Overload

1

Davey Birdsong, who had been inspecting the Sequoia Club's impressive headquarters, inquired cheekily, "Where's the chairman's private sauna?

And after that I'd like to see your solid gold toilet seat."

"We don't have either," Laura Bo Carmichael said, a trifle stiffly. She was not entirely at case with the bearded, portly, jesting Birdsong, who, though a naturalized American for many years, still exhibited some of the rough outback manners of his native Australia. Laura Bo, who had met Birdsong a few times previously at outside meetings, equated him with the

"Jolly Swagman" in Waltzing Matilda.

Which was ridiculous, of course, and she knew it. Though Davey Birdsong seemed to make a point of sounding uncultured and dressed the same way-today be wore shabby, patched jeans and running shoes with string for laces-the Sequoia Club chairman was well aware he was a scholar of stature, holding a master's degree in sociology, as well as being a part-time lecturer at the University of California at Berkeley. He had also put together a coalition of consumer, church and left-wing political groups which called itself p & lfp-or, power & light for people. (the lower case initials were, in Birdsong's words, "to emphasize we are not capitalists.")

The declared aim of p & lfp was "to fight the profit-bloated monster GSP & L on all fronts." In various confrontations so far, p & lfp had opposed rate increases for electricity and gas, had fought licensing of a nuclear power plant, had objected to GSP & L public relations activities" ruthless propaganda unwillingly paid for by consumers," was bow Birdsong and p & lfp described it-and had urged a compulsory takeover of the power company by municipalities. Now, Birdsong's movement was seeking to join forces with the prestigious Sequoia Club in opposing the latest GSP & L expansion plans. That proposal was to be reviewed at a meeting with top club officials, due to begin shortly.

"Geez, Laura baby," Birdsong observed, his gaze still roaming the imposing paneled boardroom where they were talking, "I guess it's real 1soul-inspiring to work in a ritzy layout like this. You should see my dump.

Compared with what you got here it's a bum's nightmare."

She told him, "Our headquarters was deeded to us many years ago as part of a bequest. A condition was that we occupy the building; otherwise we would not receive the substantial income which accompanies it." At certain moments-this was one of them-Laura Bo Carmichael found the stately Cable Hill mansion, which the Sequoia Club occupied, something of an embarrassment. It was once a millionaire's town house which still bespoke wealth, and personally she would have preferred simpler quarters. To move, however, would have been financial madness. She added, "I'd prefer you not call me 'Laura baby."'

"I'll make a note of that." Grinning, Birdsong produced a notebook, unclipped a ball-point pen and wrote something down.

Putting the notebook away, he regarded the slight, trim figure of Mrs. Carmichael, then said reflectively, "Bequests, eh? From dead donors. I guess that, and those big live donors, is what keeps the Sequoia Club so rich."

"Rich is a relative word." Laura Bo Carmichael wished the three of her colleagues who were to join her for this meeting would arrive. "It's true our organization is fortunate in having national support, but we have substantial expenses."

The big bearded man chuckled. "Not so many, though, that you couldn't spread some of that bread around to other groups-doing your kind of work-which need it."

"We'll see. But," Mrs. Carmichael said firmly, "please don't assume we are so naive that you can come here posing as a poor relation, because we know better." She consulted some notes she had not intended to use until later.

"We know, for example, that your p & lfp has some twenty-five thousand members who pay three dollars a year each, collected by paid door-to-door canvassers, which adds up to $75,000 Out of that you pay yourself a salary of $20,000 a year, plus unknown expenses."

"Fella hasta make a living."

"A remarkably good one, I'd say." Laura Bo continued reading. "In addition there are your university lecture fees, another fixed salary from an activist training organization, and payment for articles you write, all of which is believed to bring your personal income as a protester to $60,000 a year."

Davey Birdsong, whose smile had grown broader while he listened, seemed not in the least taken aback. He commented, "A right nifty job of research."

It was the Sequoia Club chairman's turn to smile. "We do have an excellent research department here." She folded the notes and put them away. "None of the material I have quoted is for outside use, of course. It's merely to make you aware of our awareness that professional protesters like you have a good thing going. That mutual knowledge will save time when we get down to business."

A door opened quietly and a neat, elderly man with iron-gray hair and rimless glasses entered the boardroom.

Laura Bo said, "Mr. Birdsong, I believe you know our manager-secretary, Mr. Pritchett."

Davey Birdsong put out a large, meaty hand. "We met on the battlefield a time or two. Hiya, Pritchy!"

When his band had been pumped vigorously the newcomer said drily, "I hadn't considered environmental hearings to be battlefields, though I suppose they could be construed that way."

"Damn right, Pritchy! And when I go into battle, especially against the people's enemy, Golden State Power, I fire every big gun and keep on firing. Tough 'n' tougher, that's the prescription. Oh, I'm not saying there isn't a place for your kind of opposition. There is!-you people bring a touch of class. I'm the one, though, who makes headlines and gets on TV news. By the way, did you kids see me on TV with that GSP & L prick, Goldman?"

“The Good Evening Show," the manager-secretary acknowledged. "Yes, I did.

I thought you were colorful, though-to be objective Goldman was shrewd in resisting your baiting." Pritchett removed his glasses to polish them.

"Perhaps, as you say, there is a place for your kind of opposition to GSP & L. Possibly, even, we need each other."

"Attaboy, Pritchy!”

“The correct pronunciation is Pritchett. Or, if you prefer, you may call me Roderick."

"I'll make a note of that, Roddy old man." Grinning broadly at Laura Bo, Birdsong went through his notebook routine once more.

While they were talking two others had come in. Laura Bo Carmichael introduced them as Irwin Saunders and Mrs. Priscilla Quinn, the remaining members of the Sequoia Club executive committee. Saunders was a balding, gravel-voiced lawyer who handled big-name divorce cases and was frequently in the news. Mrs. Quinn, fashionably dressed and attractive in her late forties, was the wife of a wealthy banker and noted for her civic zeal, also for limiting her friendships to other wealthy or important people. She accepted Davey Birdsong's outstretched band with reluctance, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and distaste.

The chairman suggested, "I think we might all be seated and get on with business."

The five grouped themselves near one end of a long mahogany table, Laura Bo at the head.

"We are all concerned," she said, "about recent proposals of Golden State Power & Light which the Sequoia Club has already decided would 1be harmful to the environment. We will actively oppose them at forthcoming hearings."

Birdsong thumped the table loudly. "And I say: three bloody cheers for the Sequoia mob!”

Irwin Saunders appeared amused. Mrs. Quinn raised her eyebrows.

"What Mr. Birdsong has suggested in connection with that opposition," the chairman continued, "are certain liaison arrangements between our organization and his. I'll ask him to describe them."

Attention swung to Davey Birdsong. For a moment he eyed the other four amiably, one by one, then plunged into his presentation.

“The kind of opposition all of us are talking about is a war-with GSP & L the enemy. To regard the scene otherwise would be to court defeat. Therefore, just as in a war, an attack must be mounted on several fronts."

Noticeably, Birdsong had shed his clown's veneer and the earlier breeziness of language. He proceeded, "To carry the war simile a stage further-as well as doing combat on specific issues, no opportunity should be lost to snipe at GSP & L whenever such an opening occurs."

"Really," Mrs. Quinn injected, "I'm aware you advised us it was a simile, but I find this talk of war distasteful. After all . . ."

The lawyer, Saunders, reached out to touch her arm. "Priscilla, why not let him finish?"

She shrugged. "Very well."

"Causes are often lost, Mrs. Quinn," Birdsong declared, "because of too much softness, an unwillingness to face the hard nub of reality."

Saunders nodded. "A valid point."

"Let's get to specifics," Pritchett, the manager-secretary, urged. "Mr. Birdsong, you referred to 'several fronts! Precisely which?"

"Right!" Birdsong became businesslike again. "Fronts one, two and three-the public bearings on the announced plans for Tunipah, Fincastle Valley and Devil's Gate. You people will fight on all of them. So will my gallant p & lfp."

"As a matter of interest," Laura Bo inquired, "on what grounds will you oppose?"

"Not sure yet, but don't worry. Between now and then we'll think of something."

Mrs. Quinn seemed shocked. Irwin Saunders smiled.

“Then there are the rate hearings; that's front number four. Any time there's a proposal for increased utility rates, p&lfp will oppose them fiercely, as we did last time. With success, I might add."

"What success?" Roderick Pritchett asked. "So far as I know, a decision hasn't been announced."

"You're right, it hasn't." Birdsong smiled knowingly. "But -I have friends at the PUG, and I know what's coming out of there in two or three days-an announcement which will be a kick in the crotch to GSP & L."

Pritchett asked curiously, "Does the utility know yet?"

"I doubt it."

Laura Bo Carmichael said, "Let's get on."

"The fifth front," Birdsong said, "and a mighty important one, is the annual meeting of Golden State Power & Light which takes place two and a half weeks from now. I have some plans for that, though I'd be glad if you didn't ask me too much about them."

"You're implying," Saunders said, "that we'd be better off not knowing."

"Exactly, counselor."

"Then what," Laura Bo asked, "is all this talk of liaison about?"

Birdsong grinned as be rubbed a thumb and two fingers together sugestively. "This kind of liaison. Money."

"I thought we'd get to that," Pritchett said.

"Something else about our working together," Birdsong told the Sequoia group. "It would be better if it wasn't out in the open. It should be confidential, entre nous."

“Then in what possible way," Mrs. Quinn asked, "would the Sequoia Club benefit?"

Irwin Saunders said, "I can answer that. The fact is, Priscilla, anything which damages the image of GSP & L, in any area, is likely to diminish their strength and success in others." He smiled. "It's a tactic which lawyers have been known to use."

"Why do you need money?" Pritchett asked Birdsong. "And what sum are we talking about?"

"We need it because p & lfp alone cannot afford all the preparation and people which are necessary if our combined opposition-on the table and under it-is to be effective." Birdsong turned directly to the chairman. "As you pointed out, we have resources of our own, but not nearly enough for a project of this size." His glance returned to the others. “The amount I'm suggesting the Sequoia Club contribute is fifty thousand dollars in two installments."

The manager-secretary removed his glasses and inspected them for clarity.

"You certainly don't think small."

"No, and neither should you, considering what's at stake-in your case a possible major impact on the environment."

"What bothers me in all of this," Mrs. Quinn observed, "are certain implications of gutter fighting which I do not care for."

Laura Bo Carmichael nodded. "I have precisely the same feeling."

Again it was the lawyer, Saunders, who interceded.

"Certain facts of life," he told his colleagues, "ought to be faced. In opposing these latest projects of Golden State Power-Tunipah, log Fincastle, Devil's Gate-the Sequoia Club will present what we know to be reasoned arguments. However, remembering the climate of the times and misguided demands for more and more energy, reason and rationale are not certain to prevail. So what else do we do? I say we need another element-an ally that is more aggressive, more flamboyant, more calculated to excite public attention which, in turn, will influence the regulators who are only politicians once removed. In my view Mr. Birdsong and his whatever-he-calls-it group . . ."

"Power & light for people," Birdsong interjected.

Saunders waved a hand as if the detail were unimportant. "Both ahead of those hearings, and at them, he'll add that missing element we lack."

"TV and the press love me," Birdsong said. "I give them a show, something to leaven and liven their stories. Because of that, anything I say gets printed and is put on the air."

"That's true," the manager-secretary affirmed. "Even some outrageous statements of his have been used by the media while they've omitted our comments and those of GSP & L."

The chairman asked him, "Am I to assume you are in favor of what's proposed?"

"Yes, I am," Pritchett said. “There is one assurance, though, I'd like from Mr. Birdsong, namely that whatever his group does, no violence or intimidation will be countenanced."

The boardroom table quivered as Birdsong's hand slammed down. "Assurance given! My group despises violence of any kind. We have issued statements saying so."

"I'm glad to hear it," Pritchett acknowledged, "and the Sequoia Club, of course, shares that view. By the way, I presume everyone saw the report, in today's Chronicle-West, of more bombings at GSP & L."

The others nodded. The report had described havoc at a GSP & L truck depot where more than two dozen vehicles were damaged or destroyed during the night-the result of a fire started by a bomb. Several days earlier a substation had been bombed, though damage was slight. In both instances the underground Friends of Freedom had claimed responsibility.

"Are there more questions for Mr. Birdsong?" Laura Bo Carmichael asked.

There were several. They concerned the tactics to be employed against GSP & L-"continual harassment on a broad public information front" was how Birdsong put it-and the use to which the Sequoia Club's money would be put.

At one point Roderick Pritchett ruminated aloud, "I'm not sure it would be to our advantage to insist on a detailed accounting, but naturally we would require proof that our money was expended effectively."

"Your proof would be in results," Birdsong answered.

It was conceded that certain matters would have to be taken on trust. At length Laura Bo Carmichael announced, "Mr. Birdsong, I'll ask you to leave us now so that the rest of us can discuss your proposal privately. One way or the other, we will be in touch with you soon."

Davey Birdsong stood, beaming, his big body towering over the others.

"Well, cobbers all, it's been a privilege and pleasure. For now so long!”

As he went out there was an awareness that he had slipped like putting on a garment-into his bluff public role. When the boardroom door had closed behind Birdsong, Mrs. Quinn spoke first and firmly. "I don't like any of it. I dislike the man and all my instincts are against trusting him. I'm totally opposed to any linkage with his group."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Irwin Saunders said, "because I believe his diversionary tactics are exactly what we need to beat these new GSP & L proposals, which is the important thing."

"I must say, Mrs. Quinn," Pritchett remarked, "I agree with Irwin's view."

Priscilla Quinn shook her head decisively. "Nothing any of you say will make me change my mind."

The lawyer sighed. "Priscilla, you're being altogether too prim and proper."

"Possibly that's true." Mrs. Quinn's face flushed red. "But I also have principles, something that disgusting man appears to lack."

Laura Bo said sharply, "No acrimony among ourselves, please!"

Pritchett injected smoothly, "May I remind everyone that this committee has authority to make a binding decision and, if it so decides, to expend the amount of money we've discussed."

"Madam Chairman," Saunders said, "the way I count the voting so far is two in favor, one against, which leaves the swing vote up to you."

"Yes," Laura Bo acknowledged, "I realize that, and I'll admit to some ambivalence."

"In that case," Saunders said, "let me state some reasons why I think you should come to my view, and Roderick's."

"And when you've finished," Priscilla Quinn told him, "I'll argue the opposite."

For another twenty minutes the debate went back and forth.

