought out of its secure storage locker and onto the production floor. All guests have temporarily been relocated. Only minimal security staff remain, so you don’t have to worry too much about accidentally maiming anyone if you drop a micro-screwdriver or a paint-hair or a thumbtack. Ah, here it is.”

Henry approached the grand old hotel reverently. Frankie had seen it in promotional items for ReSkale, but never in person. To the left of the hotel stood a demure little woman, also gazing in appreciation.

“Is that-” Frankie began to ask.

“Yes,” said Henry, without averting his gaze. “That is another member of your team: Peggy Hempel. She’s one of ReSkale’s top architectural historians, and she’ll be assisting you with the renovation. There’s also Danny Andrews, the master utility and electrical man, who’ll be handling all of the updates to the H.V.A.C. systems, electrical wiring et cetera, but it doesn’t look like he’s arrived yet…”

The short, mousy-looking woman shuffled towards Frankie and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Waxman. I’m-”

Frankie cut her off, taking the woman’s dainty fingers in her own gnarled paw and shaking vigorously. “Peggy Hempel. Charmed, charmed,” said Frankie enthusiastically. “And call me Frankie, please. I’m very eager to work with you, Pegs. I’ve heard so much about you.” Frankie beamed an even, white-toothed smile at the spinsterish woman. Peggy smiled meekly back.

Beside them, Henry pouted. “Ms. Hempel, meet Ms. Waxman, your Project Manager.”

“Thanks, Henry,” said Frankie. “And give my thanks to the Board for this opportunity. And President Harlow. And our C.E.O., Tom Fischer. And…”

Henry waved her off. “I’ll thank them all for you, Frankie,” he said dourly. “I get the idea.”

She turned once more to the model of Edelman’s Hotel. “Gee, it’s just such a big opportunity,” she beamed. “It’s-” And then an explosion cut her off.

When Frankie awoke, Henry Hart was gone. Peggy Hempel lay beside Frankie, a thin coating of fine plaster dust covering her thick glasses. Frankie dragged herself upright, then bent over Peggy’s prone form and felt the big vein in her neck. The pulse was strong and regular. She felt her own pulse; it was fine. She checked her body for any cuts or misplaced limbs. Everything seemed to check out. She looked around. The room was filled with a thick cloud of chalky white dust. In the distance, she heard muffled shouting and the clatter of footsteps.

“Henry!” she shouted.

After a moment, cutting through the cloud, Henry’s small figure emerged, jogging out towards her. “You’re awake,” he observed, panting.

“Yes,” she said. “How long have we been out?”

Henry took out his pocket watch. “Twenty-five minutes now.”

“What in blue blazes happened?” she asked angrily, shaking dust from her clothes.

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” said Henry. “Apparently some sort of knock-out gas. At least one canister exploded, maybe more. Everyone on the production floor was knocked unconscious. But the safe rooms are untouched; I’ve been checking on them. All of the properties are undamaged. No loss of life either here or at any of our many other buildings, located all over the United States and the rest of the-”

Something caught Frankie’s eye. She interrupted her boss. “Henry, look!” She bodily rotated him so that he faced Edelman’s Hotel.

“Oh,” he said.

The top of the hyper-glass case had been melted away and, like one of those educational cut-away diagrams, a thick wedge of the hotel had been removed, exposing the rooms within. Frankie approached the model and peered inside. In addition to the missing wedge of hotel, holes had been drilled through the floor; some went all the way to the basement. Thank God they had removed all the guests, Frankie thought. It could had been a real bloodbath. In the basement tiny blue-clad figures scurried back and forth and a few police cars were parked on the street as well. Frankie couldn’t imagine the scene at full-size: old Edelman’s Hotel, with a giant section cut cleanly from its top.

“Do you think it’s a heist?” she asked Henry. “Think they lifted something?”

“I don’t know,” Henry said. “I haven’t received any word- oh, hold on.” Henry hit the button on his chest that activated his phone earpiece. “Hello, Henry Hart speaking.”

Frankie listened as he muttered ‘Mm-hms’ and ‘I sees’. Then, ‘Hello? Hello?’ Seeming annoyed, Henry hit the button on his chest once more. “Stupid thing.” He chucked the earpiece at the ground. “Died on me. Must have been the dust, or the explosion. Or both. Anyways, they told me enough.”

“Let’s have it,” said Frankie.

“You were right,” said Henry. “They’ve been hit. Safes taken out, works of art. Losses in the millions.” He glanced at Frankie. “We’ll have to delay the renovations.”

“But now is exactly the right time to do them!” protested Frankie. She pointed to the mangled hotel. “Just look at it!”

“But they’re not sure of the security of our facilities and hence their building anymore,” Henry retorted. “Don’t you see? We’ve been compromised, somehow. And because of that, a client of ours has taken a considerable loss. That changes things.”

Frankie paused. It did change things. She steadied herself. “I’m not going to lose my promotion,” she said. “And maybe we can get you a promotion, too. I know it hit you awfully hard that the board went against your wisdom, Henry. Well, let’s find the do-badders. Let’s get ‘em! They can’t have gotten far!”

