Waylon Smithers found Chief of Plant Operations to be a little of everything, working closely under Thaddeus Dimas. He acted as a liaison, and handled departmental issues, both within single divisions, and interdepartmentally.
It was significantly different than his job as Burns' personal assistant. He didn't have to answer phones unless it was his line that was ringing, nor did he have to make calls on Dimas' behalf.
Preston surfaced a few days later, acting for all the world as if he'd never been gone in the first place. When Smithers casually tried to ask him where he'd been he replied arrogantly, on orders from Mister Dimas, and refused to speak further on the matter.
Smithers let the topic drop, and didn't bring it up again.
Days passed, blurring together. Smithers kept a countdown on his calendar until the North American Atomic Energy Convention, or "NAAECon" as they referred to it at the plant. In the evenings, he occasionally went down to The Lucky Lady with the now familiar gang of his coworkers. The heart of the group group consisted of Preston, Gary, Ruby (from accounting). Occasionally Antoine, and even more rarely Sharon would show up. Smithers found he enjoyed their company.
Back in Springfield, he didn't really have a so-called 'clique' that he spent time with. His social life was active, but the faces were an ever-marching parade; always new ones. Smithers hadn't realized he missed the connection that familiar companionship could provide. He watched Ruby and Antoine gang up on Preston, only to then defend him if someone else started teasing. Gary was friendly with everyone. Sharon generally sat back and let others do the talking, but if anyone was going to say something funny and outrageous, it was usually her.
There were others who joined them, but the main crew stayed the same.
Occasionally, he decided to skip dinner with his workmates, and went down to J. Vernie's. He'd shoot a few rounds of pool with Ellis, chat about the weather and current events. Smithers saw Keith from time to time, but Keith never approached him. That didn't bother Smithers at all. He didn't mind Keith, held no ill-will towards the younger man, but there really wasn't anything to discuss. Smithers was more than happy not to be drawn into some awkward "explain yourself" conversation.
Leon continued to work between both establishments. Smithers really wasn't sure what his schedule was. When he'd first started going to The Lucky Lady, Leon said he generally worked weekdays at J. Vernie's, but Smithers tended to see him working there on Saturdays. Smithers wondered vaguely if he'd misunderstood, but concluded it didn't cosmically matter.
The day of the convention eked ever closer.
Smithers knew Burns had gotten his letter: the delivery confirmation showed it had been received and signed for. Whether Burns read it or not he had no idea. He wondered if had really mattered. Ultimately, Smithers decided, it didn't matter. He'd carry on with day to day routine regardless.
Preston mostly stayed out of Smithers' way at work. Now that Smithers no longer had to report to him, he went on about his duties, following at Dimas' heel like an obedient puppy. If Dimas said 'frog' Preston would start hopping around, Smithers mused sardonically, watching them walk past his office. I used to be like that, he thought, and shook his head. Never again, he told himself. Never again.
The day before the convention, Dimas called Smithers and Preston into his office. He pointed to the guest chairs, and indicated both men sit before him. "Now," he said looking them up and down, "we'll be leaving bright and early tomorrow morning, traveling by chopper, of course. I've secured access to the helipad atop Corning Tower (thank you, Preston, for making that happen)."
Preston puffed his chest out proudly. "It wasn't easy, sir. All those new security regulations make getting flight authorization over the Plaza quite a bureaucratic nightmare. Fortunately I did not find such an endeavor the least bit taxing."
"Good for you, Preston." Dimas twirled his hand distractedly. "Now, moving on, the convention's nothing that special. If you've been to one 'nuke-con' you've been to all of them. What is significant though, is the gala afterwards."
Dimas turned toward Smithers. "Waylon, we all know Mister Burns has quite a thing for rubbing elbows with the powers that be. How much do you know about corporate presentation?"
Smithers gave a slight tilt of his head. "I've learned mostly by watching him," Smithers admitted.
Dimas nodded. He raised head. "Preston, give Smithers your tablet."
Preston's grip on his ever-present tablet tightened noticeably. "But sir, my tablet," he protested. "I need it to keep everything organized!"
"You can use that PDA you have around here somewhere. Smithers will need that to stay on top of who's who, and our relationships thereof." Dimas gave a toothy, but cold, smile, and held out his hand. "Come come, give it over."
Preston, looking as if he had just been asked to give up his proverbial first-born son, hung his head and placed the tablet in Dimas' thick hand. He rubbed his fingers together anxiously, as if his empty hands no longer knew what to do with themselves.
Dimas ignored him.