Laura Bo Carmichael listened, making a contribution here and there, at the same time weighing mentally the way her vote should go. If she opposed co-operating with Birdsong there would be a 2-2 stalemate which would have the same effect as outright rejection. If she voted "for," it would be a decisive 3-1-Her inclination was to cast a "no." While seeing merit in Saunders' and Pritchett's pragmatism, Laura Bo's instincts about Davey Birdsong paralleled Priscilla Quinn's. The trouble was, she didn't particularly want to be linked with Priscilla Quinn-an undoubted snob, a society ill do-gooder forever in the social columns, married to old California money, and thus representing many things which Laura Bo abhorred.

Something else she was aware of: If she sided with Priscilla against the other two it would be a clear case of the women versus the men. Never mind that Laura Bo would not intend it that way and was capable of judging any issue irrespective of her sex, that was the way it would look. She could imagine Irwin Saunders, a male chauvinist, thinking: the damn women stuck together, even if not saying it aloud. Saunders had not been one of Laura Bo's supporters when she was a candidate for the Sequoia Club chairmanship; he had backed a male contender. Now Laura Bo, as the first woman to assume the club's highest office, wanted to show that she could fill that post as well and impartially as any man, perhaps a good deal better.

And yet . . . There was still her instinct that the Birdsong connection would be wrong.

"We're going in circles," Saunders said. "I suggest we take a final vote."

Priscilla Quinn asserted, "My vote remains 'no."'

Saunders growled, "Strongly-'yes."'

"Forgive me, Mrs. Quinn," Pritchett said. "I vote 'yes."'

The eyes of the other three were focused on Laura Bo. She besitited, reviewing once more the implications and her doubts. Then she said decisively, "I will vote 'yes."'

"That does it!" Irwin Saunders said. He rubbed his bands together.

"Priscilla, why not be a good loser? join the rest of us and make it unanimous."

Tight-lipped, Mrs. Quinn shook her head negatively. "I think you will all regret that vote. I wish my dissent to be recorded."

2

While the Sequoia Club committee continued its discussion in his absence, Davey Birdsong left the club's headquarters building humming a jaunty tune. He had not the least doubt what the outcome would be. The Quinn woman, be knew, would be against him; he was equally sure the other three-for individual reasons-would see the situation his way. The fifty thousand smackeroos was in the bag.

He retrieved his car-a beat-up Chevrolet-from a nearby parking lot and drove through the city's center, then southeast for several miles. He stopped on a nondescript street where he had never been before but which was the sort of location where he could leave the car for several hours without its attracting attention. Birdsong locked the car, memorized the street name, then walked several blocks to a busier thoroughfare where, he had observed en route, several bus lines operated. He took the first westhound bus which came along.

On the way from the car he had donned a hat which he normally never wore and also put on horn-rimmed glasses which he didn't need. The two additions changed his appearance surprisingly, so that anyone used to seeing him on TV or elsewhere would almost certainly fail to recognize him now.

After riding the bus for ten minutes, Birdsong got off and bailed a cruising taxi which he directed to drive northward. Several times be glanced through the taxi's rear window, inspecting other traffic following. The inspections seemed to satisfy him and he ordered the taxi to stop and paid it off. A few minutes later he boarded another bus, this time going east. By now his journey since parking the car had assumed the approximate shape of a square.

As he left the second bus, Birdsong inspected the other passengers getting off, then began walking briskly, turning several corners and glancing back each time. After about five minutes of walking he stopped at a small row house, then ascended a half-dozen steps to a recessed front door. He depressed a bell push and stood where he could be seen from the other side of the door through a tiny one-way peephole. Almost at once the door opened and he went inside.

In the small dark hallway of the Friends of Freedom hideaway Georgos Archambault asked, "Were you careful in coming here?"

Birdsong growled, "Of course I was careful. I always am." He said accusingly, "You botched the substation job."

"There were reasons," Georgos said. "Let's go below." He led the way down a flight of cement stairs to the basement workroom with its usual clutter of explosives and accessories.

On a makeshift couch against one wall a girl lay stretched out. She appeared to be in her twenties. Her small round face, which in other circumstances might have been pretty, was waxen pale. Stringy blonde hair, in need of combing, spilled over a grubby pillow. Her right hand was heavily bandaged, the bandage stained brown where blood had seeped through and dried.

Birdsong exploded. "Why is she here?"

"That's what I was going to explain," Georgos said. "She was helping me at the substation and a blasting cap went off. It took off two of her fingers and she was bleeding like a pig. It was dark; I wasn't sure if we'd been heard. I did the rest of the job in a big hurry."

"And where you put the bomb was stupid and useless," Birdsong said. "A firecracker would have done as much damage."

Georgos flushed. Before he could answer, the girl said, "I ought to go to a hospital."

"You can't and you won't." Birdsong exhibited none of the affability which was his trademark. He told Georgos angrily, "You know our arrangement. Get her out of here!"

Georgos motioned with his head and unhappily the girl got off the couch and went upstairs. He had made another mistake, Georgos knew, in allowing her to stay. The arrangement Birdsong had mentioned-a sensible precaution-was that only be and Georgos should meet face-to-face. Davey Birdsong's connection was unknown to the others in the underground group-Wayde, Ute and Felix-who either left the house or kept out of sight when a visit from the Friends of Freedom outside conduit-Birdsong-was expected. The real trouble was, Georgos realized, he had become soft about his woman, Yvette, which was not good. It had been the same way when the blasting cap went off; at that moment Georgos had been more concerned about Yvette's injuries than the job in hand, so that wanting to get her away safely was the real reason he had hurried-and botched.

When the girl had gone, Birdsong said, low-voiced, "Just make damn sure-no hospital, no doctor. There'd be questions and she knows too much.

If you have to, get rid of her. There are easy ways."

"She'll be all right. Besides, she's useful." Georgos was uncomfortable under Birdsong's scrutiny and changed the subject. “The truck depot last night went well. You saw the reports?"

The big man nodded grudgingly. “They should all go that way. There isn't time or money to waste on bummers."

Georgos accepted the rebuke silently, though he didn't have to. He was the leader of Friends of Freedom. Davey Birdsong's role was secondary, as a link to the outside, particularly to those supporters of revolution-"drawing room Marxists"-who favored active anarchy but didn't want to share its risks. Yet Birdsong, by his nature, liked to appear dominant, and sometimes Georgos let him get away with it because of his usefulness, particularly the money be brought in.

Money was the reason right now for avoiding an argument; Georgos needed more since his earlier sources had abruptly dried up. His bitch of a mother, the Greek movie actress who had supplied him with a steady income for twenty years, had apparently hit hard times herself; she wasn't getting film parts anymore because not even makeup could conceal the fact she was fifty, her young goddess looks gone forever. That part Georgos was delighted about and hoped things would get progressively worse for her. If she were starving, he told himself, he wouldn't give her a stale biscuit. Just the same, a notification from the Athens lawyers-impersonal as usual-that no more payments would be made into his Chicago bank account. Georgos' cash needs involved current costs and future plans. One project was to build a small nuclear bomb and explode it in or near the headquarters of Golden State Power & Light. Such a bomb, Georgos reasoned, would destroy the building, the exploiters and lackeys in it, and also much else around-a salutary lesson to the capitalist oppressors of the people.

At the same time, Friends of Freedom would become an even more formidable force than now, to be treated with awe and respect.

The idea of creating an atomic bomb was ambitious and perhaps unrealistic-though not entirely. After all, a twenty-one-year-old Princeton student named John Phillips had already demonstrated in a much publicized term paper that the "how to" details were available in library reference materials to anyone having the patience to assemble them. Georgos Winslow Archambault, steeped in physics and chemistry, had obtained all the information he could about Phillips' research and had built up a file of his own, also using library data. One non-library item in the file was a ten-page handbook put out by California's Office of Emergency Services and directed to police agencies; it outlined ways of dealing with atomic bomb threats and that, too, had provided useful information. Georgos was now close, he believed, to creating a detailed working drawing. However, actual construction of a bomb would require fissionable material, which would have to be stolen, and that would take money-a lot, plus organization and luck. But it just might be done; stranger things had happened.

He told Birdsong, "Since you've brought up time and money, we need some long green now."

"You'll get it." Birdsong permitted himself a wide smile, the first since coming in. "And plenty. I found another money tree."

3

Nim was shaving. It was shortly after 7 am on a Thursday in late August.

Ruth had gone downstairs ten minutes earlier to prepare breakfast. Leah and Benjy were still sleeping. Now Ruth returned, appearing at the bathroom door with a copy of the Chronicle-West.

"I hate to start your day off badly," she said, "but I know you'll want to see this."

"Thanks." He put down his razor and took the newspaper with wet 1hands, scanning the front page. Below the fold was a single-column item:

GSP & L,

Rate Hike

Disallowed

Electricity and gas rates are not going up.

This was revealed yesterday afternoon by the California Public Utilities Commission in announcing its turndown of an application by Golden State Power & Light for a 13 percent increase in gas and electric rates which would bring the giant utility another $580 million annual revenue.

"We do not see the need for an increase at this time," the PUC stated in a decision arrived at by a 3-2 vote of the commissioners.

At public bearings GSP & L had argued that it needs more money to offset rising costs due to inflation and to raise capital for its construction program.

High officials of GSP & L were not available for comment, though a spokesman expressed regret and concern for the future energy situation in California. However, Davey Birdsong, leader of a consumers group-power & light for people hailed the decision as . . .

Nim put the newspaper on the toilet tank beside him while he finished shaving; he had learned of the decision late yesterday so the report was confirmation. When he went downstairs Ruth had his breakfast ready-lamb kidneys with scrambled eggs-and she sat opposite him with a cup of coffee while he ate.

She asked, "What does that commission decision really mean?"

He grimaced. "It means that three people, who got jobs because of politics, have the right to tell big corporations like GSP & L and the phone company how to manage their aff airs-and do."

"Will it affect you?"

"Damn right it will! I'll have to revamp the construction program; we'll cancel or slow down some projects and that will lead to layoffs. Even then there'll be a cash bind. Long faces this morning, especillly Eric's." Nim cut and speared a kidney. “These are great. You do them better than anybody."

Ruth hesitated, then said, "Could you get your own breakfast for a while, do you think?"

Nim was startled. "Sure, but why?"

"I may be going away." In her quiet voice Ruth corrected herself. "I am going away. For a week, perhaps longer."

He put down his knife and fork, staring across the table. "Why? Where?"

“Mother will have Leah and Benjy while I'm gone, and Mrs. Blair will come in as usual to clean. So it will just mean you’re having dinner out, and I'm sure you can arrange that."

Nim ignored the barb. He insisted, his voice rising, "You didn't answer my question. Where are you going, and why?"

"There's no need for either of us to shout." Beneath Ruth's composure he sensed an uncharacteristic hardness. "I heard your question, but the way things are between us, I don't believe I should have to answer. Do you?"

Nim was silent, knowing precisely what Ruth meant: Why should there be a double standard? If Nim chose to break the rules of marriage, have a succession of affairs, and stay out many evenings for his own diversions, why shouldn't Ruth exercise similar freedom, also without explanations? On that basis, her declaration of equality-which it clearly was seemed reasonable. Just the same, Nim felt a stab of jealousy because he now was sure Ruth was involved with another man. Originally be hadn't thought so; now he was convinced, and while he knew that give and-take arrangements existed in some marriages, he found it hard to accept them in his own.

"We both know," Ruth said, interrupting his thoughts, "that for a long time you and I have only been going through the motions of being married. We haven't talked about it. But I think we should." This time, despite an attempt at firmness, there was a tremor in her voice.

He asked, "Do you want to talk now?"

Ruth shook her head. "Perhaps when I come back." She added ' "As soon as I work some things out, I'll let you know when I'm leaving.

Nim said dully, "All right."

"You haven't finished your breakfast."

He pushed the plate away. "I don't feel like eating anymore."

* * *

Though the exchange with Ruth-jolting in its suddenness-preoccupied Nim during his drive downtown, activity at GSP & L headquarters quickly eclipsed personal thoughts.

The ruling of the Public Utilities Commission took priority over all other business.

All morning a procession of executives from the utility's financial and legal departments, their expressions serious, hastened in and out of the chairman's office. Their comings and goings marked a succession of conferences, each concerned with the essential question: Without any increase whatever in the rates it could charge customers, how could GSP & L carry out its needed construction plans and stay solvent? the consensus: Without some drastic and immediate cutback in expenses, it simply wasn't possible.

At one point J. Eric Humphrey paced the rug behind his desk and demanded rhetorically, "Why is it that when the price of bread goes up because of inflation, or meat prices soar, or it costs more to get into a ball game or a movie-no one is ever surprised and it's all accepted? But when we point out, truthfully, that we can't produce electricity at our old rates because our costs have gone up too, nobody believes us."

Oscar O'Brien, the general counsel, answered while he lit one of his inevitable cigars. “They don't believe us because they've been conditioned not to-mostly by politicians trying to suck up to voters and looking for an easy target. Public utilities have always been one."

The chairman snorted. "Politicians! they disgust me! they invented inflation, created it, worsened it, keep it going as they build public debt -all so they can buy votes and bang onto their jobs. Yet those charlatans, those obscurers of the truth, blame inflation on everybody else unions, business-anyone, anything, except themselves. If it weren't for politicians, we wouldn't be asking for a rate increase because we wouldn't need to."

Sharlett Underhill, executive vice president of finance and the fourth person in the chairman's office, murmured, "Amen!" Mrs. Underhill, a tall brunette in her forties, capable, normally unruffled, today appeared harried. Which was understandable, Nim thought. Whatever financial decisions were made as a result of the PUC turndown, they would inevitably be harsh and Sharlett Underhill would have to implement them.

Eric Humphrey, who had stopped his pacing, asked, "Does anyone have a theory about why everything we sought was rejected? Did we misjudge the profiles? Where was our strategy wrong?"

"I'm not sure our strategy was wrong," O'Brien said. "And we sure as hell studied the profiles, and acted on them."

Behind the question and answer was a common practice of utility companies-but also a closely guarded secret.

Whenever a Public Utility Commissioner was appointed, companies which would be affected by the new commissioner's decisions began a detailed undercover study of the individual, including a psychiatric profile. The resultant material was pored over by experts in psychology who searched for prejudices to be guarded against or weaknesses to be exploited.

Later an executive of the utility would attempt to strike up a friendship in the course of which the commissioner would be entertained at the executive's home, invited to play golf, share bard-to-get seats at sports events, or taken trout fishing at a Sierra hideaway. The entertainment was always pleasant, private, and discreet, but never lavish. During casual conversations some discussion might occur about the utility's affairs, but no direct favors were asked; the influence was more subtle.

Often the tactic worked in a utility's favor. Occasionally it didn't.

"We knew two of the commissioners would vote against us anyway," the lawyer said, "and we knew for sure that two of the other three were in our corner. So that left Cy Reid's as the swing vote. We'd worked on Reid, we thought he'd see things our way, but we were wrong."