“You’re not the police,” said Henry reprovingly. “And you’re not ReSkale internal security. We have to let the proper authorities follow their own process because-”

Through the smoke, another figure emerged, bent over and hobbled. It was an old man, with a long, gray beard and spectacles. He wore an engineer’s cap and big, brown floppy shoes. He looked not unlike a thin, shriveled Santa Claus in work clothes. “Mr. Hart!” he cried out. “Mr. Hart!”

“Oh, what is it?” said Henry fitfully. He turned to Frankie. “This is another one of those who would’ve been working under you, Frankie. Mr. Danny Andrews: master miniature pipe fitter, electrician, H.V.A.C. man, and general jack-of-all-trades. What is it, Danny?”

“Mr. Hart, look above you!” cried Danny. “Look up there!”

Frankie looked up. She could see only drifting, whirling smoke, but the production room’s ceilings were very tall, and it was beginning to clear. Above her was twenty feet of clear air. Still, she could see nothing that merited her attention. “What am I looking at, Mr. Andrews?” she asked.

“I can’t see anything either, Danny,” said Henry.

“You can’t see it?” asked Danny quizzically. “Why just look: it’s a big circle of light.”

Gradually, Frankie began to see what Danny was talking about: a single circle of light. As the smoke cleared further, it emerged to be a hole cut out of the vast concrete, double-reinforced roof of the production room, not more than three feet wide.

“It’s a hole in the roof,” said Henry.

“Why, sure it is!” said Danny. “They cut a hole in the roof. Then they gassed us and zipped in, zipped out.”

“I doubt it, Danny,” said Henry. “How would they get down and get back up so quickly? And plus, I’ve been in contact with the perimeter guards. No one’s been sighted on the grounds. They’ve run over the entire building. There isn’t anyone that left out of that hole.”

“Oh?” Danny wrinkled his brow in concentration. “Then, what do you think? Why go ahead and make that hole there, if they ain’t going to use it?”

“I don’t know, Danny,” said Henry. “It doesn’t quite make sense does it?”

Frankie was biting her lip, trying to piece it together. Her eyes widened. “Sure it does, Henry,” she said. “Look, what do we do here?”

“We make models,” said Henry.

“So doesn’t it make sense that a thief would employ model-making techniques in order to steal from a model: by using a model!” exclaimed Frankie.

“What?” said Henry. “You’ll have to rephrase that, Frankie.”

“I mean,” said Frankie, calming herself, “doesn’t it make sense that a thief would use a model, if he or she wanted to lift something out of this place? You catch my drift?”

“You mean?” Henry pointed to the hole above the heads, which was now a perfectly visible circle of blue cut out of the ceiling of gray.

“Yes,” said Frankie, nodding. “I’m saying that hole was cut out of the ReSkale production building’s transubstructurated model. The model must be thirty years old, but it is still around, correct?”

Henry pressed his hand to his chin in concentration. “Yes, in transubstructurated building the model must exist, in order for this building to exist. The two are one in the same; there is no difference between them. So, yes, there is a model, Frankie.”

“Well, don’t you think that whoever cut that hole out of the ceiling, could’ve used the model?” Frankie asked.

“And then, what? Cut open the Edelman Hotel and removed the safe with a tiny pair of tweezers?” asked Henry. “Preposterous! Can you imagine how much fine motor control that would take? Frankie, we’re talking about dissecting a model inside of another model. It’s reduced exponentially in size. It just couldn’t be done.”

Frankie felt herself remain defiant. Suddenly, she felt possessed by a new pride in her craft. She turned to Danny Andrews, the old pro. “Danny, what do you think, could it be done?”

Danny smiled energetically. “You bet it could be done, Ms. Waxman!” he nodded. “Why, the things I’ve seen really good, talented model maker do in my day! It’d take a person of great skill to do it, but sure, it’s possible! By god, I think it really is possible!”

“See?” said Frankie, turning back to Henry. “I think it’s possible too. The only reason you don’t, Henry, is because you’re not a craftsperson like we are. You don’t work with models day in, day out. You don’t know just how good we can be.”

Henry frowned. “I have respect for your craft, Frankie. I just don’t have good motor skills. No control over my hands. I’m not in a suit by choice.”

“C’mon boss,” said Frankie. “Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. I just want to find out who did this, that’s all, and I know you do too. Come on, do you know where the model for the production building is located? Let’s go take a look.”

Henry straightened up, the forlorn cast of his face carefully removed. “All right,” he said. “I doubt you’re right about this, but it’s a place to start. And I know exactly where that model is: room 507, locker B. High-priority security room.” He turned and began to walk off. “Come on, Frankie. Let’s test out your theory.”

Room 307 was located on the third basement floor. They exited the elevator and Frankie felt a sudden blast of lukewarm air rush over her face. Reflexively, she scrunched up her nose and suppressed the urge to sneeze. The light in the hall was also different: dim and red. Frankie scrunched up her eyes along with her nose so that she could see. Her eyes were already bad enough.

“Positive-pressure climate control,” the reddened version of Henry explained, seeing her expression. “It’s the perfect temperature for preservation of the models, and the pressure makes sure that no contaminants are allowed to accumulate. And the light is red to filter out any damaging high-frequency radiation.”

“Gee,” said Frankie, her face contorted miserably. “They go through that much trouble?”

