GOING DOWN

Frodo followed Orton Sandyman into the lift, and made for the farthest corner. Orton's lip lifted in a sneer as he punched the "B" button and the doors slid closed.

Adopting his blandest tone Frodo requested, "Four, please."

Orton only stared pointedly at the numbers sliding across the panel above the doors, so Frodo leaned forward to push the button himself, before retreating once more. He had just leaned comfortably back into the angle of the corner when the lights flickered. There was a lurch, followed by a short drop that had his stomach in his throat, and a sudden stop. For several moments both occupants held their breath but when it became apparent that they were not in any imminent danger of falling further, Orton began a frantic mashing of random buttons on the panel.

"That won't help," Frodo advised, calmly. "The button for the emergency radio is under that red flap. Just hold it down to speak."

Orton bent to examine the panel, flicked down the cover, then pushed the button before calling, in a slightly panicked voice, "Hello?"

There was no reply. "You have to keep the button pushed in as you speak. Then let it go so that they can reply," Frodo offered, as neutrally as he could.

"I knew that," Orton muttered. "The button is stiff." He tried again, this time shouting. "Hello!"

"Good morning, sir. How can I help you?" came a sunny female voice.

Orton adopted his most supercillious tone and Frodo winced. "You can help me by getting someone who knows what they're doing … sweetheart. I'm stuck in a lift, if you hadn't noticed."

"I'm sorry … sir." The "sir" was definitely an afterthought this time. "I'll call the engineer. Unfortunately, my radio button doesn't indicate which lift you're in, however. If you could just give me the number printed under your button, I can be sure to send 'Her' to the correct one. It will be quicker that way."

Frodo dropped his gaze to his his toes, clenching his lips on a laugh when Orton blanched at the pronoun, "Her".

"It's lift two."

"Thank you. And how many people are in the car? I'll need all of your names and departments."

"Why? Look, sweetheart, just get me the hell out of here and you can go back to painting your nails or curling your hair, or whatever it is you do when you're not annoying me. Some of us have work to do."

There was a loud click, followed by a different, cool and cultured, female voice. "This is the supervisor. We are aware that, like us, you have work to attend to. That is why my colleague has requested your name and department. We can then contact the relevant head of section, to let them know why you are not at your post. It was a simple request, politely put."

Frodo tried even harder to hold in his laughter as Orton flushed bright red. "Er. Right. I'm Orton Sandyman and I work in 'Shipping'."

"Thankyou, Mister Sandyman. Are you alone?" The Shire Post was an old fashioned paper in many respects, and change came slowly. Security camera's were placed only in the main lobby and at the loading bays. Frodo suspected it was not so much about tradition as about the potential for drama, if private conversations were monitored in a newspaper office.

For one moment Frodo thought that Orton was going to say, "Yes." Instead he asked yet another question. "Why is that important? Just get me the hell out of this lift!"

"Why? So that when we're collecting up the mashed parts from the bottom of the shaft we know how many bodies we're supposed to have, and who to send them to!" the supervisor snapped.

Orton, actually jumped back, as though bitten, and Frodo lost his battle. A laugh exploded from him to reverberate merrily in the small space. He bit it off firmly when Orton spun about with murder in his eye. "Watch it, Baggins." He turned back to the button. "There's just me and Mad Baggins. I think he pushes a pen somewhere on the fourth floor."

Frodo leaned around Orton to touch the button himself. "Hello Merry. It's Frodo. You'll need to tell the Travel Editor, Mick Randir. By the way, how did the five-a-side football match go last night?" Frodo was very much aware of Orton standing too close, but decided to ignore him.

Merry's reply was quick. "Six to one."

"Wow! You gave Marketting quite a trouncing."

There was a chuckle. "We lost. But at least Pip scored our one goal."

"Oh dear. Pip's a good lad, though."

"He's got promise. Been anywhere nice on your travels of late?"

"Just local stuff, but Mick's sending Sam and me to report on a spa this weekend. Some place called, Rivendell. It's got a good rep." The hairs on the back of Frodo's neck were beginning to prickle.

Merry groaned. "Got any room in your luggage for a stow-away? You and Samantha get all the plum assignments."

"Not unless you can fit in Sam's back pack. Mick wants us to combine it with a walking trip. We'll need that spa by the time we arrive."

There was a pause, in which Frodo imagined Merry giving the matter some serious consideration. As the pair's photographer, Samantha's backpack was of a generous size and Merry was a particularly petite lady.

Suddenly, Orton's finger punched the button as he elbowed Frodo out of the way. He bent to quote triumphantly from what was probably an ancient office manual. "Office phone's should not be used to conduct private business."

Frodo only shrugged, returning to his corner. But as the lights flickered and the lift moved smoothly back into motion he heard Merry reply, "But this is a radio."