Nim knew about Commissioner Cyril Reid. He was a Ph.D. economist and former university lecturer whose practical business experience was nil. But Reid had worked closely with California's incumbent Governor through two election campaigns and insiders now believed that when the Governor moved from Sacramento to the White House, as he hoped to, Cy Reid would go with him as chief of staff. According to a confidential file which Nim had read, Commissioner Reid was once an ardent believer in Keynesian economics, but had recanted, now accepting that the deficit spending doctrines of John Maynard Keynes had led to economic disaster worldwide. A recent report from a senior vice president of GSP & L, Stewart Ino, who had cultivated Reid, declared that the commissioner had "faced up to the realities of income statements and balance sheets, including those of public utilities." But perhaps, Nim thought, Cy Reid the politician had been laughing at them all along, and was doing so right now.

"During the pendency of the case," the chairman persisted, "surely there were backstage discussions with commission staff? Weren't compromises reached?"

Sharlett Underhill answered, “The answer to both questions is yes."

“Then if compromises were agreed on, what happened to them?"

Mrs. Underhill shrugged. "Nothing done behind scenes is binding. Three of the commissioners, including Reid, ignored recommendations of their staff."

Something else most people never knew about, Nim thought, were negotiations which proceeded, out of sight, during and after public hearings.

Utilities like GSP & L, when seeking more revenue through a rate increase, often asked more than was needed and more than they expected to get. What followed was a ritualistic dance in which PUC commissioners joined. The commissioners lopped off some of what was asked, thus appearing to be vigilant in their public duty. The utility, though seemingly rebuffed, in fact got what it wanted, or thereabouts.

Essential details were worked out by the commission's staff during off-the-record talks with other staff from the public utility. Nim had once attended such a session in a small, closed room and heard a PUC staffer ask, "Now how big an increase do you people really need? Never mind the public hearings bullshit. Just tell us, and we'll tell you how far we can go. Frankness -on both sides- had followed, with the outcome settled privately in much less time than was occupied in public hearings.

On the whole, the system was reasonable and it worked. But this time, obviously, it hadn't.

Aware that the chairman was still seething, Nim said cautiously, "It doesn't look as if inquests, at this moment, will do a lot of good."

Humphrey sighed. "You're right." He addressed the finance vice president.

"Sharlett, financially speaking, how do we get through next year?"

“The options are limited," Mrs. Underhill said, "but I'll go over them."

She spread out several sheets of complex calculations.

The discussions continued through most of the day, with still more staff members summoned to the chairman's office, their input sought. But in the end it became evident there were two choices only. One was to cut back on all planned construction, curtail maintenance and reduce customer service. The other was to cease paying dividends to shareholders. It was affirmed that the first was unthinkable, the second could be disastrous because it would send GSP & L's stock plummeting and place the company's future in jeopardy. However, it was also agreed that no other courses of action were possible.

Late in the afternoon, J. Eric Humphrey, visibly tired and downcast, pronounced the verdict which the small top-level coterie had known from the beginning to be inevitable. "Management will recommend to the board of directors that payment of all dividends on the company's common stock be suspended immediately and indefinitely."

It was a historic decision.

Since the formation of Golden State Power & Light three quarters of a century earlier when its predecessor company was combined with several others to become a single entity, the corporation had been a model of financial rectitude. Never in the ensuing years had it failed to meet its obligations or to pay a dividend on its stock. As a result, GSP & L was known among investors large and small as "old faithful” and "the widows' and orphans' friend." Retirees in California and elsewhere put their life savings confidently into GSP & L shares, relying on regular dividends as their means of support. Cautious trustees of other people's money did the same. Thus the omission of dividends would have widespread effect, not only in lost income but in reduction of capital when the value of the shares dropped, as was bound to happen.

Shortly before the chairman's anguished pronouncement, the original morning quartet had reassembled-Eric Humphrey, Oscar O'Brien, Sharlett Underhill, and Nim-plus Teresa Van Buren. The PR bead had been called in because of the major public impact the decision would soon have.

A regular board of directors meeting was already scheduled for 10 am next Monday, and the directors' finance committee would meet a half hour earlier. Presumably at both sessions the management decision would be confirmed, after which an immediate public statement would be made. Meanwhile, precautions were necessary to guard against informational. leaks which might trigger speculative trading in the company's stock.

"Outside this room," Sharlett Underhill now reminded the others, "there must be no whisper of what is intended until that official statement.

Also, as financial officer, I must caution everyone that because of the inside information the five of us possess, any personal trading in the company's shares, prior to Monday's announcement, would be a criminal offense under Securities and Exchange Commission laws."

In an attempt at lightness, Nim said, "Okay, Sharlett, we won't sell short and make our fortunes." But no one laughed.

"I presume," Teresa Van Buren observed, "that everyone has remembered the annual meeting is in two weeks. We're going to face a lot of angry shareholders."

"Angry!" O'Brien grunted; he was relighting his cigar, which had gone out. “They're all be foaming at the mouth and that meeting will need a riot squad to handle it."

"Handling it will be my job," J. Eric Humphrey said; for the first time in several hours the chairman smiled. "I've been wondering, though, if I shouldn't wear a bulletproof vest."

4

Twice since receiving Karen Sloan's letter at Devil's Gate Camp, Nim had talked to her on the telephone. He promised to visit her again when he could. But the letter had arrived on the day that was marred by Wally Talbot's tragic accident and, since then, other events had crowded in, so Nim's intended visit was postponed. He still hadn't made it. Karen had remembered him, however-with another letter. He was reading it now, in his office, in a moment of quietness. Across the top of Karen's elegant blue stationery she had typed in capitals:

I WAS SAD WHEN YOU TOLD ME OF YOUR FRIEND'S

ACCIDENT AND WHEN I READ ABOUT HIS INJURIES

Below was still more of her immaculate stick-in-mouth typing.

Tell him from one who knows:

A sputtering candlewick

Though burning dimly

Is brighter by far

Than Cimmerian blackness.

For life,

On whatever terms,

Outranks oblivion.

Yes!-the "if onlys" do persist forever

As hovering, wraithlike, used-up wishes,

The

ir afterburners spent:

"If only" this or that

On such and such a day

Had varied by an hour or an inch;

Or something neglected had been done

Or something done had been neglected!

The

n "perhaps" the other might have been,

And other others . . . to infinity.

For "perhaps" and "if only" are first cousins

Addicted to survival in our minds.

Accept them,

And all else.

For what seemed a long time Nim sat still and silent, reading and rereading Karen's words. At length be became aware that his telephone was buzzing and realized it had done so twice before.

As he picked it up his secretary's voice said brightly, "Did I wake you?"

"Yes, in a way."

"Mr. London would like to see you," Vicki said. "He can come now if you're free."

"Tell him okay."

Nim put the sheet of blue stationery away in a desk drawer where be kept private papers. When the right moment came he would show it to Wally Talbot. The thought reminded him that he had not spoken to Ardythe since their unsatisfactory encounter at the hospital, but be decided he would leave that problem on the shelf for the time being.

The door of Nim's office opened. "Here's Mr. London," Vicki announced.

"Come in, Harry." Nim was aware that the Property Protection head had been dropping in more frequently of late, sometimes with a work related purpose, more often without. But Nim had no objection. He enjoyed their growing friendship and exchange of views.

"Just read about that no-dividend deal," London said, settling into a chair. "Thought you could stand a bit of good news for a change."

Announcement of the dividend's cancellation, reluctantly agreed to by the board of directors, had made big news yesterday afternoon and today.

Reaction in the financial world had been one of incredulity and stockholder protests were already flooding in. On the New York and Pacific stock exchanges, panic selling, after a four-hour trading suspension, had depressed GSP & L stock a devastating nine dollars a share, or a third of its pre-announcement value.

Nim asked, "Which good news?"

"Remember D-day in Brookside?"

"Of course."

"We just got four court convictions."

Nim ran his mind over the meter-tampering incidents he had seen personally that day. "Which ones?"

"The guy with the gas station and car wash was one. He might have got away with it, but his lawyer made the mistake of putting him on the witness stand. When he was cross-examined he tripped himself up a half-dozen times.

Another was the tool-and-die maker. Remember that?"

"Yes." Nim recalled the small tract house where no one was at home but which London had put under surveillance. As the investigators hoped, neighbors reported the GSP & L activity and the man had been caught trying to remove the illegal wire device from his meter.

"In both those cases," London said, "and two others you didn't see, the court handed down five-hundred-dollar fines."

"What about the doctor-the one with the bridging wires and switch behind his meter?"

"And the haughty wife with the dog?"

"Right."

"We didn't prosecute. That woman said they had important friends, and so they did. Pulled every string, including some inside this company. Even then we might have gone to court, except our legal department wasn’t sure they could prove the doctor knew about the switch and meter. Or so I was told."

Nim said skeptically, "Sounds like the old story-there are two kinds of justice, depending on who you are and whom you know."

"That happens," London agreed. "Saw plenty of it when I was a cop. Just the same, that doctor paid up all the money owing, and we're collecting from a lot of others, including some more we're prosecuting where there's strong evidence." He added, "I got some other news, too."

"Such as?"

"All along I've said that in a lot of these theft cases we're dealing with professionals-people who know how to do good work, then cover it up so our own company guys have trouble finding it. Also I thought the professionals might be working in groups, even a single big group. Remember?"

Nim nodded, trying not to be impatient, letting Harry London get to the point in his own didactic way.

"Well, we got a break. My deputy, Art Romeo, had a tipoff about a 1big office building downtown where current transformers have been tampered with and the gas system, which beats the -whole building, has a massive illegal shunt. He did some checking and found it's all true. Since then I've been in there myself-Art recruited a janitor who's working with us; we're paying him to keep watch. I'm telling you, Nim, this is big-time, and the job's the slickest I've seen. Without the tipoff Art got, we might never have found it."

"Where did he get the tip?" Nim had met Art Romeo. He was a shifty little man who looked like a thief himself.

"Let me tell you something," Harry London said. "Never ask a cop that question-or a Property Protection agent either. A tipster sometimes has a grudge, mostly he wants money, but either way be has to be protected. You don't do that by telling a lot of other people his name. I didn't ask Art."

"Okay," Nim conceded. "But if you know the illegal installation is there, why aren't we moving on it right away?"

"Because then we'd seal up one rathole and close off access to a lot of others. Let me tell you some of the things we've found out."

Nim said drily, "I was hoping you would."

“The outfit that owns that office building is called Zaco Properties,"

London said. "Zaco has other buildings-apartments, offices, some stores they lease to supermarkets. And we figure what they've done in one place they'll try in others, maybe have already. Checking out those other places, without it being known, is what Art Romeo is working on now. I've pulled him off everything else."

"You said you're paying the janitor in the first building to keep watch.

What for?"

"When an operation is that big-even stealing-there has to be a checkup occasionally and adjustments."

"In other words," Nim said, "whoever bypassed those meters is likely to come back?"

"Right. And when they do, the janitor will tell us. He's an old-timer who sees most of what goes on. He's already talked a lot; doesn't like the people he works for; it seems they did him dirt somehow. He says the original work was done by four men who came well organized for it, on three occasions, in two well-equipped trucks. What I want are license numbers of one or both of those trucks, a better description of the men."

It was obvious, Nim thought, that the janitor had been the original informant, but he kept the conclusion to himself. "Assuming you get all or most of the evidence you need," he said, "what then?"

"We bring in the District Attorney's office and the city police. I know who to contact in both places, and who's reliable and will move fast. Not yet, though. The fewer people who know what we've uncovered, the better."

"All right," Nim acknowledged. "It all sounds promising, but remember two things. Number one, warn your man Romeo to be careful. If this operation is as big as you say, it can also be dangerous. The other is-keep me informed of everything that happens."

The Property Protection head gave a wide, cheerful grin. "Yessir!”

Nim had the feeling that Harry London was restraining himself from snapping off a smart salute.

5

Traditionally, the annual meeting of Golden State Power & Light shareholders was a sedate, even dull, proceeding. Only two hundred or so of the company's more than 540,000 shareholders normally attended; most ignored it. All that the absentees cared about, it seemed, were their regular quarterly dividends, until now as predictable and reliable as each year's four seasons.

But not anymore.

At 12 noon, two hours before the annual meeting was due to begin, a trickle of shareholders began presenting credentials and entering the ballroom of the St. Charles Hotel where seating-to allow for all possible contingencies-had been provided for about two thousand. By 12:15 the trickle had become a flow. At 12:30 it was a flood tide.

Among those arriving, more than half were elderly people, some walking with the aid of canes, a few on crutches, a half-dozen in wheelchairs. A majority was not well dressed. A large number had brought coffee in thermos bottles and sandwiches on which they lunched while waiting.

The mood of most arrivals was clearly evident; it varied between resentment and anger. Most were barely polite to GSP & L staff whose job was to check identifications before allowing admittance to the ball. Some shareholders, delayed in the process, became belligerent.

By 1 P.m., with an hour still to go, all two thousand seats were filled, leaving standing room only, and the influx of arrivals had become even heavier. The ballroom now presented a babel of noise as countless conversations and group discussions proceeded, some heatedly, with participants raising voices. Occasionally, words and phrases were audible above the rest.- - __

". . said it was a safe stock, so we put in our savings and . . ."

". . lousy, incompetent management..."

". . . all very well for you, I told the guy who came to read the meter, but what am I supposed to live on-air?"

". . bills are high enough, so why not pay a dividend to those who . . ."

".. . bunch of fat cats in the boardroom; what do they care?"

". . after all, if we sat here and simply refused to leave until . . ."

"String the bastards up, I say; they'd soon enough change their . . “

The variations and permutations were endless, though a single theme persisted: GSP & L management was the enemy.

A press table near the front of the hall was already partially occupied and two reporters were moving around in search of human interest vignettes. A gray-haired woman in a light green pantsuit was being interviewed. She had spent four days traveling by bus from Tampa, Florida, "because the bus is cheapest and I don't have much money left, especially now." She described how five years ago she quit working as a salesclerk, moved into a retirement home and, with her modest life savings, bought GSP & L stock. "I was told it was as safe as a bank. Now my income has stopped, so I have to move out of the home and I don't know where I'll go." Of her journey to California: "I couldn't afford to come but I couldn't afford to stay away. I had to know why these people here are doing this awful thing to me." As words tumbled out emotionally, a wire service photographer shot close-ups of her anguish which tomorrow would be displayed in newspapers across the country.

Only still photographers were being allowed inside the meeting ball. Two TV crews, encamped in the hotel lobby, had protested their exclusion to Teresa Van Buren. She told them, "It was decided that if we let television cameras in it would turn the annual meeting into a circus."