“Of course,” said Henry. “Any deterioration to the model will also show up on the building. But, down here, we can keep them preserved indefinitely. That’s important to our clients, and to us, from a liability standpoint.” He glanced up at Frankie. “How the heck do you not this, anyways?”

“Certs me,” said Frankie with a shrug of her shoulders.

Henry sighed conspicuously and set off down the hallway. “Come on,” he said curtly. “Room 307 is down this way.”

Frankie usually didn’t have to work very hard to keep up with her short, scurrying boss, but under the conditions she found it difficult. For his part, Henry didn’t seem to have any trouble with the weird feeling air and weird looking light, and strode along without hesitation. He must come down here an awful lot, thought Frankie.

After they had trundled down a few passageways, they came to a dead-end with a door, and in front of the door, a big, burley guard. He labored over to them, his arms swinging like a gorilla. “Identification cards, please,” he gasped. Henry held out his small yellow card and the big guard flashed his scanner at it. After a moment, the machine beeped and the guard waved him on. “Ok, Mr. Hart, you can go on through.”

Frankie started to follow after Henry as he opened the door, but the guard caught her by the forearm. “Say, where’s your card, lady?”

Frankie glowered down at the guard, shook his paw loose from her arm, and pushed a long, bony finger into the fleshy tip of his nose. “That’s Ms. Waxman, Project Manager to you, you insolent oaf,” she said. “And my card’s back in my office. We’re here on official business, and it’s an emergency. Now step aside.”

The guard drew himself up so that his eyes were level with Frankie’s chin, and his face assumed a pugnacious, arrogant quality. “I don’t care who you are, Ms. Project Manager. I have say over who sees the models, and you gotta have a card to see the models. Ok?” He looked to Henry for help.

“It’s ok,” said Henry. “She’s with me. And she’s right; this is an emergency. We’re under an attack of some sort.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” mumbled the guard, while rubbing his injured nose tip. “Well, I suppose you can take her in without an ident-card, but you absolutely cannot go into the secure locker. I would lose my job, and, besides, Jerry in there isn’t as nice as I am. He won’t let you into any of ‘em, and that’s for sure.”

Henry looked at Frankie. “Oh, Jerry’s in today?”

“That’s right, Mr. Hart,” said the guard.

“Wonderful. I know him well, I’m sure we won’t have any problems. Anyhow, we can make do with the security footage. Right, Frankie? Just as long as we rule out any tampering with the model.”

“Yeah, I guess that will do, Hank,” said Frankie acidly, her burning-coal eyes still fixed on the guard.

Henry reached out, grabbed her hand, and pulled her struggling into room 307. The door slammed shut and sealed behind them.

“You know,” Henry whispered, “you aren’t entitled to an office as Project Manager.”

“A girl can dream,” Frankie retorted.

“And you’re not entitled to a yellow-clearance security card, either.”

“The guard didn’t seem to know that,” said Frankie.

Frankie broke her hand free from Henry’s grasp and looked around. The air inside the room was even weirder than in the hall, both in terms of motion and of light, which was uniformly different shades of red. The room was octagonal in shape, and at each wall was a large, shiny steel door. In the center of the room was a crescent moon-shaped control console, where another guard, even larger than the last, sat awkwardly on a rickety office chair that was much too small for him. He looked up as they approached and set down a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“Ah, hiya Mr. Hart,” he said to Henry, sticking out his hand. Henry took hold of a few of the man’s fingers and attempted to jiggle them.

“Hello, Jerry,” said Henry.

“You want access to one of the secure lockers, Mr. Hart?” asked Jerry. After a second, he swung his gaze to Frankie and his eyes narrowed. “Say, who’s this?” he growled. “I ain’t ever seen her before.”

“This is Ms. Waxman, Jerry,” said Henry, indicating Frankie. “She’s a colleague of mine. And before you ask, she doesn’t have her security card with her. Things have been a little hectic upstairs.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jerry. “Yeah, I heard about that. Well, pleased to meet you, Ms. Waxman. But I’m sorry, I can’t allow you access to any of the secure lockers. Against protocol.”

“That’s alright,” said Henry, glancing at Frankie. “We just need to know if anyone’s accessed locker 307 B in the last half-hour or so.”

“No one’s accessed any of 307’s lockers the entire morning, Mr. Hart,” said Jerry. “In fact, you’re just about the only visitor I get anymore. Seems there’s just not much to do with the older buildings, unless they need renovation. I’m just a babysitter.”

Henry cocked an eye at Frankie. “So no one’s been down the entire morning?”

“That’s right, Mr. Hart,” reiterated Jerry. “Not a soul.”

Frankie frowned. “Do you mind if we take a look at the security footage, anyways, Jerry?”

Jerry began to punch at his control console, attempting to bring up the security footage. “No, I guess not. There are two cameras for 307 B. One just outside the door, an’ one inside, pointed at the model. I’ll bring them both up.”

Frankie crowded in with Henry behind Jerry’s chair, bending down to inspect the two small screens. Displayed on the first screen was one of the steel doors and above it a placard marked ‘B’. On the other screen was the transubstructurated model of the ReSkale building, familiar and delicately etched. Jerry pressed a button on the console, and the footage began to replay.

