"It's all right, baby," Wilmer said. "I'll take care of you."
Walter Maltby had troubles of his own. He now voiced them: "Jenny will be furious if we don't get out of here pretty quick. I'm always home for Television Theater and if I don't make it—"
He got no further because at that moment the foundations of the world seemed to give way and the four of them were hurled into a heap on the floor.
Or were they?
This question was in Fleming Carter's mind as Peggy Wilson screamed, Walter Maltby whimpered, and Wilmer Payton bellowed in terror. Had the lift fallen—the building collapsed—an atom bomb exploded? His instincts told him no. This because—while all the outward manifestations of such catastrophes seemed apparent—there was something strangely different about the sudden chaos into which the group had been thrown.
Fleming Carter felt they should all be dead. But they remained very much alive. They should have been at least mangled and maimed. None appeared even scratched.
All this, Carter told himself firmly, was a chaos of the mind and nothing more. It was mental panic of such violence that it was manifesting in the physical. He told himself this while he sought to maintain equilibrium while standing upon nothing and wondering where such a terrific wind could come from in a sheltered elevator shaft.
Then it was over. The hurricane subsided; the floor stiffened beneath them and they were lying in a heap—a heap made interesting by Peggy Wilson's legs sprawled above the others in a very unladylike manner.
Wilmer Payton groaned.
"Shut up," Fleming Carter said sharply. "Don't start a wave of panic and hysteria. You aren't hurt!"