The Tower of Endless Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

Forty minutes later, Simon looked at the card. “This can’t be right.”

  He drove down a street lined with abandoned warehouses on either side. Broken glass gleamed in the windows, and weathered stacks of pallets and rusting forklifts stood behind chain-link fences. Colorful graffiti layered the warehouses’ walls. Simon looked back and forth. This did not seem like a good neighborhood, or a safe one. A bit of fear tugged at his stomach. Had Wycliffe’s business card been some sort of a scam?

  He turned a corner. The ruined warehouses continued on one side of the street, but a huge walled compound stretched along the other side. Simon saw warehouses, silos, and trailers rising over the roll of barbed wire topping the wall.

  It matched the address on Wycliffe’s card.

  “This can’t be it,” muttered Simon. He pulled over to the curb and squinted. A dusty sign marked “Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping” hung over the compound’s gate. Simon shrugged, shut off the engine, and locked his doors. He hoped no one would try to steal his van.

  He snorted. Only a truly desperate thief would try to steal his van.

  He walked to the chain-link gate. Barbed wire glinted over the gate and walls, and a pair of wire cages enclosed security cameras. Simon looked around. Maybe the public entrance was on the other side.

  “Hey!”

  A hulking man in sunglasses and a security uniform leaned out of a booth next to the gate. “What are you doing here?”

  “Um.” Simon made a hesitant wave at the gate. “I’m here to see Senator Wycliffe.”

  “Name?”

  “Simon Wester.”

  The guard tapped an earpiece and mumbled into a microphone pinned to his collar. “I see.” He looked at Simon. “You’re expected.” The gate rattled open. “Third building on the right, off the main lane. Don’t go poking around.”

  “Ah…sure.” Simon strode inside. He tried not to wince as he heard the gate clang shut behind him.

  Despite its grim appearance, the compound bustled with activity. Forklifts rattled back and forth, carrying massive crates. Every building had a truck dock, and a flatbed truck laden with barrels rumbled past. He went to the third warehouse on the right and knocked. No one answered. He waited for a moment, then pushed open the door.

  To his surprise, he found himself in a pleasant waiting room lined with office doors. A glass coffee table stood in the center of the room, covered with current magazines. Overstuffed leather chairs and couches stood against the walls. Soft classical music played over speakers hidden in the ceiling.

  A lean, middle-aged man in a business suit, his black hair streaked with gray, stood near the table, a coffee mug in hand.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Um.” Simon felt underdressed. “I’m here to see Senator Wycliffe.”

  The man in the suit smiled. “Of course. Mr. Wester?” Simon nodded. The man held out his hand, and Simon shook it. “Patrick Markham, Senator Wycliffe’s office manager. The Senator is meeting a potential investor, but we expect him back soon.” He pointed at counter with a coffeemaker and a mini-fridge on the far wall. “Help yourself to some refreshment while you wait.”

  “Thanks,” said Simon, and Markham disappeared through one of the doors. Simon helped himself to a mug of coffee and sank into an overstuffed leather chair. A wave of weariness washed through his muscles. He had stayed up too late last night. He took a long sip of the coffee. He didn’t want to fall asleep during his meeting with Wycliffe.

  One of the doors opened, and Wycliffe strode inside, a laptop case over his shoulder, Markham trailing after him.

  ”A Simon Wester is here to see you, Senator,” said Markham

  “Thank you, Markham.” Wycliffe stopped and smiled. “Ah. Mr. Wester. So you did take up my offer.”

  “Yeah,” said Simon. He blinked. “Whatever it was.”

  “We’ll get to that,” said Wycliffe. “Was the check enough to cover the damages to your van?”

  “More than enough,” said Simon. He hesitated. “Do you want the rest…”

  Wycliffe waved his hand. “Not at all! Consider it compensation for time and trouble. I’ve no doubt you’re a busy man.” He opened a door on the left. “Now, I’d like to continue our discussion.”

  “Sure,” said Simon. He followed the Senator down a short hallway, through another door, and into a large office. Potted plants and several filing cabinets rested against the wall. A large mahogany desk dominated the room. A young woman bent over the desk, her eyes focused on the computer monitor.

  Simon could see right down the front of her blouse.

  “Ah, Ms. Coldridge,” said Wycliffe. The woman glanced up. She had green eyes and a pale, stern face. “It’s better, I assume?”

  The woman smiled. “All better, Senator. The database server just needed a reboot, that was all. And once we’d updated the web server to handle the new scripts…”

  Wycliffe raised a hand. “All over my head, I assure you. Mr. Wester, this is Katrina Coldridge. She keeps the computer systems running.”

  “A thankless job, let me tell you.” She shook Simon’s hand. Her grip made his hand hurt, and he tried and failed not to wince. A tiny smile flickered across her lips.

  Wycliffe laughed. “Thankless? You don’t need thanks, my dear. I pay you entirely too much as it is.” She laughed. He handed over his laptop case. “Would you mind having one of your people look this over? I had a bit of an accident the other day, and I want to make sure it wasn’t damaged.”