“Speed it up, Jerry,” said Henry after a moment. “We don’t need too much detail. Just enough to make sure no one went in or out.”

Jerry hit another button and then everyone stood or sat still, waiting, staring at the screen. After a few minutes, Jerry hit the stop button. “Well, Mr. Hart, that’s thirty minutes worth, right up until when you came in. As you can see, nobody came, and nobody left.”

Henry faced Frankie, smiling slightly, obviously enjoying having been right. Frankie rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Henry. It’s not a competition.”

“I told you it was preposterous,” said Henry, as they started out of security room 307. “Thank you for your help, Jerry. And keep an eye out for anything unusual down here. Something’s up.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Hart. I will. Come again soon,” said Jerry. He waved them off.

Frankie whipped open the door, cast a withering glance at the gorilla guard who visibly shrank before her, and hurried off down the hallway. She could hear Henry behind her, struggling to keep up, but she had gotten used to the odd atmosphere and annoying red light and her long legs were carrying her quickly back towards the elevators. Henry finally caught up to her, jogging slightly, breathing hard.

“So, what do you figure, Henry?” asked Frankie as she swept around a bend in the hallway.

“Well,” said Henry, panting for air, his mustache quivering with unease, “evidently the model was not used. You were right, somebody got onto the roof, cut that hole open, dismantled the Edelman Hotel and then slipped back out.”

“But they can’t have slipped back out!” exclaimed Frankie. “After the explosion, I’ll bet within seconds they sent a whole brigade of guards up to the roof, and fanned them out across the grounds. How could anybody have gotten away? Unless…” She stopped. Henry stopped too.

“Unless they didn’t get away,” finished Henry. “Unless they’re still in the building. Hiding.”

“Well,” said Frankie, “let’s move it. C’mon, lift your legs, Henry, run like a man.”

Henry did his best. In a few seconds they were back in the elevator, out of the confusing atmosphere and hellish light, shooting back towards the production floor.

“But where could they be hiding?” asked Frankie, half to herself. “I don’t get it. The entire place is sealed down tight.”

They had stopped to confer in a hallway just outside of the main production room. Inside, they could hear the work of clean-up crews and medics, busily setting affairs back in order. The smoke was almost gone, but the lingering noxious fumes remained.

“Soon ReSkale will have hired private investigators,” mused Henry. “Perhaps we should let it go.”

No,” said Frankie flatly. She took hold of Henry by his shoulders and squeezed them together, shaking him vigorously. “By then it will be too late. I’m going to get that promotion, you hear me Henry? That’s a hell of a step up in my career. And I’m going to get you something too.” She dropped him and went back to pondering. “Maybe it was an inside job, Henry. Maybe the thieves are hiding in plain sight. What do ya think?”

“No way to tell,” said Henry. “It’s possible. And I doubt ReSkale will let anyone leave tonight without thoroughly searching them first.”

Frankie paused and pricked up her ears. “Maybe they’ll leave, Henry, but not through the front door,” she said. She put her finger to her lips, signing Henry to be quiet. His mouth formed the shape of an ‘o’ and a quizzical expression appeared on his brow. Frankie padded gently to the far end of the hallway and stood looking up at the tiled ceiling.

She waited a moment and then imperceptibly flinched. There it was again. A cough. Her eyesight might have been failing, but her hearing was not. Someone was up in the ceiling. But how? Easy, she thought: the air ducts. She caught Henry’s eyes and thrust her forefinger upwards and then made a fist to indicate what she was about to do. Rapidly, Henry waved his hands back and forth to indicate that she shouldn’t do it. They should go to the production room and alert the proper channels. Frankie waved him off and silently laughed.

Carefully, she judged the exact origin of the sound: a grate, no doubt a portal to the building’s ventilation system. She bent down, steadied herself in a crouch, and in a burst of speed launched her lithe, tall body upwards. She felt her head smack into something and a burst of pain. Then, she felt her legs kicking beneath her. She had managed to lodge herself in the ceiling. But nearby she could feel another wriggling body. She reached out, grabbed a hold of it, and with her free hand, propelled herself down out of the ceiling, collapsing in a heap on the floor.

Coughing, and covered with dust, she twisted around and pinned the figure to the ground. Then, she turned it over and looked at its face.

“Oh. Mr. Andrews,” she said. Her eyes narrowed and her voice lowered. “What are you doing up in the ceiling?”

“Why, my cotton pickin’ job, Ms. Waxman,” replied the old man. “Who else do you think the higher ups are going to send to poke around in the ventilation systems looking for scoundrels? Eh? Only the old buzzard who built the darn things.”

“You mean you’re searching for-”

“Yeah, that’s right, all right,” said Danny. “The burgles that come in here and stole that treasure out of the hotel. Same as you I guess.”

Henry arrived now, and stood over Danny, smiling. Straining with effort, he managed to help Frankie to her feet, and then Danny.

“What’s so funny?” asked Frankie irritably. She had hurt her head too badly to tolerate being laughed at.

“Well, I should’ve known,” said Henry. “Mr. Andrews is always crawling around in the vents.”

“What?” asked Frankie, taken aback. “What for?”