Instead, Dimas made a few quick swipes, tapped in an entry, and passed it over to Smithers. "It's unlocked for you now; won't automatically block you out. It's networked both to our main company schedule, and to Public Relations' database. Here," he said, opening a file. "This shows all the names and faces that Plateau City Nuclear Generating Incorporated deals with. It also gives a brief bio of these people, and their relationship with us. Study this, memorize it. I don't want you walking around with your face in a screen all night. Use it only when you have to."
Smithers took the tablet, and closed the cover before setting it in his lap. "Yes, sir."
"Now," Dimas said, drumming his fingers, "is there anything I've forgotten?"
Preston raised a hand meekly. "The gala, sir."
Dimas chuckled. "Ah yes, that's right, the gala." He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. "I don't think I need to beat it into either of you that everything you do will be reflecting our company… and me. That goes without saying that I expect formal attire. While the convention is business casual, the dinner is a black tie event; starting at seven PM." Dimas glanced at Smithers. "I trust you have the wear for that?"
Smithers nodded. "Absolutely." In fact, Smithers knew just the pair of cufflinks he'd wear. They were round, silver. The face was black, with the symbol of an atom lightly traced in copper enamel. He'd been told they brought out the warm colors in his eyes. Ah, that memory was bitter-sweet. He forced his mind back to the present.
"There will be the four of us in attendance," Dimas continued. "You two, myself (obviously), and Antoine."
Preston, bereft of tablet, looked utterly dismayed. "Antoine," he whined, "the man is a nightmare! He doesn't know how to behave, or how to dress for an event such as these. He'll embarrass all of us. Why can't we just leave him with the chopper?"
Dimas smiled, but there was a warning glint behind his eyes. "Antoine is a valued member of this team, Preston. He will be with us, and that's final." Dimas put a thick arm on the edge of his desk and leaned forward. "Now, any questions?"
Smithers and Preston shook their heads no.
Dimas laughed softly, approvingly. "Good, good. You two, take the rest of the afternoon off. I'll expect both of you at the helipad at seven AM, sharp. Good day, gentleman." He made a dismissing gesture, and turned his attention towards his laptop.
Smithers rose first, stealing a quick glance over at Preston. The lanky assistant seemed out of his element. Smithers felt an unexpected welling of sympathy for the man. It wasn't easy working exclusively for one person, knowing that there dozens of new candidates out there who would gladly take over. He almost felt like he should say something encouraging, but the words didn't come. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked back to his office, thinking.
Smithers skipped his morning workout. He wanted to make sure he arrived early. He snatched Preston's tablet off the kitchen table, tucked it neatly into his day bag, and slung his garment bag over his shoulder.
The trip to the nuclear plant was so familiar Smithers hardly even noticed his surroundings. He got off at the train station, and made his way across the outside walk to Dimas' personal helipad. Antoine was already there, going through pre-flight checks, and releasing the rotor tie-downs. Preston was hunched over his PDA, squinting at the tiny screen.
Dimas had not yet arrived.
Smithers hurried over and came up beside Preston. "Hey," he prompted.
Preston looked up, clearly annoyed by the intrusion. "What, Waylon," he snapped.
Smithers reached into his day bag. "I wondered if you might want this back," he said, offering the tablet up.
Preston narrowed his eyes. "Mister Dimas told you to hang on to it," he grumbled. "I would be remiss in my duties if I disobeyed him. Now, excuse me." Preston moved off several feet, and resumed fiddling with his PDA.
Smithers sighed and slid the tablet back into his pouch.
"Well, good morning," a familiar voice boomed across the tarmac. "It's nice to see your friendly faces on this cloudy Plateau morning," Dimas announced as he swaggered up to his team and slid open the passenger door to the helicopter.
Preston greeted him warmly, happy to launch into a spiel about the day's itinerary. He climbed in behind Dimas. Smithers followed, pulling the door shut behind him. A few minutes later, Antoine climbed into the cockpit, and handed them all headsets through the narrow access between cabin and cockpit.
Smithers adjusted his microphone, and stared out the window.
"You guys all strapped in back there?" Antoine's voice cracked through the earphones.
Dimas leaned over the access, and gave Antoine a thumbs-up.
"Alrighty. Good to go." Antoine flipped a series of switches, bringing the rotors online. He adjusted the throttle to speed, and slowly the chopper rose into the air. "Our flight plan follows the Hudson pretty much exactly," he remarked through their headsets. "It's about fifty miles, so we'll be there in twenty minutes or less. In the meantime, anyone want to listen to the radio or something? I can get you guys the traffic reports, and we can laugh at the people stuck on the highway," he teased.
"No thank you, Antoine, we're fine," Dimas replied diplomatically.
"Eh? Well, suit yourself… sir!"
He deftly angled the craft north, and increased the speed. It didn't take long before Smithers could see the outline of the Empire State Plaza in the distance.