A TV technician grumbled, "From the looks of things, it's already a circus."

It was Van Buren who was first to signal an alarm when it became evident, soon after 12:30, that the space and seating reserved would be totally inadequate. A hastily called conference then took place between GSP & L and hotel officials. It was agreed to open another hall, about half the size of the ballroom, where an overflow crowd of fifteen hundred could be accommodated, proceedings in the main ball to be transmitted there by a public address system. Soon, a squad of hotel employees was setting up chairs in the extra room.

But fresh arrivals quickly objected. "Nuts to that! I'm not sitting in some second-class outhouse," a heavyset, red-faced woman insisted loudly. "I'm a stockholder with a right to be at the annual meeting and that's where I'll be." With one beefy hand she shoved aside an elderly security guard; the other she used to unfasten a roped-off area, then marched into the already crowded ballroom. Several others pushed as the guard and followed her. He shrugged helplessly, then replaced the rope and tried to direct still more people to the overflow accommodation.

A thin, serious-faced man appealed to Teresa Van Buren. "This is ridiculous. I've flown here from New York and I've questions to ask at the meeting."

“There will be microphones in the second hall," she assured him, and questions from there will be beard and answered in both halls."

The man looked disgustedly at the milling throng. "Most of these people are just small stockholders. I represent ten thousand shares."

A voice behind said, "I got twenty, mister, but my rights are as good as yours."

Eventually both were persuaded to go to the smaller hall.

"He was right about small stockholders," Van Buren observed to Sharlett Underhill, who had joined her briefly in the hotel foyer.

The finance vice president nodded. "A lot of the people here own ten shares or less. Very few have more than a hundred."

Nancy Molineaux: of the California Examiner had also been observing the influx. She was standing near the other two women.

"You hear that?" Van Buren asked her. "It refutes the charges that we're a huge, monolithic company. These people you're seeing are the ones who own it."

Ms. Molineaux said skeptically, “There are plenty of big, wealthy shareholders, too."

"Not as many as you'd think," Sharlett Underhill injected. "More than fifty percent of our shareholders are small investors with a hundred shares or less. And our largest single stockholder is a trust which holds stock for company employees-it has eight percent of the shares. You'll find the same thing true of other public utilities."

The reporter seemed unimpressed.

"I haven't seen you, Nancy," Teresa Van Buren said, "since you wrote that rotten, unfair piece about Nim Goldman. Did you really have to do that?

Nim's a nice, hard-working guy."

Nancy Molineaux smiled slightly; her voice affected surprise. "You didn't like that? My editor thought it was great." Unperturbed, she continued surveying the hotel foyer, then observed, "Golden State Power doesn't seem able to do anything right. A lot of people here are as unhappy about their utility bills as about their dividends."

Van Buren followed the reporter's gaze to where a small crowd surrounded an accounts service desk. Knowing that many shareholders were also its customers, GSP & L set up the desk at annual meetings so that any queries about gas and electric charges could be dealt with on the spot. Behind the desk a trio of clerks was handling complaints while a lengthening line waited. A woman's voice protested, "I don't care what you say, that bill can't be right. I'm living alone, not using anymore power than I did two years ago, but the charge is double." Consulting a video display connected to billing computers, a young male clerk continued explaining the bill's details. The woman remained unmollified.

"Sometimes," Van Buren told Nancy Molineaux, "the same people want lower rates and a bigger dividend. It's hard to explain why you can't have both."

Without commenting, the reporter moved on.

At 1:40, twenty minutes before the meeting would begin, there was standing room only in the second hall and new arrivals were still appearing.

"I'm worried as hell," Harry London confided to Nim Goldman. The two were midway between the ballroom and overflow room where the din from both made it hard to hear each other.

London and several of his staff had been "borrowed" for the occasion to beef up GSP & L's regular security force. Nim had been sent, a few minutes ago, by J. Eric Humphrey to make a personal appraisal of the scene. The chairman, who usually mingled informally with stockholders before the annual meeting, had been advised by the chief security officer not to do so today because of the hostile crowd. At this moment Humphrey was closeted behind scenes with senior officers and directors who would join him on the ballroom platform at 2 p.m.

"I'm worried," London repeated, "because I think we'll see some violence before all this is through. Have you been outside?"

Nim shook his head, then, as the other motioned, followed him toward the hotel's outer lobby and the street. They emerged through a side door and walked around the building to the front.

The St. Charles Hotel had a forecourt which normally accommodated hotel traffic-taxis, private cars and buses. But now all traffic movement was prevented by a crowd of several hundred placard-waving, shouting demonstrators. A narrow entryway for pedestrians was being kept open by city police officers who were also restraining demonstrators from advancing further.

The TV crews which had been refused admittance to the stockholders' meeting had come outside to film the action.

Some signs being held aloft read:

Support

power & light

for people

The People Demand

Lower Gas/Electric

Rates

Kill the Capitalist

Monster

GSP&L

p & lfP

Urges

Public Ownership

Of GSP&L

Put People

Ahead of Profits

Groups of GSP & L stockholders, still arriving and moving through the police lines, read the signs indignantly. A small, casually dressed, balding man with a hearing aid stopped to cry angrily at the demonstrators, "I'm just as much 'people' as you are, and I worked hard all my life to buy a few shares . . ."

A pale, bespectacled youth in a Stanford University sweatshirt jeered,

"Get stuffed, you greedy capitalist!"

Another among the arrivals-a youngish, attractive woman-retorted, "Maybe if some of you worked harder and saved a little .

She was drowned out by a chorus of, "Screw the profiteers!" and "Power belongs to the people!"

The woman advanced on the shouters, a fist raised. "Listen, you bums! I'm no profiteer. I'm a worker, in a union, and . . ."

"Profiteer!" . . . "Bloodsucking capitalist!” . . . One of the waving signs descended near the woman's bead. A police sergeant stepped forward, shoved the sign away and hurried the woman, along with the man with the hearing aid, into the hotel. The shouts and jeering followed them. Once more the demonstrators surged forward; again the police held firm.

The TV crews had now been joined by reporters from other media among them, Nim saw, Nancy Molineaux. But he had no wish to meet her.

Harry London observed quietly, "You see your friend Birdsong over there, masterminding this?"

"No friend of mine," Nim said. "But yes, I see him."

The bulky, bearded figure of Davey Birdsong-a broad smile on his face as usual-was visible at the demonstration's rear. As the two watched, Birdsong raised a walkie-talkie radio to his lips.

"He's probably talking to someone inside," London said, "He's already been in and out twice; be has one share of stock in his name. I checked."

"One share is enough," Nim pointed out. "It gives anyone a right to be at the annual meeting."

"I know. And probably some more of his people have the same. They've something else planned. I'm sure of it."

Nim and London returned inside the hotel unnoticed. Outside, the demonstrators seemed noisier than before.

* * *

In a small private meeting room off a corridor behind the ballroom stage, J. Eric Humphrey paced restlessly, still reviewing the speech he would shortly make. Over the past three days a dozen drafts had been typed and retyped, the latest an hour ago. Even now, as be moved, silently mouthing words and turning pages, be would pause occasionally to pencil in a change.

Out of deference to the chairman's concentration, the others present-Sharlett Underhill, Oscar O'Brien, Stewart Ino, Ray Paulsen, a half-dozen directors-bad fallen silent, one or two of the directors mixing drinks at a portable bar.

Heads turned as an outside door opened. It framed a security guard and, behind him, Nim, who came in, closing the door.

Humphrey put down the pages of his speech. "Well?"

"It's a mob scene out there." Nim described tersely his observations in the ballroom, overflow hall and outside the hotel.

A director inquired nervously, "Is there any way we can postpone the meeting?"

Oscar O'Brien shook his head decisively. "Out of the question. It's been called legally. It must go on."

"Besides," Nim added, "if you did there'd be a riot."

The same director said, "We may have that anyway."

The chairman crossed to the bar and poured himself a plain soda water, wishing it were a scotch but observing his own rule of no drinking by officers during working hours. He said testily, "We knew in advance this was going to happen so any talk of postponement is pointless. We simply have to do the best we can." As he sipped his soda: "Those people out there have a right to be angry-at us, and about their dividends. I'd feel the same way myself. What can you tell people who put their money where they believed it was safe, and suddenly find it isn't after all?"

"You could try telling them the truth," Sharlett Underhill said, her face flushing with emotion. “The truth that there isn't any place in this country were the thrifty and hard-working can put their money with an assurance of preserving its value. Not in companies like ours anymore; certainly not in savings accounts or bonds where the interest doesn't keep pace with government-provoked inflation. Not since those charlatans and crooks in Washington debased the dollar and keep right on doing it, grinning like idiots while they ruin us. They've given us a dishonest fiat paper currency, unbacked by anything but politicians' worthless promises. Our financial institutions are crumbling. Bank insurance-the FDIC-is a facade. Social Security is a bankrupt fraud; if it were a private concern those running it would be in jail. And good, decent, efficient companies like ours are pushed to the wall, forced into doing what we've done, and taking the blame unfairly."

There were murmurs of approval, someone applauded, and the chairman said drily, "Sharlett, maybe you should make the speech instead of me." He added thoughtfully, "Everything you say is true, of course. Unfortunately most citizens aren't ready to listen and accept the truth, not yet."

"As a matter of interest, Sharlett," Ray Paulsen asked, "where do you keep your savings?"

The financial vice president snapped back, "In Switzerland-one of the few countries where there's still financial sanity-and the Bahamas -in gold coins and Swiss francs, the only honest currencies left. If you haven't already, I advise the rest of you to do the same."

Nim was looking at his watch. He went to the door and opened it. "It's a minute to the hour. Time to go."

"Now I know," Eric Humphrey said as he led the way out, "how the Christians felt when they had to face the lions."

* * *

The management representatives and the directors filed quickly onto the platform, the chairman going directly to a podium with a lectern, the others to chairs on his right. As they did so the hubbub in the ballroom stilled briefly. Then, near the front, a few scattered voices shouted, "Boo!" Instantly the cry was taken up until a cacophony of boos and catcalls thundered through the hall. On the podium J. Eric Humphrey stood impassively, waiting for the disapproving chorus to subside. When it lessened slightly he leaned forward to the microphone in front of him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my opening remarks on the state of our company will be brief. I know that many of you are anxious to ask questions . ."

His next words were drowned out in another uproar. amid it were cries of "You're damned right!" . . . "Take questions now!" "Cut the horseshit!" . . . "Talk dividend!"

When he could make himself heard again, Humphrey countered, "I certainly do intend to talk about dividends but first there are some matters which must . . ."

"Mr. Chairman, Mr. Chairman, on a point of order!"

A new, unseen voice was booming through the PA system. Simultaneously a red light glowed on the chairman's lectern, indicating that a microphone in the overflow room was being used.

Humphrey spoke loudly into his own mike. "What is your point of order?"

"I object, Mr. Chairman, to the manner in which .

Humphrey interrupted. "State your name, please."

"My name is Homer F. Ingersoll. I am a lawyer and I hold three hundred shares for myself, two hundred for a client."

"What is your point of order, Mr. Ingersoll?"

"I started to tell you, Mr. Chairman. I object to the way in which inadequate, inefficient arrangements were made to hold this meeting, with the result that I and many others have been relegated, like second class citizens, to another hall where we cannot properly participate . . ."

"But you are participating, Mr. Ingersoll. I regret that the unexpectedly large attendance today . ."

"I am raising a point of order, Mr. Chairman, and I hadn't finished."

As the booming voice cut in again, Humphrey said resignedly, "Finish your point of order, but quickly, please."

"You may not know it, Mr. Chairman, but even this second ball is now jampacked and there are many stockholders outside who cannot get into either one. I am speaking on their behalf because they are being deprived of their legal rights."

"No," Humphrey acknowledged, "I did not know it. I am genuinely sorry and I concede our preparations were inadequate."

A woman in the ballroom stood up and cried, "You should all resign! You can't even organize an annual meeting."

Other voices echoed, "Yes, resign! Resign!"

Eric Humphrey's lips tightened; for a moment, uncharacteristically, he appeared nervous. Then, with an obvious effort, he controlled himself and tried again. "Today's attendance, as many of you know, is unprecedented."

A strident voice: "So was cutting off our dividends!"

"I can only tell you-I had intended to say this later but I'll state it now-that omission of our dividend was an action which I and my fellow directors took with great reluctance . . ."

The voice again: "Did you try cutting your own fat salary?"

". . . and with full awareness," Humphrey persisted, "of the unhappiness, indeed hardship, which . . ."

Several things then happened simultaneously.

A large, soft tomato, unerringly aimed, struck the chairman in the face. It burst, leaving a mess of pulp and juice which dripped down his face, suit and shirtfront.

As if on signal, a barrage of more tomatoes and several eggs followed, splattering the stage and the chairman's podium. Many in the ballroom audience jumped to their feet; a few were laughing but others, looking around them for the throwers, appeared shocked and disapproving. At the same time a new disturbance could be heard, with raised voices growing in volume, immediately outside.

Nim, also on his feet near the center of the ballroom where he had gone when the management group occupied the platform, was searching for the source of the fusillade, ready to intervene if he could find it. Almost at once he saw Davey Birdsong. As he had been doing earlier, the p & lfp leader was speaking into a walkie-talkie; Nim guessed that he was giving orders. Nim tried to push his way toward Birdsong but found it impossible. By now the scene in the ballroom was one of total confusion.

Abruptly Nim found himself face to face with Nancy Molineaux. For an instant she betrayed uncertainty.

His anger flared. "I suppose you're loving all of this so you can write about us as viciously as usual."

"I just try to be factual, Goldman." Her self-assurance returning, Ms. Molineaux smiled. "I do investigative reporting where I think it's needed."

"Yeah, investigative, meaning one-sided, slanted!" Impulsively he pointed across the room to Davey Birdsong and his walkie-talkie. "Why not investigate him?"

"Give me one good reason why I should."

I believe he's creating a disturbance here."

"Do you know he is?"

Nim admitted, "No."

“Then let me tell you something. Whether he helped or not, this disturbance happened because a lot of people believe that Golden State Power & Light isn't being run the way it should be. Or don't you ever face reality?"

With a contemptuous glance at Nim, Nancy Molineaux moved away.

Then the noise outside increased still further and, adding to the ballroom shambles, a phalanx of newcomers pushed their way in. Behind them were still more people, among them bearers of anti GSP & L signs and placards.

What had happened-as became clear later-was that a few individuals among those shareholders denied access to both halls had urged others to join them in using force to enter the ballroom. Together they had shoved aside temporary barriers and overwhelmed the security guards and other GSP & L staff. At virtually the same moment the crowd of demonstrators in the hotel forecourt had rushed the police lines and this time broken them. The demonstrators poured into the hotel, heading for the ballroom, where they reinforced the invading shareholders.