“Why, because it’s one of the few places in a transubstructurated building you can’t get to via the model, Ms. Waxman,” explained Danny. “See, the vents are very small in a model, and sealed off. You’d have to take the whole building apart if you wanted to poke through. So, for maintenance and emergencies, ya just gotta get in there and crawl on your belly.” He smiled pridefully.

“Uh huh,” said Frankie.

Henry edged himself between them. “Well, I’m glad we got that all cleared up, Danny. I suppose you have to get back to work. I’m sure Frankie can give you a boost back up into your…ah…ah…cavity, up there.”

Danny half-turned, looked up at the hole in the ceiling, and then looked down the hallway. “No need for that, Mr. Hart,” he said. “I can do just as well on my own. But thank you.” With a tip of his engineer’s hat, which had somehow miraculously managed to stay atop his head, Danny marched off down the hallway and disappeared around a bend.

“Well I guess that explains that,” said Frankie. “Too bad I had to put another hole in the ceiling.” She turned to look at Henry. “What’s bugging you?”

“That Danny Andrews,” said Henry. “Never quite trusted him.”

“You’ve never quite trusted anybody,” said Frankie. “Why don’t you go put in a call to headquarters and find out if it’s nagging you?”

“Like they would answer me,” said Henry sarcastically. “I’ve got no pull with those in charge. Mostly they ignore me. Who knows when I’d get a return phone call.”

“What else ya gonna do, Hank?” asked Frankie.

Henry was silent for a moment. “You know what, Frankie? I think you’re right. I think I’ll do that. I’m going to put in a call and try to get in touch with someone. Get to the bottom of this. But, darn it, I don’t have my earpiece any longer.” He chewed his lower lip. “I guess we’ll just have to go up to my office, use the land line.”

“You go ahead,” said Frankie. “And meet me back here when you’re done. Ok?” Henry nodded briskly and waved at her as he trotted away.

Partly, Frankie didn’t want to make another journey with Henry just so he could complete his call, but she also wanted to check in on the other member of what would soon be her new crew, Peggy Hempel. The last she had seen of Peggy she had been lying unconscious on the floor, covered by a fine layer of dust. Hopefully by now she had recuperated. Frankie spent a few minutes searching, then spotted the little shrewish woman propped up in a wheelchair that was parked by the Edelman, a bandage wrapped around her head and one eye swollen shut.

“Hi, Pegs,” said Frankie. “Remember me?”

“Oh, certainly, Ms. Waxman,” said Peggy. “How are you faring?”

“Well, I fare just fine, Pegs,” said Frankie. “How ‘bout yourself?”

“I’ve been better.” Peggy smiled and Frankie leaned against the railing that surrounded the model of the Edelman Hotel. “Do they have any idea what’s happened, Ms. Waxman?”

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” replied Frankie. “Of course, you’ve heard that the Edelman Hotel has been robbed.”

Peggy nodded.

“The problem is that no one’s gone in or out of the building!” said Frankie.

Peggy’s face morphed, assuming a serious, business-like demeanor. “What are your leads, Ms. Waxman? Tell me what you’ve done and what you’ve seen.”

After Frankie had finished telling Peggy the events of the past hour, Peggy leaned back in her chair; her fingers formed a tent that was pressed to her lips. “So you didn’t actually see the model of the ReSkale building? Is that right? You didn’t actually see the hole that was cut out?” She pointed at the hole, still present above in the production room’s ceiling.

“No,” said Frankie. “But no one’s been in or out of the model’s security room. So they couldn’t have utilized the model.”

“Maybe,” said Peggy, a smile dancing on her lips. “Or maybe not. We’ll have to go down and take a closer look. Where’s Mr. Hart? Gather him up and we’ll go.”

“We’ll go together,” said Frankie. “Here, I’ll wheel you around if you can’t walk.”

Frankie found Henry where she had left him, still milling around at the end of hallway outside the production room. Probably feeling sorry for himself about one thing or another, thought Frankie. She began to feel annoyed and sped up her pace.

“Ms. Waxman?” It was Peggy.

“Yeah?” said Frankie.

“Could you slow down a bit? You’re practically running. I feel as if I will tip over.”

“Sorry,” said Frankie. She gritted her teeth and yelled out, “Henry!”

Spooked, her little boss jumped in the air and turned full circle, looking for the source of the shout. He put away his pocket watch, which he had been examining, sighted Frankie and began to trot towards her, his head tilted, as if trying to make out the identity of the one in the wheelchair. As he got closer, his face showed that he recognized Ms. Hempel. He smiled.

“Hello, Ms. Hempel,” said Henry. “How are you doing?”

“Been better, but I’ll survive,” said Peggy.

“Peggy here wants to take a look for herself at the model of the ReSkale building, Henry,” said Frankie.

“Oh?” said Henry. “Any particular reason?”

With her good eye, Peggy scrutinized Henry. “We’ll see,” she said.

This time around, in the now-familiar red light of the third basement level, Frankie was coping much better. She felt like an old pro. But she noticed that none of them were doing better than Peggy Hempel. Even more so than Henry, Peggy was completely unfazed by the odd atmospheric stirrings and lighting scheme. In fact, she had seemed to perk up the moment they had exited the elevator. With one hand pushing Peggy’s wheelchair towards the dead-end hallway with 307 at the end, Frankie slapped her forehead with her other hand. Of course. Peggy was an architectural historian. Of course she would spend a lot of time among the models. They reached the end of the hallway.

