"Problems!" exclaimed the latter. His effort to contain his emotions was clearly visible. "Well ... of course ... if it is really serious, perhaps we can get the police to send up an emergency rescue squad—"
"No!" Smith interrupted violently. "No rescue squad! We do not in any way need to be rescued. Not at all!"
The manager eyed him with dark suspicion.
"Is someone ill?" he demanded. "We cannot be responsible for any lawsuits due to your refusal to let us call competent authorities."
"Aren't you a competent authority?" demanded Smith. "Just get the elevator working, will you? We'll wait until then."
"There is no way of knowing when power will be restored," said the manager. "You must have a TV set around the office somewhere, so you can hear the news bulletins on the situation as soon as I can." He paused to pop a lozenge into his mouth, sighed, and added, "Sooner, I dare say."
Smith had leaned back in his chair, a stricken look on his face. He saw Westervelt, and began to wave frantically toward the hall.
"I never thought of that," exclaimed the youth.
He burst into the hall from Smith's private entrance, realized he would have to pass the library to reach Joe Rosenkrantz with an order for censorship, and circled back to the main entrance.
He went in, saw Simonetta still at her desk, and opened the door to Pauline's cubicle. When he got inside with the little blonde, her swivel chair, and her switchboard, there was just about room enough to breathe.