As Nim suspected but could not prove, Davey Birdsong orchestrated all movements, beginning with the tomato throwing, by issuing com-1mands through the walkie-talkie. As well as arranging the forecourt demonstration, the p & lfp had infiltrated the shareholders' meeting by the simple-and legitimate-device of having a dozen of its members, including Birdsong, purchase single shares of GSP&L stock several months earlier.

In the ensuing turmoil only a few heard J. Eric Humphrey announce over the PA system, "This meeting stands recessed. It will resume in approximately half an hour."

6

In the living room of her apartment Karen bestowed on Nim the same radiant smile he remembered so well from their previous encounter. Then she said sympathetically, "I know this week has been difficult for you. I read about your company's annual meeting and saw some of it on television."

Instinctively Nim grimaced. The TV coverage had concentrated on riotous aspects, ignoring the complex issues aired during five hours of business-questions, discussion, voting on resolutions-which had followed the enforced recess. (To be fair, Nim acknowledged, the television cameras had only external film shots to work with; using hindsight, be realized it would have been better to have allowed them in.) During the half-hour recess, order was restored and the marathon business session ensued. At the end nothing had changed except that all participants were weary, but much that needed to be said had been brought into the open. To Nim's surprise next day the most comprehensive and balanced view of the proceedings had appeared in the California Examiner under Nancy Molineaux's by-line.

"If you don't mind," be told Karen, "our annual circus is something I'd like to blot out for a while."

"Consider it blotted, Nimrod. What annual meeting? I never even heard of one."

He laughed, then said, "I enjoyed your poetry. Have you published any?"

She shook her head and he was reminded again, as she sat in the wheelchair opposite him, that it was the only part of her body she could move.

He had come here today partly because he felt the need to get away, even if briefly, from the turmoil of GSP & L. He had also wanted, very much, to see Karen Sloan, a desire now reinforced by her charm and re-1markable beauty. The last was just as he remembered-the shining shoulder-length blonde hair, perfectly proportioned face, full lips and flawless, opalescent skin.

A touch whimsically, Nim speculated on whether he was falling in love. If so, it would involve a reversal, he thought. On plenty of occasions he had experienced sex without love. But with Karen it would be love without sex.

"I write poetry for pleasure," Karen said. "What I was working on when you came was a speech."

He had already noticed the electric typewriter behind her. It contained a partially typed sheet. Other papers were spread out on a table alongside.

"A speech to whom? And about what?"

"It will be to a convention of lawyers. A State Bar group is working on a report about laws which apply to disabled persons-those in most states and other countries. There are some laws which work; others don't. I've made a study of them."

"You're telling lawyers about the law?"

"Why not? Lawyers get cocooned in theory. They need someone practical to tell them what really happens under laws and regulations. That's why they've asked me; besides, I've done it before. Mostly I'll talk about para- and quadriplegics and also clear up some misconceptions."

"What kind of misconceptions?"

From the adjoining room, while they talked, kitchen sounds were audible.

When Nim had telephoned this morning, Karen invited him for lunch. Now, Josie, the aide-cum-housekeeper whom Nim had met on his previous visit, was preparing the meal.

"Before I answer that," Karen said, "my right leg is getting uncomfortable. Will you move it for me?"

He stood up and approached the wheelchair uncertainly. Karen's right leg was crossed over her left.

"Just arrange them the other way. Left over right, please." She said it matter-of-factly and Nim reached out, suddenly aware that her nylon covered legs were slim and attractive. And they were warm, momentarily exciting, to the touch.

"Thank you," Karen acknowledged. "You have gentle hands." When he appeared surprised, she added, "That's one of the misconceptions."

"What is?"

"That all paralyzed people are deprived of normal feeling. It's true that some can't feel anything anymore, but post-polios like me can have all their sensory abilities intact. So although I can't move my limbs, I have as much physical sensation as anyone else. It's why a leg or arm can get uncomfortable or 'fall asleep, and need its position changed, the way you did just now."

He admitted, "You're right. I guess I did think the way you said, subconsciously."

"I know." She smiled mischievously. "But I could feel your hands on my legs and, if you want to know, I rather liked it."

A sudden, startling thought occurred to him, then he dismissed it and said, "Tell me another misconception."

"That quadriplegics shouldn't be asked to talk about themselves. You'd be surprised how many people are reluctant or embarrassed to have any contact with us, some even frightened."

"Does that happen often?"

"All the time. Last week my sister Cynthia took me to a restaurant for lunch. When the waiter came he wrote down Cynthia's order then, without looking at me, he asked, 'And what will she have?' Cynthia, bless her, said, 'Why don't you ask her?' But even then, when I gave my order, he wouldn't look at me directly."

Nim was silent, then be reached out, lifted Karen's hand and held it.

"I'm ashamed for all of us."

"Don't be. You're making up for a lot of others, Nimrod."

Releasing her hand, he said, “The last time I was here you talked a little about your family."

"I won't need to today because you're going to meet them-at least, my parents. I hope you don't mind but they're dropping in right after lunch.

It's my mother's day off from work and my father is working on a plumbing job not far from here."

Her parents, Karen explained, were originally from Austrian families and, in their teens during the mid-1930s, were brought to the United States as immigrants while war clouds gathered over Europe. In California they met, married, and had two children-Cynthia and Karen. The family name on the father's side had been Slonhauser, which was Anglicized to Sloan during naturalization. Karen and Cynthia knew little of their Austrian heritage and were brought up as native American children.

“Then Cynthia is older than you?"

"Three years older and very beautiful. My big sister. I want you to meet her another day."

The sounds from the kitchen stopped and Josie appeared, wheeling a loaded tea cart. She set a small folding table in front of Nim and fitted a tray to Karen's wheelchair. From the cart she served lunch-cold salmon with a salad and warm French bread. Josie poured wine into two glasses-a chilled Louis Martini Pinot Chardonnay. "I can't afford wine every day,"

Karen said. "But today is special-because you came back."

Josie asked her, "Shall I feed you or will Mr. Goldman?"

"Nimrod," Karen asked, "would you like to?"

"Yes," he said, "though if I do anything wrong you'll have to tell me.,, 1"It's really not difficult. When I open my mouth you pop some food in.

You'll just work twice as hard as you would feeding yourself."

With a glance at Karen, and a knowing smile, Josie retreated to the kitchen.

"You see," Karen said while their lunch proceeded, and after a sip of wine,

"You're very good. Will you wipe my lips, please?" He did so with a napkin as she tilted her face toward him.

Continuing to feed Karen, he thought: there was a strange sense of intimacy in what they were doing together, a sharing and closeness unique in his experience. It even had a kind of sensual quality. Near the end of the meal, their awareness of each other heightened by the wine, she said, "I've told you a lot about me. Now tell me more about you."

He began casually, speaking of his background-boyhood, family, work, marriage to Ruth, his children Leah and Benjy. Then, prompted by questioning from Karen, he revealed his current doubts-about his religious heritage and whether it would be perpetuated through his children, where his own life was headed, the future-if any-of his marriage.

"That's enough," he said at length. "I didn't come here to bore you."

Smiling, Karen shook her head. "I don't believe you could ever do that, Nimrod. You're a complex man and complex people are the most interesting.

Besides that, I like you more than anyone I've met in a long time."

He told her, "I have that feeling about you."

A touch of red suffused Karen's face. "Nimrod, would you like to kiss me?"

As he rose and crossed the few feet of space dividing them, be answered softly, "I want to very much."

Her lips were warm and loving; their kiss was lingering. Neither wanted to break away. Nim moved his arms, intending to draw Karen closer to him. Then from outside he heard the sharp note of a buzzer followed by a door opening and voices- Josie's and two others. Nim let his arms fall back. He moved away.

Karen whispered softly, "Damn! What lousy timing!" then she called, "Come in!" and a moment later announced, "Nimrod, I'd like you to meet my parents."

An elderly, dignified man with a thatch of graying, curly hair and a weather-beaten face extended his hand. When he spoke his voice was deep and guttural, the Austrian origin still evident. "I'm Luther Sloan, Mr. Goldman. This is my wife Henrietta. Karen told us about you and we've seen you on TV." the band Nim accepted was a manual worker's, rough and calloused, but looking as if it were scrubbed frequently; the fingernails were clean. Though Luther Sloan wore coveralls with traces of the work he had just left, those also showed signs of care and had been neatly patched in several places.

Karen's mother shook hands. "It's good of you, Mr. Goldman, to visit our daughter. I know she appreciates it. So do we." She was a small, neat woman, modestly dressed, with her hair in an old-fashioned bun; she appeared to be older than her husband. Once, Nim thought she was probably beautiful, which explained Karen's attractiveness, but now her face was aged, while her eyes betrayed strain and weariness. Nim guessed the signs of the last two had been there a long time.

"I'm here for one simple reason," he assured her. "I enjoy Karen's company."

As Nim returned to his chair and the older Sloans sat down, Josie brought in a pot of coffee and four cups. Mrs. Sloan poured and helped Karen with hers.

"Daddy," Karen said, "how's your business going?"

"Not as good as it might." Luther Sloan sighed. "Materials cost so much-more every day; you will know about that, Mr. Goldman. So when I charge what it costs me, then add on labor, people think I'm cheating."

"I do know," Nim said. "At Golden State Power we're accused of the same thing for identical reasons."

"But yours is a big company with a broad back. Mine is just a small business. I employ three other people, Mr. Goldman, and work myself, and some days I tell you it is scarcely worth the trouble. Especially with all the government forms-more all the time, and half the things I do not see why they need to know. I spend evenings and weekends filling those forms in, and nobody pays me for that."

Henrietta Sloan reproved her husband, "Luther, the whole world does not have to hear our problems."

He shrugged. "I was asked bow business was. So I told the truth."

"Anyway, Karen," Henrietta said, "none of that makes the slightest difference to you, or to our getting you a van. We have almost enough money for a down payment, then we will borrow the rest."

"Mother," Karen protested, "I've said before, there isn't any urgency. I'm managing to get outdoors. Josie goes with me."

"But not as often as you could, or as far as you'd like to go." the mother's mouth set firmly. “There will be a van. I promise you, dear. Soon."

"I've been thinking about that too," Nim said. "Last time I was here, Karen mentioned wanting a van which would hold the wheelchair, and which Josie could drive."

Karen said firmly, "Now will all of you stop worrying. Please!"

"I wasn't worrying. But I did remember that our company-GSP & L -often has small vans which are sold off after they've been used a year or two and are replaced by new ones. Many are still in good condition. If you like, I could ask one of our people to look out for something which could be a bargain."

Luther Sloan brightened. "That would be a large help. Of course, however good the van is, it will need adapting so the wheelchair can go in and be secure."

"Maybe we can help with that as well," Nim said. "I don't know, but I'll find out."

"We will give you our telephone number," Henrietta told him. "then if there is news, you can call us."

"Nimrod," Karen said, "you are truly dear and wonderful."

They went on talking easily until, glancing at his watch, Nim was startled to see how much time had passed since he arrived. He announced, "I have to go."

"So do we," Luther Sloan said. "I am renewing some gas lines in an old building near here-for your gas, Mr. Goldman-and the job must be completed today."

"And in case you think I'm not busy," Karen chimed in, "I have a speech to finish."

Her parents took their leave affectionately. Nim followed them out.

Before going, he and Karen were alone briefly and he kissed her for the second time, intending to do so on her cheek, but she turned her head so their lips met. With a dazzling smile she whispered,

"Come again soon."

The Sloans and Nim had the elevator to themselves going down; all three were briefly silent, each occupied with private thoughts.

Then Henrietta said in a monotone, "We try to do the best we can for Karen. Sometimes we wish it could be more." the strain and weariness Nim observed earlier-perhaps nearer to a sense of defeat-were in her eyes again.

He said quietly, "I don't believe Karen feels that way. From what she's told me, she appreciates your support and everything you've done for her."

Henrietta shook her head emphatically, the bun of hair at her neck emphasizing the movement. "Whatever we do is the least we can do.

Even then it is a poor way to make up for what happened to Karen-because of what we did-long ago."

Luther put a band gently on his wife's arm. "Liebchen, we have been over it all, so many times. Do not do this to yourself. It does no good, only harm to you."

She turned on him sharply. "You think the same things. You know you do."

Luther sighed, then abruptly queried Nim. "Karen told you she contracted polio?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Did she tell you how? And why?"

"No. Well, not exactly."

Henrietta said, "She doesn't, usually."

They had reached the street floor and stepped from the elevator, pausing in the small, deserted lobby while Henrietta Sloan continued: “Karen was fifteen, still in high school. She was a straight-A student; she took part in school athletics. Everything ahead seemed good."

"The point my wife is making," Luther said, "is that that summer we ourselves-the two of us-had arranged to go to Europe. It was with others from our Lutheran church-a religious pilgrimage to holy places. We had arranged, while we were gone, that Karen should go to summer camp. We told ourselves that some time in the country would be good for her; also, our daughter Cynthia had been to the same camp two years before."

“The real truth is," Henrietta said, "we were thinking more of ourselves than Karen."

Her husband went on as if he had not been interrupted. "But Karen did not want to go to camp. There was a boy she was seeing; he was not leaving town. Karen wanted to stay at home for the summer and be near him. But Cynthia was already away-, Karen would have been alone."

"Karen argued and argued," Henrietta said. "She said being alone did not matter and, as to the boy, that we could trust her. She even talked about having a premonition that if she went as we wished something would go wrong. I have never forgotten that. I never will."

His own experience gave Nim a sense of the scene being described: the Sloans as young parents, Karen barely out of childhood, and the strong and clashing wills-all three so different then from what they had become.

Once more Luther took up the narrative, speaking quickly as if wishing to have it done. “The upshot was, we had a family fight-the two of us taking one side, Karen the other. We insisted she go to camp, and in the end she did. While she was there, and we were in Europe, a polio outbreak happened.

Karen was one of the victims."

"If only she had stayed home," Henrietta began, "the way she wanted . . ."

Her husband interrupted. "That's enough! I'm sure Mr. Goldman has the picture."

"Yes," Nim said softly, "I think I do." He was remembering the verses Karen had written him after Wally Talbot Jr.'s electrocution.

"If only" this or that

On such and such a day

Had varied by an hour or an inch;

Or something neglected had been done

Or something done had been neglected!

He understood better now. Then, presuming something should be said but not sure what, he added, "I don't see why you should go on blaming yourselves for circumstances . . ."

A glance from Luther and a, "Please, Mr. Goldman," silenced him. Nim realized what he should have known instinctively: there was nothing else to say; the arguments had been marshaled before, and emphatically rejected.