The gorilla guard approached and bent down to examine Peggy, his face screwed up in suspicion. After a moment, it suddenly brightened and he broke out into a warm smile. “Why if it ain’t Ms. Hempel. Hello, doll. What’s shaking?”

“Hello, Sebastian,” said Peggy. “Mind if we come on through?”

“Not at all, Ms. Hempel. Go right ahead,” said the guard. “And hello to you, Mr. Hart.” He looked past Frankie.

Henry opened the door and Frankie pushed Peggy’s wheelchair into room 307. Then she stopped. “Oh drat!” she said. “Henry, Peggy, I forgot. I still don’t have a zip card or whatever it is you call it.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” said Peggy, craning her neck ever so slightly to get a better look at Frankie. “I’m a Senior Architectural Historian. I give say-so on who can see the models, not a card. In fact, it’s up to me, along with a few others, as to who gets the cards in the first place. Anybody with me has unfettered access.” Peggy turned back to face the guard at the control console. “Hello, Jerry.”

The guard looked up from the tattered paperback he had been reading and his face brightened. “Well, if it ain’t Peggy Hempel. How are you, Pegs?”

“Oh, just fine,” said Peggy. “I’d like to see locker 307-B today, Jerry.”

“Coming right up,” said the guard. He punched a few buttons at his control console and Frankie heard the sound of whirring motors and clicking locks. “Ok, go on ahead, Pegs.”

“Thanks, Jerry,” said Peggy.

They advanced toward secure storage locker 307-B, and its large steel door swung open slowly to greet them. Henry went in first, then Frankie pushed Peggy’s wheelchair through. The room was small, the air stale smelling and dry, the light more intensely red here than anywhere else. In the center of the room was the model. It was a squat, square, metal building. Purely utilitarian.

“I’ve never thought about it before,” said Frankie, “but why the heck did they make the building so ugly? If it was transubstructurated and material costs weren’t a factor in construction, why not pretty it up a little bit?”

“It’s not pretty,” said Peggy, “but it’s extremely functional. Even after thirty years, many of its features are still extremely advanced. But we can talk about that later. We’ve got to look for that hole.”

Henry turned to face her. “What do you mean ‘look for the hole’? We already know the hole is there. If it’s up there,” he jerked his thumb upwards, “then it’s down here too. Basic principle of transubstructuration.”

“Just look,” said Peggy, a smile twisted on her lips.

Frankie began to carefully pour over the model, trying to determine where the production floor would be located. She ran her eyes back and forth over that particular area of the roof. Then she tried again. She could not find it. Finally, she straightened up and turned back to Peggy.

“There is no hole,” she said. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” said Henry.

“That’s because you’re not architectural historians,” said Peggy. “The ReSkale production building was one of the first transubstructurated construction projects. It went through several iterations before a final design was settled on. The variations were all very similar to each other, at least externally. But, several models were made. Clearly, this is not the transubstructurated model. This is a discarded variation.”

“Wait, what?” asked Frankie. “This is the wrong model?”

“Well, if there’s no hole…” said Peggy, “then, no, this isn’t a transubstructurated model. This is just a plain old model building: inert, lifeless. The real model is somewhere else.”

“Well, where is it?” asked Frankie. “If the real transubstructurated model is somewhere else, that means whoever cut into the Edelman Hotel didn’t need to go through security, and could’ve utilized the model to do so. Like I thought: they could’ve cut in, lifted out the safe and whatever else was taken, without mussing their hair.”

“The models are scattered in various places,” said Peggy. “But I know where at least one of them is.” She eyed Henry. “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

Henry was white as a sheet. Numbly he said, “No, I’ll tell her.” He faced Frankie. “I have one of the copies in my office.”

On the elevator ride up to the fifth floor, where Henry’s office was located, Frankie could not help stealing looks at her boss. He was silent the whole way, nervously fidgeting with his pocket watch. Frankie leaned down and put her mouth next to Henry’s ear.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a copy?” she half-whispered, half-growled.

“I didn’t think anything of it,” said Henry. “As far as I know, it’s only a copy. How was I supposed to know the model in 307-B wasn’t transubstructurated?”

“Who knows what you know,” said Frankie. Henry had no reply to that.

Walking down the hallway to Henry’s office, Frankie kept him out in front of her and Peggy the entire way. He shuffled across the floor, head down, shoulders stooped. At his office door, he looked up at Frankie forlornly.

“Put your key in,” grated Frankie.

Henry did so. He twisted the knob and pushed open the old, loudly creaking wooden door. His office was cramped and cluttered, filled with obsolete wooden furniture, scattered papers and pinned-up pictures of various tropical vacation destinations. Frankie doubled back, shut the door firmly behind them and then proceeded to loop around the office. On Henry’s desk and the tall bookshelves behind it lay the token awards and gifted knick-knacks accumulated over a twenty-odd year period of loyal service to the ReSkale Corporation. A window on the far side of the office let in a thin beam of sunlight. Frankie scanned the rest of the office, her eyes sifting over piles of detritus for the model.

“I need help, Hank,” said Frankie. “Where is it? Jesus, don’t you ever clean?”

