"Well, yes, Steve. I can't see the ‘big picture’ from down here on the deck, now can I?"

"I don't know, sir; there's only temporary security before next week—us—and…"

Jack pulled out his cell phone for effect. "If it's too big a bother, Steve, just say the word and I'll get my ride back here."

"Oh, no, sir, I'm sure it'll be okay," the engineer said, yielding with a wave of his hands. He still seemed torn. "Commissioner, the South Tower is over a half-mile from here; I can drive you over if you like."

Jack shook his head. "It's a beautiful November afternoon and the walk will do me a world of good."

"Well, sir, it is a bit breezy today…"

"Steve, I'm a pilot. I know a little bit about moving air and turbulence."

"Sorry, sir—no disrespect. If you'll just follow me to the walkway, then."

The last exchange intimidated Steve for a couple hundred feet. Jack's finely tuned people skills detected the engineer's unease. "Tell me, Steve. How tall are the towers?"

Steve was eager to reconnect. "Oh, they're four hundred-ten feet, tip to ripple, sir."

"How do they stack up against the Golden Gate's?"

"Let's see—they're a little over seven hundred feet, so these guys are about fifty-eight percent of the Golden Gate's suspension towers—give or take a tenth. It's also about twenty-five percent shorter than the Gate, but…" Steve's tongue was loose and rolling, and his hands and body language joined in as they walked. Jack smiled and nodded; they turned, and Steve carpeted the remaining distance with wall-to-wall factoids. They reached the tower on the Crockett side and paused under its western leg. At the door, Steve shut up long enough to draw his radio.

"Good stuff, Steve," Jack said. "Know what I like the most about the Al Zampa Memorial Bridge?" The receiver paused near the engineer's mouth. "It's named after a high-iron working man, who lived right over there, in Crockett." Jack winked. "Even if he was a life-long Democrat."

"Yes, SIR!" Steve pressed "Talk." "Mike. You read? It's Soblett. We have a guest. Open up."

The speaker crackled. "You got it, Steve." The metal-sheathed door opened a third and out leaned a head and upper torso. They belonged to a rougher copy of Steve, but older and more weathered. He pushed the door open and met Jack's gaze. "Regular security takes over after the celebration." Jack nodded an acknowledgement.

Steve beamed. "Mike Chyzhewski, meet Insurance Commissioner Jack Quisenberry!" They shook hands. "He wants to take a look around."

Mike peered under his glasses and flipped at the top page on his clipboard. "Don't see it on the schedule—and it's already quittin' time."

Deliver me from state employees, thought Jack.

Steve sighed. "It's a drop-in, Mike."

"Yeah, okay. Whatever. Come in, then."

"I'm going to hand you off now, Commissioner; Mike will show you around." Steve put a hand on Jack's shoulder, tentatively. "I just wanted to say, sir—I'm a Democrat, too, but you give 'em Hell next week, okay? I think you've done a great job up there. My sister down South had a pipe break in her house a couple years ago—got nowhere with her insurance company. Your Consumer Services people straightened it out in less than a week."

Another satisfied taxpayer, Jack thought. Wonder if he'd mind making a few calls? "Thanks, Steve. I appreciate it. And you keep this magnificent structure up and open. Deal?"

"You betcha, Commissioner!" Flushed, he hustled off toward the north side shack.

Mike gave ground, allowing Jack to get inside. Jack looked up through the gloom. T2's interior shaft fell away into darkness like a vertical subway tunnel. The elevator's disappearing, ladder-like track and the long aluminum string of receding points of light enhanced the impression. His new guide pushed a helmet at him. "Here, you'll need this. Regulations, you know." Jack warmed at the irony and treated it as the customary signal for casual bonhomie to follow. It didn't come.

"Want to leave your lid here?" Mike asked gruffly, motioning toward Jack's forest green Loden Heute, complete with Grandl mixed feathers.

"This? I'll just carry it along, if you don't mind. A gift from the old man, when I was first elected. I'm kind of attached to it."

"Suit yourself. Long drop over water, mostly."

Mike directed Jack toward the fragile-looking metal elevator and guided him inside. He shut them in and hit the switch. The lift lurched into its rickety ascent. Jack checked his surroundings. "Roomy."

"Holds four, maximum." Mike stared ahead, hands clasped in front of his spread legs and planted feet. They herked and jerked in unison as the tiny carriage jostled them. Mike finally glanced at Jack. "Kinda got you by the short ones over there in Sacramento, huh?"

Jack held it in for a moment. "You don't like me much, do you, Mike?"

"Don't have a lot of use for politicians."

You mean, the lazy, greedy bastards who buy into the vision and round up the bucks to make things like this happen? Jack smirked. "I think you need to spend a little more time with Steve."

They continued in silence until the car reached the top. Its gear teeth ground to the top of the ratchet, which noisily brought it to a stop. Mike pushed the door open and Jack looked around. “What now?”

“We climb that ladder fifteen feet to the inside of the crossbeam, then another ten up to the deck, topside.”

“Well, let’s go!”

Mike inventoried Jack’s attire—hat in hand; suit; tie; overcoat; and dress shoes. “You sure?” Jack responded by mounting the ladder and climbing. Mike shrugged and followed. They reached the crossbeam's interior and Jack wheeled onto the last ladder without hesitation and made for the manhole.