There was no way, never had been, in which these two could be relieved of one iota of the burden they carried.

"Henrietta's right" Luther said. "I do think the same way she does. Both of us will take the guilt with us to our graves."

His wife added, "So you see what I mean when I say that whatever we do-including working to pay for a van for Karen-is really nothing."

"It isn't nothing," Nim said. "Whatever else is true, it's a whole lot more than that."

They walked from the apartment lobby to the street outside. Nim's car was parked a few yards away.

"Thank you for telling me what you did," he said. "I'll try to do something about the van, just as soon as I can."

* * *

As Nim

had

come to expect, some verse from Karen arrived two days later.

When young

Did you ever run on sidewalks,

Playing the game

Of avoiding cracks?

Or, much later,

Straddle hairlines mentally

And strut vicarious tightropes,

Dreading, yet perversely courting,

Disaster from a fall?

"Disaster" did I say?

An aberrant word!

For there are other falls and penalties

Not wholly catastrophic,

But cushioned by largesse

Of joy and glory.

Filling in love is one.

Yet wisdom cautions:

A fall is a fall

With aftermaths of hurt and pain

Only delayed, not circumvented.

Tish, tosh!

Away with wisdom

Hooray for crazy paving, tightropes, hairline!

Right now, who's wise, or wants to be?

Not I.

Are you?

7

The subject was Tunipah.

"Talking to the Governor of this state about anything," J. Eric Humphrey declared in his clipped Bostonian accent, "has about the same effect as putting one's band into a pail of water. As soon as you take the hand out, the water is exactly the way it was before, as if the hand had never been there."

"Except," Ray Paulsen pointed out, "your hand would be wet."

"Clammy," the chairman corrected.

"I warned you," Teresa Van Buren said. "I warned you right after the blackout two months ago that public memory is short, that people-including politicians-would forget the power shortage and the reasons."

"Memory isn't the Governor's problem," Oscar O'Brien assured her. The general counsel had been with Eric Humphrey during recent sessions at the state capitol, where proposals for new generating plants -including Tunipah-had been discussed. He went on, “There's only one trouble with our Governor: He wants to be President of the United States. He wants it so bad, he can taste it."

Nim Goldman said, "Who knows? He might make a good president."

"He might at that," O'Brien conceded. "In the meantime, though, California is rudderless, stuck with a head of state who won't take stands or hand down decisions. Not if they're likely to offend a single national voter."

"Allowing for slight exaggeration," Eric Humphrey said, "that is the essence of our problem."

"Furthermore," O'Brien added, blowing cigar smoke, "the same thing applies-for similar if different reasons-to every other public figure in Sacramento."

The five of them were at Golden State Power & Light headquarters, in the chairman's office suite, seated informally in the lounge area.

In less than two weeks public hearings on the proposed coal-burning, high-capacity generating plant at Tunipah would begin. And while the project was vital to California-a viewpoint agreed to privately by the Governor, his aides and senior legislators-for political reasons none would lend public support to the Tunipah plan. The utility, despite strong opposition forces, must "go it alone."

Something else the Governor had rejected was GSP & L's plea that the several regulatory agencies which would be intervened with licensing Tunipah should hold joint hearings because of urgency. Instead, regular procedures would take their course. It meant a long, exhausting series of submissions and argument before four separate government bodies, each concerned with a differing aspect, though often overlapping.

Teresa Van Buren asked, "Is the Governor, or anyone else, likely to have a change of heart?"

"Only if the bastards see an advantage to themselves," Ray Paulsen growled.

"And they won't." Paulsen had grown increasingly bitter of late about the frustrating delays in having plans approved. As the executive in charge of power supply, Paulsen would have the unpopular job of initiating power cuts when they became needed in the future.

"Ray's right," O'Brien acknowledged. "We all know bow the Sacramento gang left us holding the bag on nuclear, admitting-off the record-the need for nuclear plants, but without the guts to say so out loud."

"Well," Eric Humphrey said incisively, "whether we like that attitude or despise it, the same is true again. Now about the Tunipah hearings. I have some thoughts to share with you. I want our own participation in those hearings to be of the highest caliber. Our presentation must be factual, reasoned, calm and dignified. Under cross-examination the responses of all our representatives must be the same, with emphasis on courtesy and patience. As part of their tactics, the opposition will try to provoke us.

We must resist that provocation and I want all our people briefed to that effect."

"It will be done," Oscar O'Brien said.

Ray Paulsen regarded Nim somberly. "Remember that applies to you,” Nim grimaced. "I'm already practicing restraint, Ray-right now."

Neither had forgotten their clash at the management meeting where Nim and Van Buren favored a hard-line public airing of the utility's problems, Paulsen and a majority of others the reverse. Judging by the chairman's instructions, the "moderate line" was still in effect.

"Do you still believe, Oscar," Eric Humphrey asked, "that it is necessary for me, personally, to appear at those hearings?"

O'Brien nodded. "Absolutely yes."

Behind the question, obviously, was Humphrey's wish to avoid public attention. During the past ten days there had been two more bombings at GSP & L installations, none causing major damage but a reminder of 1the continuing danger to the utility and its personnel. Only yesterday a warning, telephoned to a radio station, declared that "more Golden State Piss & Lickspittle management criminals will shortly pay the people's penalty for their misdeeds."

O'Brien added, "I promise it will be a brief appearance, Eric, but we need you on the record."

The chairman sighed. "Very well."

Nim thought with wry humor: As usual, the low-profile strategy would not apply to him. At the upcoming hearings Nim would appear as a key witness and, while others from the utility would testify on technical matters, Nim would present the broad sweep of the Tunipah project. Oscar O'Brien would lead the witnesses through interrogation.

Nim and O'Brien already had had several rehearsals in which Ray Paulsen shared.

During their work with O'Brien, Paulsen and Nim had suppressed their normal antagonism and at moments had come close to amiability.

Taking advantage of this, Nim raised with Paulsen the subject of a used van for Karen Sloan because transportation was a subordinate department under Power Supply.

To Nim's surprise, Paulsen was interested and helpful. Within forty-eight hours of their conversation, be had located a suitable van which would shortly be available for sale. More than that, Ray Paulsen was personally designing some modifications. They would facilitate loading Karen's wheelchair into the van and, once inside, locking it in place. Karen telephoned Nim to say that a GSP & L mechanic had visited her to measure her chair and check on electrical connections.

"One of the best things that's ever happened to me," Karen told Nim during their phone talk, "was your seeing that red circle on the map that day and afterwards coming here. Speaking of that, when are you coming again, dear Nimrod? Soon, I hope." He had promised he would. Later, Nim had phoned Karen's parents, Luther and Henrietta, who were delighted about the van and were now arranging a bank loan to cover most of its cost.

Oscar O'Brien's voice brought Nim back to the present. "I presume all of you realize how long this entire process concerning Tunipah is likely to take."

Paulsen said gloomily, "Too damn long!"

Van Buren inquired, "What's your best estimate, Oscar?"

"Assuming we are successful at the various sets of hearings, and allowing for delaying court actions subsequently, which our opponents are certain to resort to-I'd say six to seven years." the general counsel shuffled papers. "You may also be interested in costs. My department estimates that our own costs-just to seek the license to build, and whether we win or lose-will be five and a half million dollars. Environmental studies will cost a few million more, and we won't have turned a spade until construction is fully licensed."

"Let us make sure, Tess," Eric Humphrey told the PR director, "that that information becomes as widely known as possible."

"I'll try," Van Buren said. "Though I can't guarantee that many outside this room will care."

“They'll care when the lights go out," Humphrey snapped. "All right, I want to review progress, if any, on our other applications Devil's Gate pumped storage and Fincastle geothermal."

"'If any' is right," O'Brien observed. He reported that so far only the earliest skirmishes through bureaucratic jungles had been accomplished. Countless others lay ahead. Meanwhile, massive opposition to Devil's Gate and Fincastle was growing . . .

Listening, Nim experienced a surge of anger at the cumbrous, inefficient system and the utility's own faintheartedness in failing to attack it strongly. Nim knew he would have trouble at the Tunipah bearings. Trouble in exercising restraint, difficulty in maintaining patience, a reluctance to curb his own harsh words which could speak the truth forthrightly.

8

J. Eric Humphrey sat red-faced and uncomfortable in the elevated, hard-backed witness chair. He had been there half a day-already several hours longer than the "brief appearance" Oscar O'Brien had promised him.

Three feet away, in the courtroom-like setting, Davey Birdsong stood facing the witness and towering over him. Birdsong swayed slightly as be transferred his formidable weight from his heels to the balls of his feet, then back, forward, back again. "Since you must be hard of hearing, I'll repeat my question. How much do you get paid each year?"

Humphrey, who had hesitated when the question was first posed, glanced at O'Brien, seated at counsel's table. The lawyer gave the slightest of shrugs.

Tight-lipped, the GSP&L chairman answered, "Two hundred and forty-five thousand dollars."

Birdsong waved a hand airily. "No, sport, you misunderstand me, I didn't ask the capitalization of Golden State Power &, Light. I asked how in much bread you earn."

Humphrey, unamused, replied,- "That-is the figure I gave."

"I can hardly believe it!" Birdsong clapped a hand to his bead in a theatrical gesture. "I didn't believe that any one person could earn so much money." He emitted a long, low whistle. "Wow!"

From the audience in the warm, crowded hearing room came echoing whistles and other "wows!" Someone called out, "We consumers are the ones who pay it too damn much!" there was applause for the heckler and stomping on the floor.

On the bench above, looking down at witness, questioner and spectators, the presiding commissioner reached for a gavel. He tapped with it lightly and commanded, "Order!” the commissioner, in his mid-thirties and with a pink, boyish face, had been appointed to his post a year ago after service in the ruling political party. He was an accountant by training and was rumored to be a relative of the Governor.

As the commissioner spoke, O'Brien lumbered to his feet. "Mr. Chairman, is this harassment of my witness necessary?"

The commissioner regarded Birdsong, who was wearing his uniform of shabby jeans, a multi-colored shirt open at the neck, and tennis shoes. In contrast, Humphrey, who ordered his three-piece suits from deLisi in New York and went there for fittings, was sartorially impeccable.

"You asked your question and you received an answer, Mr. Birdsong," the commissioner said. "We can manage without the theatrics. Proceed, please."

"Certainly, Mr. Chairman." Birdsong swung back to Eric Humphrey. "You did say two hundred and forty-five thousand dollars?"

“Yes, I did."

'Are there other compensations which go with being the big cheese (Laughter from the spectators.) "Excuse me-the chairman of a public utility? A personal limousine perhaps?"

Yes."

'Chauffeur-driven?"

'Yes."

'Plus a fat expense account?"

Humphrey said huffily, "I would not refer to it as fat."

"How about enormous?"

More laughter.

J. Eric Humphrey's intense displeasure was beginning to show. Essentially a high-level. administrator and in no way a rough-and-tumble fighter, he was ill-equipped to handle the flashy showmanship of Birdsong. He responded coldly, "My duties intervene certain expenses which I am permitted to charge to our company."

"I'll bet!"

O'Brien was halfway to his feet. The presiding commissioner waved him down and instructed, "Confine yourself to questions, Mr. Birdsong."

The huge bearded man grinned broadly. "Yessir!"

Seated in the public section, Nim fumed. Why didn't Humphrey answer bluntly, aggressively, as he could and should? My salary, Mr. Birdsong, is a matter of public record since it is reported to regulatory agencies and the information is easily available. I am certain that you knew it before asking the question; therefore your show of surprise was phony and deceitful. Furthermore, the salary is not out of line for the chairman and chief executive of one of the nation's largest corporations; in fact, it is smaller than in most other companies of comparable size.

One reason for the level of my salary is that industrial organizations like GSP & L are a-ware they must be competitive in recruiting and retaining executive talent. To be specific: My own experience and qualifications would certainly earn me an equal or larger salary elsewhere. You may not wholly like that system, Mr. Birdsong, but while we remain a free enterprise society, that is the way it is. As to a chauffeur-driven car, this was offered to me at the time of my employment on the same competitive basis as salary, and also on the assumption that a chief executive's time and energies are more valuable than the cost of such a car and driver. One more point about that car: Like other busy executives I am accustomed to work in it on my way from one place to another and seldom relax there. Finally, if the company's directors and shareholders are dissatisfied with my performance in return for money paid, they have power to remove me . . .

But no! Nim thought glumly: the soft approach, excessive worrying about an elusive public image, pussyfooting, never standing up to the Birdsongs of the world by employing their own tough tactics in reverse -all these were the order of the day. This day and other days to come.

It was the second day of bearings on the license application for Tunipah, first stage. The preceding day had been filled by formalities, including submission by counsel for GSP & L of a mammoth 500-page "Notice of Intention" (350 copies printed), the first of many similar documents to come. As O'Brien put it sardonically: "By the time we're through we'll have caused to be chopped down a forest of trees to make the paper we shall use which, put together, could fill a library or sink a ship."

Earlier today, J. Eric Humphrey was summoned as the applicant's first witness.

O'Brien had led the utility's chairman quickly through a recital of the need for Tunipah and the site's advantages-the promised "brief appearance." then there had been a more lengthy questioning by counsel for the commission, who was followed by Roderick Pritchett, manager-secretary of the Sequoia Club. Both cross-examinations, while occupying more than an hour each, were constructive and low-key. Davey Birdsong, however, who was next and appeared for p & lfp, had already enlivened the proceedings, clearly to the delight of supporters in the audience.

"Now then, Mr. Humphrey," he continued, "I -guess you wake up in the morning figuring you have to do something to justify that enormous salary of yours. Is that right?"

O'Brien called out promptly, "I object!"

"Sustained," the commissioner pronounced.

Birdsong was unperturbed. "I'll ask it another way. Do you feel, as the main part of your job, Eric baby, that you have to keep dreaming up schemes-like this Tunipah deal-which will make huge profits for your company?"

"Objection!"

Birdsong swung toward the GSP & L counsel. "Why don't you have a tape made? then you could press a button without opening your mouth."

There was laughter and some scattered applause. At the same time the young commissioner leaned over to confer with a second man seated beside bim-an elderly administrative law judge, a civil servant with long experience in the type of hearing being conducted. As he spoke softly, the older man could be seen to shake his head.

"Objection denied," the commissioner announced, then added, "We allow considerable latitude at these hearings, Mr. Birdsong, but you will please address all witnesses with respect, using their correct names, not as"-be tried to suppress a smile but was unsuccessful-"sport or Eric baby. Another point: We would like some assurance that your line of questioning is relevant."

