Rumors Are Dangerous Things

I usually find that stories can start in several ways, and I am also very aware that I prefer stories to begin with a reasonable amount of descriptions and such, so as to get a good idea of what is happening; but when I set about beginning this one, I found there simply wasn't time to describe anything. I'm very sorry. But, since i am currently writing this whilst being harried, bustled, and asked questions by a constant gaggle of Company Participants of various importance, I have no time to describe my surroundings. Again I apologize. I am Jimmy Birch, Scribe For and General Manager Of the president of Morgan, and Co.---but I have no more time to elaborate! The Very Unsettled Contractor currently attempting to engage me in conversation chose this moment to seize me by the arm, making writing this narrative even harder than it already is, I might add.  

“Will you stop and look at me!” Said the Unsettled. “Mr. Birch, I trust you understand that this is important!”

“Sorry!” Said I, scribbling madly. “This is a troubling time. . .”

"An understatement! You wouldn't believe what I heard in the hall!  What are you writing, anyway??”

“Everything, my dear sir. The president wants an Account, so to speak, of the affair in the lobby. Please calm down!”

He let go of my arm hastily, but only because a crowd of overexcited secretaries came soaring into our midst, leaving documents and destruction in their wake. My pencil slipped and I missed some of the later proceedings, but thankfully you didn't miss much. The secretaries are dispersed, and the contractor momentarily pacified with a sparse information sheet. These days answers are like gold: they must be thinly distributed so that all the populace is satisfied. I should have liked to describe the lobby a bit more just then, but one of the Chief Administrators burst in on the room with a clang and jangling of golden badges, tassels, and ornaments. Indeed, so infuriated was his countenance that most occupants of the room actually stopped arguing and stared. Many loose papers floated to the floor in the sudden silence.  

“Is nobody in this community able to tell me what happened?” roared the Administrator.

There was a silence, during which I was uncomfortably aware that several people were expecting me (as Scribe For and General Manager Of the president) to reply. When I did not (being, as you might imagine, thoroughly taken to with notating all this) an innocent looking attendant carrying a tray of coffee and crumpets spoke up boldly.

“Correct, sir. Nobody, sir.”

At this point the Administrator went off into a splendid tangent regarding the incompetence of the Company in general that I did not feel the need to copy down; and the occupants of the room, apparently feeling the same growing indifference to his speech, were beginning to come to life once more. I heard the murmur of voices rising up around me.

“The propane tanks below the stairs have exploded. I'll call the Poison Control and Ambulance.”

“The coffee maker downstairs has burned out the whole electricity system! Better get the fire department.”

“So what exploded—the coffee maker or the sprinkler system? Benson's gone for the plumbers, but—”

“I saw it with my own eyes: clouds of smoke over down the hallway. Is anyone getting the fire department!”

“Wait a minute Mr. Long. I don't see any smoke.” 

“Call the Fire Station!”

“Notify the Ambulance!”

“Send out the Research Committees!”

“I'll get the coffee maker!”

The Administrator was rapidly becoming just another voice in a growing swell of rekindling confusion. He seemed to realize this and ceased to monolog. Still looking angry, he marched up the room towards (could it be?) myself, absently seizing a crumpet from the attendant's tray as he passed.

“Mr. Birch, kindly direct me to the president's office at once.”

“Fourth floor. Third hall. Room six.” I said (still writing as fast as I can.)  “There's a sign.”

He sighed hugely and took a bite from the crumpet or whatever it was (I saw that it was pastry-like and oozing a pale sugary substance.) “What's that you're writing? O never mind. Look here, I'm not good with directions. I meant to conduct me there personally, please.”

“Ah. Very well.” I said, frankly quite glad for an excuse to leave the growing hubbub. “This way, sir!”

I led the way down a hall and up a stairway, where the noise faded somewhat. I know the way to the president's office by heart and so reached it quickly.

Here I should explain. Though the president wanted an up to date Account of the situation down in the lobby, my job was technically at an end. However, I was finding the scratching of Pencil on paper therapeutic in nature; not to mention that I was beginning to be rather intrigued by the tale. That is why I am still writing. Anyway, the Administrator demanded, “Why are we just standing here?” Rather impatiently. It was true that, due to my writing, the pause before the president's door had extended uncomfortably. I gave the door a push and entered.

The president was seated at his desk directly in front of us, and a very small, wispy- looking person he was indeed, especially in comparison to the very large, dark, and heavy desk. Behind him was an equally large, dark, and heavy marble statue of a magnificent lady holding a pot: and from the door it looked as though the pot was angled so as to pour it's contents directly onto the occupant of the desk. I have often wondered about this curious placement, but the president has several strange tastes. I suppose everyone has their own sense of style.

The Administrator gave the statue and odd look (his sense of style, i guess, was not similar to the President's) but began his message nonetheless. “I have a question to ask, President!”

The president yawned and picked idly at the table with a thin finger. “Go ahead, ask away.”

His voice is squeaky and unimpressive. I cleared my throat. As you undoubtedly see, the president can sometimes do with a bit of guidance now and then.

“Excuse me, sirs.” Said I. “Kindly introduce yourselves—I don’t believe you've met.”

The Administrator threw me a very impatient look, but the president nodded solemnly.

“Very well Mr. Birch! My name is President Robert Howard Smith of Morgan, and Co. I'm sorry to have missed that rather important step in our conversation, Administrator! Now who might you be? Besides an administrator, of course. I know an Administrator when I see one.”

“I am called Administrator Joseph Wetly. Nice to meet you, president. Im here on an urgent request for Information, and as one of your clients, I am considering the benefits and possible catastrophic things that could emerge from the rumors I have been hearing, and acting from a strictly unbiased and statistical viewpoint, thank you!”

“What rumors?” Asked president Howard Smith in a blank tone. I interceded. 

“The prevailing rumor (if there is one!) states that all six liquid hydrogen tanks have exploded and all further space flights are canceled henceforth. This has been colored by—”

“We are aware that all rumors are vague and muddled but still you must understand that I found them exceedingly disturbing nonetheless.” Said administrator Wetly, frowning and fingering one of the many gold metals on his sleeve. 

“O! Is that all?” The president's face lit up with a relieved and gracious smile. “Then be disturbed no longer! Look!” He pointed out the window, where below on the ground, six white tanks (each at least two stories high) were standing, upright and unharmed.

“I saw that.” said Wetly calmly. “What it brings to mind is the equally disturbing question of what exploded? Something has; the tanks obviously haven’t, so what has?”

“Eh?” The president squinted up at Wetly with a mildly confused expression. “Why, nothing has. Nothing's exploded! Everything is fine! Business is booming! Isn't that right, Jimmy?”

“Certainly.” I concurred.

“Then what—then why—” spluttered the Administrator, clearly relieved, yet befuddled. “I don't understand.”

“Frankly, gentlemen, neither do I,” sighed the president. “Rumors are our worst enemy nowadays. I heard from Jimmy here that the lobby is in uproar again. Isn't it, Jimmy?”

“Yes, sir, it is!”

“I believe i requested an Account thereof?”

“Yes, sir, you did. Here it is.”

At this point I was obliged to hand over the notebook, therefore that is where this narrative ends.