At one point during this low level high riser about the erection of a building, someone says ""Nobody was publishing a book about the kind of problems a general contractor dealt with."" Mr. Woolfolk has, although to what useful end it's hard to say since this is by far the dullest novel he's written. Upward and onward with Alex Johns, a Zeckendorf type, who until now has not been concerned with the aesthetics of architecture when Barbara, the daughter of the head of Zenith Oil (the company) alerts him to the designs of European born Karl Schiller. More impressive if also more expensive. There are all kinds of on the job disasters--even at one point the foundation moves; troubles over financing and interorganizational friction; the romance of Barbara with said older architect: and finally the achievement of this ""man's creation."" All in piledriver prose and one can only think that the paperback subcontractor may possibly profit.