"Oh, it's relevant all right! It's really relevant." Birdsong's answer was expansive. 'nen, as if changing gears, he slipped into the role of supplicant. "But please realize, Mr. Chairman, I'm just a simple person, representing humble people, not an important, fancy lawyer like old Oscar baby here." He pointed to O'Brien. "So if I'm awkward, overfriendly, make mistakes . . ."

The commissioner sighed. "Just get on. Please!”

"Yessir! Certainly, sir!” Birdsong swung toward Humphrey. "You beard the man! You're wasting the commissioner's time. Now quit futzing around and answer the question."

O'Brien interjected, "What question? I'll be darned if I remember it. I'm sure the witness can't."

The commissioner instructed, "The reporter will read the question back."

The proceedings halted and those on hard chairs and benches shifted, making themselves more comfortable while a male stenotypist, who was keeping the official commission record, flipped back through the folded tape of his notes. At the rear of the room several newcomers slipped in as others left. As those participating knew, in months and years to come, long before any decision was reached, this scene and sequence- would be repeated countless times.

The oak-paneled hearing chamber was -in a twelve-story building-near the city's center, occupied by the California Energy Commission, which was conducting the present series of bearings. Directly across the street was the building of the California Public Utilities Commission, which would later conduct its own hearings on Tunipah, in large part repetitious. Competition and jealousy between the two separate commissions were intense and, at times, took on an Alice-in-Wonderland quality.

Two additional state agencies would also get into the act soon and conduct hearings of their own; these were the California Water Quality Resources Board and the Air Resources Board. Each of the four government bodies would receive all reports and other papers generated by the remaining three, most of which they would ignore.

Then, at lower level, it was necessary to satisfy an Air Pollution Control District which might impose restrictions even more severe than those of the state agencies.

As O'Brien put it privately, "No one who isn't directly intervened would ever believe the incredible duplication and futility. We who participate, and those who set up this crazy system, should be certified as lunatics.

It would be far cheaper for the public purse, and more efficient, if we were locked up in asylums."

The stenotypist was concluding, schemes-like this Tunipah deal-which will make huge profits for your company?"

“The objective of Tunipah," Humphrey responded, "is to provide service to our customers and the community generally, as we always have, by anticipating increased demands for electricity. Profit is secondary."

"But there will be profits," Birdsong persisted.

"Naturally. We are a public company with obligations to investors . . ."

"Big profits? Profits in the millions?"

"Because of the enormous size of the undertaking and the huge investment, there will be issues of stocks and bonds, which could not be sold to investors unless . . ."

Birdsong cut in sharply, "Answer 'yes' or 'no.' Will there be profits in the millions?"

The GSP & L chairman flushed. "Probably-yes."

Once more his tormentor rocked back and forth on his heels. "So we only have your word, Mr. Humphrey, about whether profits or service comes first-the word of a person who, if this monstrous Tunipah fraud is foisted on the public, stands to profit in every possible way."

"Objection," O'Brien said wearily. "That is not a question. It is a prejudicial, inflammatory, unsubstantiated statement."

"So many big words!-okay, I withdraw it," Birdsong volunteered before the commissioner could rule. He grinned. "I guess my honest feelings got the better of me."

O'Brien looked as if he would object again, then decided not.

As Birdsong and others were well aware, the last exchange would be in the record, despite withdrawal. Also, reporters at the press table had 1their heads down and were writing busily-something they were not doing earlier.

Still observing from his spectator's seat, Nim thought: No doubt Davey Birdsong's comments would be featured in reports next day because the p & lfp leader was, as usual, making colorful copy.

Among the press group Nim could see the black reporter, Nancy Molineaux.

She had been watching Birdsong intently, not writing but sitting upright and unmoving; the pose emphasized her high cheekbones, the handsome if forbidding face, her slim, willowy body. Her expression was thoughtful. Nim guessed that she too was appreciating Birdsong's performance.

Earlier today Ms. Molineaux and Nim had passed each other briefly outside the bearing room. When he nodded curtly she raised an eyebrow and gave him a mocking smile.

Birdsong resumed his questioning. "Tell me, Eric old pal . . . oops, pardon me!-Mister Humphrey-have you ever heard of conservation?"

"Of course."

"Are you aware there is a widespread belief that projects like Tunipah would not be needed if you people got behind conservation seriously? I mean, not just played at conservation in a token way, but sold it-with the same bard sell you're using right now in trying for permission to build more plants to make fatter and fatter profits?"

O'Brien was halfway to his feet when Humphrey said, "I'll answer that." the lawyer subsided.

"In the first place, at Golden State Power & Light we do not try to sell more electricity; we used to, but we haven't done that kind of selling in a long time. Instead we urge conservation-very seriously. But conservation, while helping, will never eliminate steady growth in electrical demand, which is why we require Tunipah."

Birdsong prompted, "And that's your opinion?"

"Naturally it's my opinion."

“The same kind of prejudiced opinion which asked us to believe you don't care whether Tunipah makes a profit or not?"

O'Brien objected. "That's a misrepresentation. The witness did not say he didn't care about profit."

"I'll concede that." Abruptly Birdsong swung to face O'Brien, his body seeming to expand as his voice rose. "We know all of you at Golden State care about profits-big, fat, gross, extortionate profits at the expense of small consumers, the decent working people of this state who pay their bills and will be stuck with the cost of Tunipah if . . ."

The remainder of the words were drowned in cheers, applause and foot-stomping from the spectators. amid it all, the commissioner banged his gavel, calling, "Order! Order!"

A man who had joined in the cheering and was seated next to Nim 1observed Nim's silence. He inquired belligerently, "Don't you care, buster?"

"Yes," Nim said. "I care."

Nim realized that if this were a regular court proceeding the chances were that Birdsong would long since have been cited for contempt. But he wouldn't be, now or later, because the courtroom setting was a facade.

Hearings of this kind were allowed, deliberately, to operate loosely with occasional disorders tolerated. Oscar O'Brien had explained the reasons at one of his advance briefings.

"Public commissions nowadays are seared shitless that if they don't allow all and sundry to have an unrestricted chance to say their piece, later there could be challenges in the courts on grounds that significant evidence was quashed. If that happened it might mean an overturned decision, undoing years of work because some nut was ordered to shut up or a minor argument disallowed. No one wants that-including us. So, by general consent, the demagogues and kooks et al are given their head along with all the time they want. It makes for dragged out bearings but in the end is probably shorter."

That, Nim knew, was why the experienced administrative law judge had shaken his head a few moments ago, advising the young commissioner not to disallow Birdsong's disputed question.

Something else O'Brien had explained was that lawyers like himself, who were intervened on behalf of applicants, raised fewer objections at this type of hearing than they would in court. "We save them for something that's outrageously wrong and ought to be corrected in the record." Nim suspected that O'Brien's objections during J. Eric Humphrey's cross-examination by Birdsong were mostly to mollify Humphrey, O'Brien's boss, who had been reluctant to make this appearance anyway.

Nim was sure that when his own turn came to testify and be cross-examined, O'Brien would leave him pretty much to fend for himself.

"Let's get back," Davey Birdsong was continuing, "to those huge profits we were talking about. Now take the effect on consumers' monthly bills. . ."

For another half hour the p & lfp leader continued his interrogation. He employed leading, loaded questions unsubstantiated by facts, interrupted by clowning, but hammering home his contention that profits from Tunipah would be excessive and were the major motivation. Nim conceded mentally: While the charge was false, the Goebbels-type repetition was effective.

Undoubtedly it would receive prominence in the media, and probably credence, which clearly was among Birdsong's objectives.

"Thank you, Mr. Humphrey," the commissioner said when the GSP & L chairman stepped down from the witness stand. Eric Humphrey nodded an acknowledgment, then departed with evident relief.

Two other GSP & L witnesses followed. Both were specialist engineers.

Their testimony and cross-examination were uneventful but occupied two full days, after which the hearing was adjourned until Monday of the following week. Nim, who would have the burden of presenting the main thrust of GSP & L's case, would be next on the witness stand when proceedings resumed.

9

Three weeks ago, when Ruth Goldman startled Nim by announcing her intention to leave home for a while, he considered it likely she would change her mind. However, Ruth hadn't. Now, on Friday evening, during the weekend recess of the Tunipah hearings, Nim found himself alone in their house, Leah and Benjy having been taken by Ruth to their grandparents across town before her departure. The arrangement was that both children would remain with the Neubergers until Ruth's return, whenever that might be.

Ruth had been vague about that, just as she had declined to say where she was going, or with whom. "Probably it will be two weeks, though it may be less or more," she had told Nim several days ago.

But there was nothing vague about her attitude toward him; it had been cool and definite. It was, he thought, as if she had reached decisions within herself and all that remained was to implement them. What the decisions were, and how he would be affected, Nim had no idea. At first be told himself he should care, but was saddened to find he didn't. At least, not much. That was why he had raised no protest when Ruth told him her plans were complete and she would be leaving at the end of the week.

It was uncharacteristic, Nim realized, for him merely to "go along" and let things drift. By nature he was accustomed to make decisions promptly and to plan ahead: that ability, applied to his work, had earned him recognition and advancement. But where his marriage was concerned he still had a curious reluctance to move, perhaps to face reality. He was leaving it all to Ruth. If she chose to leave permanently and afterward seek a divorce, which seemed the natural sequence, he would be disinclined to fight or even try to dissuade her. However, he would not take the step himself. Not yet.

He had asked Ruth only yesterday if she was ready to discuss their situation, remembering her words: ". . . you and I have only been going through the motions of being married. We haven't talked about it. But I think we should. . . Perhaps when I come back."

Why wait? Nim reasoned.

But she had answered in a businesslike tone, "No, I'll tell you when I'm ready." And that had been the end of it.

Leah and Benjy entered frequently into Nim's thoughts along with the possibility of divorce. Both children, he knew, would be devastated by the idea, and he was saddened at the thought of them being hurt. But the fact was, children survived divorces and Nim had observed many who accepted a divorce in the family as a simple facet of life. Nor would there be difficulty about Nim and Leah and Benjy spending time together. He might even end up seeing more of both children than he did now. It had happened to other estranged fathers.

But all that must await Ruth's return, he reflected, as he roamed the empty house on Friday evening.

A half hour ago he had telephoned Leah and Benjy, plowing through the objections of Aaron Neuberger, who didn't like his telephone to be used, except for emergencies, on the Sabbath. Nim had let the phone ring and ring until his father-in-law gave in and answered. "I want to talk to my kids," Nim insisted bluntly, "and I don't care if it's Mickey Mouse Tuesday."

When Leah came on the line a few minutes later she reproached him gently.

"Daddy, you've upset Grandfather."

Nim had felt like saying Good! but wisely didn't, and they talked about school, a forthcoming swim meet and ballet class. No mention of Ruth. He sensed that Leah knew something was wrong but was uneasy about asking or knowing.

His conversation with Benjy, which followed, revived the irritation Nim frequently felt about his in-laws.

"Dad," Benjy had said, "am I going to have a bar mitzvah? Grandfather said I have to. And Grandmother says if I don't I'll never be a real Jewish man."

Confound those interfering Neubergers! Couldn't they just be loving grandparents, taking care of Leah and Benjy for a couple of weeks, without grabbing the chance to inject propaganda into the children? It was almost indecent to start working on them with such baste, as well as intruding on the rights of Nim and Ruth as parents. Nim had wanted to bring up that subject himself with Benjy, talking it over quietly, intelligently, man-to-man, not have it sprung on him suddenly like this.

Well, an inner voice inquired, why didn't you do it? there's been plenty of time. If you had, you wouldn't be wondering right now how to respond to Benjy's question.

Nim said sharply, "No one has to have a bar mitzvah. I didn't. And what your grandmother said is nonsense."

"Grandfather says there's a lot I'll have to learn." Benjy still sounded doubtful. "He said I ought to have started a long time ago."

Was there an accusation in Benjy's small precise voice? It was entirely possible-in fact, probable-Nim thought, that Benjy at ten understood a great deal more than his elders assumed. Therefore did Benjy's questions now reflect the same instinctive search for identification with his ancestry which Nim had been aware of in himself, and had subdued, though not entirely? He wasn't sure. Nothing, however, lessened Nim's anger at the way all this had surfaced, though he curbed another sharp answer, knowing it would do harm, -not good.

"Look, son, what you said just now simply isn't true. If we decide you should be barmitzvahed there's plenty of time. You have to realize your grandparents have some views which your mother and I don't agree with."

Nim wasn't sure how true that was of Ruth, but she wasn't around to contradict. He went on, "As soon as your mother is back, and you come home, we'll talk all this over. Okay?"

Benjy had said "okay" a touch reluctantly and Nim realized he must keep his promise or lose credibility with his son. He considered the idea of flying his father in from New York and having him stay for a while, which would expose Benjy to a counterbalancing influence. Old Isaac Goldman, while frail and in his eighties, was still acid, cynical and biting about Judaism and enjoyed slamming haymakers into Orthodox Jewish arguments.

But no, Nim decided. That would be just as unfair as the Neubergers were being now.

After the phone call, and while mixing himself a scotch and water, Nim caught sight of a portrait of Ruth; it was in oils, painted several years ago. The artist had caught, with remarkable fidelity, Ruth's graceful beauty and serenity. He crossed to the painting and studied it. The face, especially the soft gray eyes, was exceptionally good; so was the hair-shiny black, neatly and impeccably arranged, as always. For the sittings Ruth had worn a strapless evening gown; the flesh tones of her graceful shoulders were uncannily real. There was even, on one shoulder, the small dark mole which she had had removed surgically soon after the portrait was done.

Nim's thoughts returned to Ruth's serenity; it was what the painting showed best. I could use some of that serenity right now, he thought, and wished he could talk to Ruth about Benjy and a bar mitzvah. Dammit! Where in hell has she gone for two weeks and who is the man? Nim was sure the Neubergers would have some idea. At the very least they would know where Ruth could be contacted; Nim knew his wife too well to believe she would cut herself off completely from the children. Equally certain: Her parents would be closemouthed about the arrangement. Tbe thought refueled the anger at his in-laws.

Following a second scotch and more perambulating, be returned to the telephone and dialed Harry London's home number. They hadn't talked in a week, which was unusual.

When London answered, Nim asked him, "Want to drive out to my house and booze a little?"

"Sorry, Nim; I'd like to, but I can't. Got a dinner date. Leaving here soon. Did you hear about the latest bombing?"

"No. When?"

"Happened an hour ago."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Not this time-but that's the only good part."

Two powerful bombs had been planted at a GSP & L suburban substation, Harry London reported. As a result more than six thousand homes in the area were now without electric power. Mobile transformers, mounted on flatbed trucks, were being rushed in, but it was unlikely that full service would be restored until tomorrow.

"'These crazies are getting smart," London said. “They're learning where we're vulnerable, and where to put their firecrackers to do the most damage."