“No time,” said Henry. “The models over there, on the pedestal. There’s a jacket hanging over it at the moment.”

“Which jacket?” asked Frankie. “The tweed, the sport coat or the plastic raincoat?”

“Tweed,” answered Henry.

Frankie marched over the jacket of scratchy fiber which was draped over a large pedestal. She tore it off. Underneath, sure enough, was a copy of the ReSkale production building. Or was it merely a copy? Frankie began scanning the roof of the model, back and forth. And then she saw it. Nearly in the center of the model was a small aperture, no larger than a hole punch. Bending, Frankie looked down into the hole. Below, on the floor of the model, she saw people hurrying back and forth. And near the center of the room was the Frankie stood up and calmly rotated to where Henry stood and Peggy sat.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” said Frankie.

“Believe what?” said Henry incredulously.

“There’s a hole in your model,” said Frankie. “You’ve got the transubstructurated model, don’t you? It was you who broke in, you who gassed us, wasn’t it?”

Henry’s face was dark. “I can’t believe you’re accusing me, Frankie.”

Peggy piped up. “Well, how do you explain the model in your office, Mr. Hart? How did it get here?”

“I was given that model a long time ago,” said Henry.

“What’d you do with the items your stole?” asked Peggy. “You must return them, Mr. Hart.”

“I don’t have any stolen property,” protested Henry.

Then all was silent a moment. Peggy broke the stillness. “Let me see your watch, Henry,” she said.

“My watch?”

“Yes,” said Peggy. “I think I know what you did with the items you stole.” She turned and looked at Frankie. “You see, years ago, it was en vogue to transubstructurate models of, not buildings, but small, personal items such as watches. It was a convenient method of storage for sensitive personal items. You could always be sure of the security of your items because they were always on hand, or, in this case, on wrist.”

Henry withdrew his pocket watch and threw it at Peggy. “Here, see if I care. Open it up, have a good look around.”

Carefully, Peggy felt around the rim of the watch, then her eyes lit up. Her fingers worked delicately and the face of the watch lifted. “Come see,” she said.” Frankie walked over and looked at the inside of the watch. Sure enough, it was filled with tiny model furniture: a chair, a table, a few filing cabinets and a safe. “Open the safe,” said Peggy.

“I can’t,” said Henry fiercely.

“Why, because you don’t know the combination?” retorted Peggy. “Because you stole it?”

“No,” said Henry, “because I don’t have the motor skills to open a transubstructurated safe. I can only do it when it’s life-sized. And the life-sized room is back on a parcel of land outside the city.”

“What’s the combination?” asked Peggy. “I’ll open it for you.”

“Like heck I’m going to give it to you,” said Henry.

The three of them stood in the cramped, dusty little office, at an impasse. The phone rang. Henry looked at it. Peggy looked at it. Frankie looked at it, jaunted over to the desk and picked it up.

“Hello?” she said into the receiver.

“Hello, is this the office of Henry Hart?”

“Yes,” said Frankie. “I’m his…personal secretary…Mrs.…Winterbottom.”

“Is Mr. Hart available?” asked the voice.

“No,” said Frankie, looking at Henry, “he’s currently…indisposed.”

“Will you deliver a message for me?” asked the voice.

“Sure,” said Frankie. The rest of the group was silent. Peggy Hempel was staring down into the transubstructurated room built into the watch.

“Will you tell Mr. Hart,” continued the voice, “that headquarters sent no such message to Mr. Andrews, and, in fact, whatever Mr. Andrews is doing up there in the vents is unauthorized.”

“I certainly will,” said Frankie.

“Goodbye and thank you,” said the voice.

“Goodbye,” said Frankie. She hung the phone up and the room began to swim a little bit.

“Who was that?” demanded Henry. “What did they want?”

“That was…” Frankie paused. Her eyes tilted up towards the ceiling. And the vents that were sure to crisscross the office. Where were the vents? Frankie turned back to Henry. Perhaps Danny Andrews was listening, even now. “Your drycleaner,” Frankie finished. “The suit your left for them is ready to be picked up. But they tore off a button and can’t find it. They’re ready to compensate you.” Frankie caught Henry’s eyes. Henry stared a while, uncomprehendingly, and then Frankie saw the flash of understanding cross his face.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Andrews. I didn’t see you come in. It appears we have caught the thief!” It was Peggy.

“Why, through the vents, of course” said Danny. He laughed, high pitched and rasping. “I’ve been searching through those vents all day, trying to find the suckers that stole that loot from the Edelman. Dirty work, but someone’s gotta do it, I ‘spose.”

“But why on earth would you do that, Mr. Andrews?” asked Peggy.

Frankie widened her eyes and tried to mouth ‘no’ to Peggy, but her concentration was intent on Danny.

“What do you mean why?” asked Danny. His voice was darkening. “I done just told you.”

“You should know as well as I do,” said Peggy, “that there would be no need for that. Unlike most transubstructurated buildings, the ReSkale production building was built with easily removable venting systems. That’s why the building is so funny looking. It’s unusual design is modular and easy to maintain. There’s no need to crawl around in the vents.”

“There is a need,” said Danny. Frankie heard the sound of breaking glass. Peggy let out a throttled scream. Frankie turned to look.