  “Sure.” She slung the case over her shoulder. Simon’s eyes strayed over her legs, displayed to good effect by her black skirt. “Have a good day, Senator.”

  “Nice meeting you,” said Simon. She didn’t notice as she strode out of the office.

  Wycliffe sat behind his desk. “Take a seat.” Simon sat. “A wonder, our Ms. Coldridge. She maintains Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping’s computer systems with an iron fist of efficiency. We’d have a devil of time without her.” He cracked his knuckles. “I suppose you’re wondering why I invited you here.”

  “It did cross my mind,” said Simon.

  “After our encounter, I took the liberty of calling your advisor Dr. Francis at the university,” said Wycliffe.

  Simon almost fell out of his chair. “How did you find out she was my advisor?”

  Wycliffe waved his hand. “Oh, I just placed a few phone calls. I do have some influence, you know.” The hair on the back of Simon’s neck prickled. “I told her I was a potential employer, and that you had mentioned her as a reference.”

  “What did she say about me?” said Simon.

  “Quite a few good things,” said Wycliffe. “Diligent, dedicated, a good writer, and a good public speaker…with a tendency towards insufferable haughtiness. Her exact words.”

  Simon sighed. “Sounds like her.” Dr. Francis had told him as much many times.

  “I was surprised at the public speaking part.” Wycliffe leaned back in his chair. “You tend to sputter, I’ve noticed.”

  “It’s person to person,” said Simon, “or if I get flustered. If I have to speak before a crowd, and if I can prepare, I can do it. But, frankly, why do you care? I’m nobody. You’re a Senator.”

  “Right to the point? Good.” Wycliffe folded his hands on the desk. “I want to hire you.”

  “Doing what?” said Simon. “Sweeping floors, cleaning toilets, or handling freight? I’ll pass.”

  Wycliffe chuckled. “You’ve a little too much education for that, I think, despite the modern opinion that the study of history is less than useless. No, I have other tasks in mind for you. I want you to write articles, pamphlets, campaign planks, and speeches. To put it simply, I want to employ you as a public relations man. Think you can do that?”

  “I…sure,” said Simon. “But that sounds like a full time job. I have studies.”

  Wycliffe waved a hand. “You’re too used to the notion of work coming in eight hour shifts with a half-hour lunch break in the smoking lounge. No, I wi
ll give you assignments. You may work on them here or at home as you prefer.”

  “But my classes,” said Simon. “I have one semester of classes left, then I just have to finish my dissertation.”

  “By no means do I wish to disrupt your education,” said Wycliffe. “We can work around it. I understand that your dissertation is on the role of the Roman army in the collapse of the Empire?” Simon nodded. “I rather look forward to reading it. You will let me read it, won’t you?” He grinned. “If you work here, that is.”

  Too much had come at Simon too fast. “How much are you offering for this?”

  Wycliffe leaned back in his chair. “Seventy-five thousand a year.”

  Simon blinked. His jaw almost fell off its hinges and hit the carpet. “Seventy-five thousand?” He could not imagine making that much money in three years, let alone one.

  “I won’t go any higher than eighty,” said Wycliffe.

  “I didn’t think congressional aides got paid that much,” said Simon.

  Wycliffe smiled. “I prefer to hire all my people myself. You will be working for me, not the government. The government does provide a staff and office for all congressmen and senators. However,” he grinned, “I have money of my own. I hire all my own aides, people I can trust, and maintain offices here and in Washington at my own expense. It makes for an excellent PR boost. Not spending the taxpayers’ money on curtains for my office and all that.”

  “I can imagine,” said Simon.

  “So, will you consider my offer?” said Wycliffe. “Educated men, truly educated, are an increasing rarity these days. You would make a useful asset. And it’s not one-sided. This would make an ideal job for you, given your circumstances.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “What do you say?”

  Simon swallowed. Something about Wycliffe unsettled him. And what if the Senator had made his money through illegal means? But Marchson Appliances probably had slave-labor plants in Bangladesh. The gas station he had worked at during high school had broken numerous labor and food-sanitation laws. Simon had to work somewhere. And he could not afford to pass on Wycliffe’s generous offer.

  “You seem uncertain,” said Wycliffe.

  “I don’t know,” said Simon. “It…just seems too good to be true.”

  Wycliffe laughed and slapped the desk. “Mr. Wester, I am too good to be true. A poor boy from Chicago grows up and becomes a Senator? If that’s not the American dream, then what is? Why, it’s almost as if there’s a hint of black magic about my story! I’m offering you a chance, Mr. Wester. I suggest you take it.”

  Simon frowned. Wycliffe was right. “I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent!” said Wycliffe. He stood and extended his hand, and Simon shook it. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Wester. You will not regret this.”

  Simon looked at the shorter man and nodded. “I hope not.” Some of his doubts dissipated. Wycliffe was a politician, and he couldn’t risk ruining his career in a scandal over shady activity.

  Besides, Simon doubted that Wycliffe had been involved in anything truly nasty.

  ***