It rears up from Fifth Avenue like three obsidian tors melded into one jutting prominence by some weird volcanic fit. In defiance of the prevailing winds, curved surfaces face Puget Sound like black sails. It is the bastion of billion-dollar corporations and millionaire executives. Someone called it the most obscene erection of ego on the PacificCoast and I don't think he was too far wrong. Occupying the top two floors is the most expensive businessman's club in the city—the Columbia Tower Club—out-Babbitting even the venerable Washington Athletic Club. Dale Stahlqvist came down to the soaring red stone lobby to meet me.Stahlqvist was one of those tall, pale blond men Hollywood likes to cast as Nazi Übermenschen or Viking raiders. In spite of my natural height plus the heels on my dress boots, he was still taller than me and he was inclined to look down his narrow beak as he assayed me."Well," he rumbled as he stopped in front of me and shook my hand, "we should go upstairs. A little more privacy in the CTC.""All right," I agreed, and I hoped he was paying."So," he said as we rode up in the elevator, "you're what, another of Tuckman's graduate students?”"No, Mr.
