A Scripta

Stanley Baxter had been a steeplejack for over five years, easily rising (no pun intended) to the supervisory position of the very few workers who welded steel girders at the top of the newest skyscrapers being rebuilt in Overbrook. He was built for this job, small, lithe, wiry. Part Canook, part Mohawk, and probably part bird, Stan easily traversed across the lines high above the dam, looking down at the birds and people - and sometimes heroes who flew by.

Then they hired this new guy for him to babysit. This guy was *not* built for this job.

The new guy was tall and broad, not conductive to the bursts of winds that could buffet a man this high up. However, he didn't seem afraid to be that high, and looked straight ahead as he walked, trusting his feet to find the places needed. That was something learned after many years of practice. But Stan was a bit of bigot, thinking that big guys like this one needed to stay groundside and dig ditches.

His name was Greene, originally from IP. Louis struck up a friendship with him during his first week, and Louis was a chatterbox. But by Friday of his first week, Greene was giving Louis a run for his money, the two of them trading jokes and insults like old friends.

Greene didn't seem a bad sort. He agreed to go with them the next Friday to their usual after-work bar haunt, and, being the rookie, agreed to pay the first round of drinks.

Stanley went down to the highest floor that had a bathroom to use it. He saw Greene sitting on the rough-hewn floor, his legs dangling over the sides and looking out at the Overbrook dam. He looked distracted and wistful. Stan had something that needed to be said.

"Hey Greene," he called.

Greene jerked his head around; his hand was on a pendant around his neck. He let it drop onto his chest. It was a cube of what looked like blue ice, reflecting the grey of his shirt as if there was a grey fire inside of it.

"What's that?"

Greene looked down at the pendant. "Oh, gift of a friend." He tucked it under his shirt. "What's up?"

"We are," Stan said, the usual reply to that question. "Hey, listen . . . are you sure you want to work this high up?"

Greene looked confused. "Am I doing something wrong? I do know how to weld--"

"No, that ain't it. It's just . . . well, up here . . .accidents happen."

"I understand that."

Finally Stan cut to the chase. "You're a really big guy, Greene."

He smiled. "And big guys fall harder?"

Stan tried not to look uncomfortable. Greene got up. "I assure you, Stan, I'll be fine."

Stan should have known that discussing the possiblity of an accident would jinx them. And it did.

Rob was a two year vet, walking along the top girder. He was perfectly balanced, even-weighted on both sides of his belt. Stan was watching him out of the corner of his eye, when he saw Rob lurch.

Lurching is very bad at 2,218 feet in the air.

Rob's foot missed the next step, and he fell forward, but nothing was there to catch him. He cried out and reached for something, anything. His fingertips brushed a bit of steel - then Stan watched him disappear.

"ROB!" He yelled, and men stopped. Then Stan saw movement to the side of him - Greene toppled over, off the steel beam. Stan's heart flew into his throat as he saw the man twist into a dive, then turn and head down faster than a man could fall. Greene turned into a gray streak, pausing for a moment and then pulling up, heading back their way.

He hovered in the air before Stan, cradling Rob in his arms who had passed out from the shock. "I'm going to bring him down," he said to Stan. Stan only nodded, stunned.

Louis yelled with a grin, "Who was that masked man? It's our guardian angel!"