Danny was standing over the model; a sharp, twisted steel probe was grasped tightly in his hand, thrust into the model. Something glinted int eh corner of Frankie’s vision. She turned. Like a giant, steel snake, the gigantic probe had burst through a window and now wavered menacingly; it seemed to have eyes and was looking at them, from one to the other, searching for a victim.

“Don’t nobody move, unless I say so,” said Danny.

“Why’d you do it, Mr. Andrews?” It was Henry that spoke. His voice had regained its calm, professional composure.

“Why’d I do it?” echoed Danny. “You should know as well as anyone why I did it, Mr. Hart. This company ain’t treated you good either. You been working out of this same office for twenty years. No where to go. No real reward. Sick of them executive bums.”

“But why did you frame me?”

“Somebody got to be framed, Mr. Hart,” said Danny. “Why not? Doesn’t hurt to throw off a trail.”

“You switched the models?” asked Henry. “You went through the vents to get to 307-B, didn’t you? And you switched my useless copy with the real transubstructurated model, is that right?”

“That’s right, Mr. Hart,” said Danny.

“And where are the things you stole?”

“They’re with me,” said Danny. “So I’m going to need you to hand over your fancy watch, Mr. Hart. Because them things can’t be with me when I leave here. I need a place to stash them, and I think your watch building will do just fine. Hand it over.”

Peggy handed the watch back to Henry and he moved forward. Frankie stepped in front of him. “I’m sorry I suspected you, boss,” she said. “Let me take it over to him.”

Silently, he dropped the pocket watch into her outstretched hand. She approached Danny, handed him the watch and stepped back. He put it away swiftly in a pocket and grinned.

“So, Dan, what are you going to do with us now?” asked Frankie.

“Well, I got these little gas pellets, you know,” said Danny. “Along with a few little poppers, which go off like bombs when you put them in a model. They’re about the size of salt crystals, so they won’t do any good unless I feed them through the model. But while I got this probe in here, I can’t exactly use them. So, I figure first off, you’ll all get in that vent.” He motioned with a nod of his head to a vent near floor-level. The grating was off. It was undoubtedly the one through which he had entered Henry’s office. He had been listening to them, evidently. And following them, for how long? The whole time? Frankie shivered. It gave her the creeps.

One by one, under the watchful eyes of Danny and his horrible gargantuan probe, they crawled into the vent, and, when they were all squished in, Danny bent down and re-installed the grating. Then he moved a few pieces of furniture in front of it. They heard the door open and shut. A few moments later, Frankie was struggling to remove the grate and the furniture in front of the grate, her long, bony limbs constantly bunching up and confounding her efforts.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” said Henry. “He won’t get far.”

“How do you figure, Hank?” asked Frankie. She heard a couple of pops in Henry’s office. “Looks like he…he…” Frankie yawned. Knockout gas, she thought. Then she went to sleep.

By degrees, she regained consciousness. She saw light again. Then she heard noises, people’s voices. The furniture was being moved back from the vent grate, she realized. The grate came off, and Frankie scrambled out of the vent, back out into the office. First she pulled out Peggy Hempel and then, Henry Hart. She wrapped her arms around him.

“Good to see you, boss,” she said.

He patted her arm. “You too, Frankie,” he said.

She helped Peggy get reseated in her wheelchair; she was still fragile. Then she turned to thank their saviors. It was the two guards, Jerry and Sebastian. “Thanks for coming to get us, boys,” said Frankie. “But how’d you know we were trapped?”

“Well,” said Jerry, “the knockout gas that was seeping out of Mr. Hart’s office was a darn big clue.”

“Also,” added Sebastian, “that darn fool Danny Andrews,” he paused and began to laugh, “collapsed out there in the hallway. With the model he swiped out of the security locker. That gave it away pretty good.” He let out another laugh.

“What?” asked Frankie. “Danny Andrews collapsed? How?”

“Dunno,” said Jerry. “He was found unconscious out there, with his stolen model. Just like Ms. Hempel said.” He smiled at her warmly.

“I think I can explain.” It was Henry. His mustache was vibrating exultantly and his eyes were twinkling. “You see, my transubstructurated watch has a few very nifty security features.” From the breast pocket of his suit he pulled a small rectangular box. “One of them is a remotely activated electrical discharge.”

“But, it’s such a small watch,” protested Frankie. “What kind of charge could that possibly put out? It’d be like one of those novelty hand buzzers.”

“Ah, but you’re not taking into account one in important factor,” said Henry. “The full-sized watch building has a capacity for a ten-thousand volt discharge. And, through the miracle of transubstructuration, the charge is relayed from the full sized building, to the watch that Danny Andrews held in his hand. All I needed to do was press this switch.”

Frankie wrapped Henry up again in her long arms. “Downright brilliant,” she said. “You’re going to snag that promotion for sure, Hank.”

“Thanks, Frankie,” said Henry. “Now let’s go down and see what needs to be done to Edelman’s Hotel.”

Frankie nodded, took hold of Peggy’s wheelchair and followed the rest of the group out of Henry’s office, leaving broken glass still lying on the carpet, and a variety of pieces of furniture overturned or otherwise destroyed. But that would be easily fixed.