Albany was, at its heart, a river town. The capitol of New York State was only a few blocks west of the river. Antoine took the liberty of explaining the area to Smithers as they approached.
"Waylon, you see all those green blocks to the south?"
Smithers indicated that he could see them.
"That's the mansion district, so to speak. The governor's mansion is that big house right there, by the park. That's where I flew these two several weeks ago. Parked us in the back yard by the pool. That big tall building up ahead, that's Corning Tower. That's where we'll be landing. That entire elevated terrace is Empire State Plaza."
"What's that round shaped building behind the tower?"
"Oh, that? The call that 'the Egg.' It's a performing arts theatre."
"Where's the Concourse?"
Antoine banked the chopper around and began the final approach. "You're looking at it. Well, the roof, anyhow. It's pretty much directly below those reflecting pools. It connects that big rectangle to the south, the museum with that grey-roofed building to the north: the one with those red peaks. The museum's technically called the New York State Cultural Education Center, or something like that. Everyone around here refers to it simply as the museum."
"And it connects all the towers then too!"
"Exactly!"
Antoine deftly piloted the chopper over the white "H" in the middle of a circle on the roof of the Corning Tower. "I'm going to hop out first and tie her down as soon as we touch," Antoine informed them. "The winds can really whip through here, and I don't want to take any chances hesitating."
As soon as the runners touched ground, Antoine leapt out. He grabbed the nylon webbing straps and clasped them to the heavy-duty rings around the helipad. When the rotors stopped, he slipped the sock-like tie-downs over the blades, and anchored them to the landing runners. "Grab your stuff before I open that door," he barked through their earphones. There's one heck of a side wind today!"
Smithers and Preston hugged their possessions to their chests as Antoine slung the passenger door open. A sharp wind, smelling of city and river, blasted in, threatening to snatch up anything left unattended.
Dimas held his briefcase tightly, and threw his head back, as if laughing at the wind, challenging it. Antoine crouched down and motioned them to the door and stairwell.
"Let's go," he yelled as the wind ripped his words away.
Hunched against the gale, the four men scurried inside, Antoine pulling the door shut behind them. Once inside, Preston stood up and straightened his tie. "Well," he remarked, "that was a bit breezy out there." They turned and made it down a single story to the waiting security team. Dimas and Preston set their belongings on the table, and started fishing possessions out of their pockets. Smithers watched, and followed suit. Antoine stepped aside with one of the agents, presenting his pilot's license, ID, and flight plan authorization.
Smithers held his hands out, legs spread slightly as a guard waved a portable metal detector over his body. "This seems like a lot," he remarked, trying to be friendly.
The guard grunted. "After 9/11, everything changed."
The metal detector chirped.
"Belt?" the guard barked.
"Oh, yes." Smithers undid it and set it on the table.
The guard scanned him again, seemed satisfied, and moved over to the rest of the party. "You're some unusual guests," he remarked as they searched the Plateau crew's bags. "Almost no one gets authorization to use that helipad anymore."
Antoine laughed. "Hey, that's not me." He gestured a thumb towards Preston.
"Preppy handled all that."
Preston tried to look embarrassed, but Smithers saw the faint smirk on his lips.
The guard merely grunted, and handed them back their identification. "Mister Dimas, sir, this way. We'll escort you down the Concourse."
Dimas gave a gracious nod of his head. "I appreciate that." He glanced over his shoulder while Preston, Smithers, and Antoine hastily grabbed their belongings. "Give the governor my thanks, yet again, for allowing me to land here."
The guard led them to the elevators.
"Where's the observation deck," Smithers whispered to Antoine.
"A few floors below us," Antoine replied. "It's not on the very top floor. It's on the forty-second. We're a few floors above."
Smithers nodded his understanding. The seven men, Antoine, Preston, Smithers and Dimas, plus three guards, packed into the elevator, and plunged to the Concourse, the "underground city" far below.
Several hundred feet away, leaning on the thick marble promenade of the museum. Burns hunched like a gargoyle, bolstering himself against the gusting air.
Burns didn't care that it was summer, there was a chill to the grey wind, he was sure of it. He turned the collar of his black topcoat up, and tried in vain to pat down his windblown silver hair.
Ah, there it was. Over the storm-like roar in his ears came the steady whump-whump-whump of a helicopter. He looked up and watched as it circled the plaza twice before finally settling like a raptor atop the tallest building, dropping out of sight beyond the lip of the roof.
He shivered and pulled his jacket tighter around him, hugging his arms to his chest.
Nothing more to be seen standing here, he thought bitterly.
So thinking, he descended the marble steps to the plaza below, and slipped inside.