"Do we know yet if it's the same group?"

"Yep. Friends of Freedom. They phoned Channel 5 News just before it happened, saying where it would happen. Too late to do anything, though. That makes eleven bombings we've had in two months. I just added up."

Knowing that London, while not directly intervened in the investigation, still had pipelines of information, Nim asked, "Have the police or FBI made any progress?"

"Nil. I said the people doing it are getting smart; so they are. It's a safe bet they study the targets before they hit, then decide where they can get in and out fast, unnoticed, and do the most damage. This Friends of Freedom mob know, just as we do, that we'd need an army to guard everything."

"And there haven't been clues?"

"Nil again. Remember what I said before? If the cops solve this one it'll be through a lucky break or because somebody got careless. Nim, it ain't the way it is on TV or in novels where crimes always get solved. In the real police world they often don't."

"I know that," Nim said, mildly irritated that London was slipping into his lecturer's role again.

“There is one thing, though," the Property Protection chief said thoughtfully.

"What's that?"

"For a while the bombings slowed down, almost stopped. Now suddenly they've perked up, making it look as if the people doing them have got a new source of explosives, or money, or both."

Nim pondered, then changed the subject. "What's new with theft of service?"

"Not a hell of a lot. Oh sure, we're working hard and catching some small fry. There's a couple dozen new cases of meter tampering we'll 1take to court. But it's like plugging a hundred leaks when you know there's ten thousand more out there if you just had the people and time to find 'em."

"How about that big office building? the one where you're keeping watch?"

"Zaco Properties. We still have surveillance on it. Nothing's happened yet. I guess we're going through a flat spell." Uncharacteristically, Harry London sounded depressed. Maybe it was infectious; perhaps he had transmitted his own low spirits, Nim thought as be said good night and hung up.

He was still restless, alone in the silent house. So who else could he call?

He considered Ardythe, then dismissed the idea. Nim was not ready yet-if he ever would be-to cope with Ardythe Talbot's onset of religion. But thinking of Ardythe reminded him of Wally Jr., whom Nim had visited in the hospital twice recently. Wally was now out of danger and removed from intensive care, though ahead lay months, perhaps years, of tedious, painful plastic surgery. Not surprisingly, Wally's spirits had been low. They had not discussed his sexual incapacity.

Half guiltily, as he remembered Wally, Nim reminded himself that his own sexual ability was unimpaired. Should he call one of his women friends?

There were several whom be had not seen for months but who, quite probably, would be available for drinks, a late dinner somewhere, and whatever followed. If he made the effort, he need not spend the night alone.

Somehow he couldn't be bothered.

Karen Sloan? No. As much as he enjoyed her company, he wasn't in the mood.

Work, then? there was work aplenty piled on his office desk at GSP&L headquarters. If he went there now it would not be the first time he had toiled at night taking advantage of the quietness to accomplish more than was possible in daytime. It might also be a good idea. The Tunipah hearings were already consuming much of Nim's available time, and the demand would continue, though his normal work load had to be fitted in somehow.

But no, not that either; not desk work in his present mood. How about some other kind of work to occupy his mind?

What could he do, be wondered, to prepare himself for his debut Monday on the witness stand? He was already well briefed. But there was always something more to be prepared for-the unexpected.

An idea jumped into his mind, from out of nowhere, like bread emerging from a pop-up toaster.

Coal.

Tunipah was coal. Without coal-to be freighted from Utah to California-no Tunipah electric generating plant was feasible. And yet, 1while Nim's technical expertise on coal was considerable, his practical experience was limited. There was a simple reason. As yet, no coal-burning electric generating plant existed inside California. Tunipah would be the first in history.

Surely . . . somehow, he thought . . . between now and Monday morning he must go-as if on a pilgrimage-to a coal-fueled plant. And from it he would return to the Tunipah hearings with the sight, sound, taste and smell of coal fresh in his senses. Nim's instincts, which were often right, advised him he would be a better, stronger witness if he did.

It would also solve the problem of his weekend restlessness.

But a coal-burning plant where?

When the easy answer occurred to him he mixed another scotch and water. Then, with the drink at his side, he sat at the telephone once more and dialed directory assistance in Dewer, Colorado.

10

Flight 460 of United Airlines made an on-time departure from the West Coast at 7:15 am As the Boeing 727-2oo became airborne and climbed steeply, the morning sun, which minutes before had cleared the eastern horizon, tinted the landscape below a soft red-gold. The world seemed clean and pure, Nim thought, as it always does at dawn, a daily illusion lasting less than half an hour.

While the jet steadied on an easterly course, Nim settled back in his comfortable first-class seat. He had no hesitation in making the trip this way, at company expense, since reflection this morning while driving to the airport in darkness confirmed the good sense of last night's impulse. It would be a two-hour-twenty-minute non-stop flight to Dewer. An old friend, Thurston Jones, would meet him there.

A chirpy, personality-packed young hostess-the kind United seemed to have a knack for recruiting-served an omelette breakfast and persuaded Nim to accompany it with California wine, early as it was. "Oh, come on!" she urged when she saw him hesitate. "You've 'shed the surly bonds of earth,' so unzip that psyche! Enjoy!" He did enjoy-a Mirassou Riesling, not great but good-and arrived at Dewer more relaxed than be had been the previous night.

At Dewer's Stapleton International Airport, Thurston Jones shook Nim's hand warmly, then led the way directly to his car since Nim's only baggage was a small overnighter be was carrying. Thurston and Nim had been students together, as well as roommates and close friends, at Stanford University. In those days they had shared most things, including women whom they knew, and there was little about either which was unknown to the other. Since then the friendship had endured, even though they met only occasionally and exchanged infrequent letters.

In outward mannerisms the two had differed, and still did. Thurston was quiet, studious, brilliant and good-looking in a boyish way. His manner was self-effacing, though he could exercise authority when needed. He had a cheerful sense of humor. Coincidentally, Thurston had followed the same career route as Nim and now was Nim's opposite number-vice president of planning-for Public Service Company of Colorado, one of the nation's most respected producers and distributors of electricity and natural gas.

Thurston also had what Nim lacked-wide practical experience in power generation by coal.

"How's everything at home?" Nim asked on their way to the airport parking lot. His old friend had been married happily for eight years or so to a bubbly English girl named Ursula, whom Nim knew and liked.

"Fine. The same with you, I hope."

"Not really."

Nim hoped he had conveyed, without rudeness, a reluctance to discuss his own and Ruth's problems. Apparently so, because Thurston made no comment and went on, "Ursula's looking forward to seeing you. You'll stay with us, of course."

Nim murmured thanks while they climed into Thurston's car, a Ford Pinto.

His friend, Nim knew, shared his own distaste for cars with wasteful fuel habits.

Outside it was a bright, dry, sunny day. As they drove toward Dewer, the snowcapped front range of the Rocky Mountains was clear and beautiful to the west.

A trifle shyly, Thurston remarked, "After all this time it's really good to have you here, Nim." He added with a smile, "Even if you did just come for a taste of coal."

"Does it sound crazy, Thurs?"

Nim had explained last night on the telephone his sudden desire to visit a coal-fired generating plant and the reasoning behind it.

"Who's to say what's crazy and what isn't? Those endless hearings nowadays are crazy-not the idea of having them, but the way they're run. In Colorado we're in the same kind of bind you are in California. Nobody wants to let us build new generation, but five or six years from now when the power cuts start, we'll be accused of not looking ahead, not planning for a crisis."

“The plants your people want to build-they'd be coal-burning?"

"Damn right! When God set up natural resources he was kind to Colorado. He loaded this state with coal, the way he handed oil to the Arabs. And not just any old coal, but good stuff-low in sulfur, clean burning, most of it near the surface and easily mined. But you know all that."

Nim nodded because he did know, then said thoughtfully, “There's enough coal west of the Mississippi to supply this country's energy needs for three and a half centuries. If we're allowed to use it."

Thurston continued threading the little car through Saturday morning traffic, which was light. "We'll go directly to our Cherokee plant, north of the city," be announced. "It's our biggest. Gobbles up coal like a starving brontosaurus."

* * *

"We burn seven and a half thousand tons a day here, give or take a little." the Cherokee plant superintendent shouted the information at Nim, doing his best to be heard above the roar of pulverizer mills, fans and pumps. He was an alert, sandy-haired young man whose surname-Folger-was stenciled on the red hard bat he wore. Nim had on a white hard hat labeled "Visitor." Thurston Jones had brought his own.

They were standing on a steel plate floor near one side of a gargantuan boiler into which coal-which had just been pulverized to a fine dust-was being air-blown in enormous quantities. Inside the boiler the coal ignited instantly and became white hot; part of it was visible through a glass-enclosed inspection port like a peephole glimpse of hell. This heat transferred itself to a latticework of boiler tubes containing water which promptly became high-pressure steam and ripsnorted to a separate superheater section, emerging at a thousand degrees Fahrenbeit. The steam, in turn, rotated a turbine generator which-along with other boilers and turbines at Cberokee-supplied almost three quarters of a million kilowatts to power-hungry Dewer and environs.

Only a portion of the boiler's exterior was visible from the enclosed area where the men were standing; the entire height of the boiler was equal to fifteen floors of a normal building.

But all around them were the sight and sound and smell and taste of coal.

A fine gravel of black dust was underfoot. Already Nim was conscious of a grittiness between his teeth and in his nostrils.

"We clean up as often as we can," Superintendent Folger volunteered. "But coal is dirty."

Thurston added loudly, with a smile, "Messier than oil or hydro. You sure you want this filthy stuff in California?"

Nim nodded affirmatively, not choosing to pit his voice against the surrounding roar of blowers and conveyers. Then, changing his mind, he shouted back, "We'll join the black gang. Don't have any choice."

He was already glad be had come. It was important to acquire a feeling about coal, coal as it would relate to Tunipah, for his testimony next week.

King Coal! Nim had read somewhere recently that "Old King Coal is striding back toward his throne." It had to be that way, he thought; there was no alternative. In the last few decades America had turned its back on coal, which once brought cheap energy, along with growth and prosperity, when the United States was young. Other forms of power notably oil and gas-had supplanted coal because they were cleaner, easier to handle, readily obtainable and, for a while, cheaper. But not anymore!

Despite coal's disadvantages-and nothing would wish those away the vast black deposits underground could still be America's salvation, its last and most important natural wealth, its ultimate ace in the hole.

He became aware of Thurston motioning, suggesting they move on.

For another hour they explored Cherokee's noisy, coal-dusty intricacy. A lengthy stop was at the enormous electrostatic dust collectors required under environmental laws-whose purpose was to remove burned fly ash which otherwise would belch from smokestacks as a pollutant.

And cathedral-like generator halls with their familiar, deafening roar-whine were reminders that whatever the base fuel, electricity in Brob-dingnagian quantities was what this place was all about.

The trio-Nim, Thurston, Folger-emerged at length from the plant interior into the open-on a high walkway near the building's peak, two hundred feet above the ground. The walkway, linked to a maze of others beneath it by steep steel stairways, was actually a metal grating with everything below immediately visible. Plant workers moving on lower walkways appeared like flies. At first Nim looked down at his feet and through the grating nervously; after a few minutes he adjusted. The purpose of open gratings, young Folger explained, was for winter weather-to allow ice and snow to fall through.

Even here the all-pervading noise was still around them. Clouds of water vapor, emerging from the plant's cooling towers and changing direction in the wind, blew around and across the walkway. One moment Nim would find himself in a cloud, seemingly isolated, with visibility limited to a foot or two ahead. Then the water vapor would swirl away, leaving a view of the suburbs of Dewer spread below, with downtown high-rise buildings in the distance. Though the day was sunny, the wind up here was cold and biting and Nim shivered. There was a sense of loneliness, he thought, of isolation and of danger.

“There's the promised land," Thurston said. "If you have your way, it's what you'll see at Tunipah." He was pointing to an area, directly ahead, of about fifteen acres. Covering it completely was a gigantic coal pile.

" You're looking at four months' supply for the plant, not far from a million tons," Folger informed them.

"And underneath it all is what used to be a lovely meadow," Thurston added. "Now it's an ugly eyesore; no one can dispute that. But we need it. There's the rub."

While they watched, a diesel locomotive on a rail spur jockeyed a long train of freight cars delivering still more coal. Each car, without uncoupling, moved into a rotary dumper which then inverted, letting the coal fall out onto heavy grates. Beneath were conveyors which carried the coal toward the power plant.

"Never stops," Thurston said. "Never."

There would be strong objections, Nim already knew, to transferring this scene to the unspoiled wilderness of Tunipah. In a simplistic way he shared the objectors' point of view. But be told himself: Electric power to be generated at Tunipah was essential; therefore the intrusion must be tolerated.

They moved from the high viewing point, descended one of the outside metal stairways to a slightly lower level, and paused again. Now they were more sheltered and the force of the wind had lessened. But the surrounding noise was greater.

"Something else you'll find when you work with coal," the plant superintendent was saying, "is that you'll have more personnel accidents than you will with oil or gas or, for that matter, nuclear energy. We've got a good accident prevention program here. Just the same .

Nim wasn't listening.

Incredibly, with only the kind of coincidence which real life-not fiction-can produce, an accident was happening while he watched.

Some fifty feet ahead of Nim, and behind the backs of the other two who were facing him, a coal conveyor belt was in operation. The belt, a combination of pliant rubber and steel running over cylindrical rollers, carried coal to crushers which reduced it to small pieces. Later still it would be pulverized to a fine powder, ready for instant burning. Now, a portion of the conveyor belt, because of some large coal lumps, was blocked and overflowing. The belt continued moving. New coal was pouring over the side as it arrived. Above the moving belt, a solitary workman, perched precariously on an overhead grating, was probing with a steel rod, attempting to clear the blockage.

Later, Nim would learn the procedure was prohibited. Safety regulations required that the conveyor belt be shut down before a blockage was cleared. But plant workers, conscious of the need to maintain coal flow, sometimes ignored the regulation.

Within one or two seconds, while Nim watched, the workman slipped, checked himself by grabbing the edge of the grating, slipped again, and fell onto the belt below. Nim saw the man's mouth open as he cried out, but the sound was lost. He had fallen heavily; clearly, he was hurt. The belt was already carrying him higher, nearer the point where the coal crushing machinery, housed in a box-like structure, would cut him to pieces. No one else was in sight. No one, other than Nim, had seen the accident happen.

All he had time for was to leap forward, run, and shout as he went, "Stop the belt!"

As Nim dived between them, Thurston and Folger, not knowing what was happening, spun around. They took in the scene quickly, reacted fast, and raced after Nim. But by the time they moved he was well ahead.

the conveyor belt, at its nearest point to the walkway, was several feet higher and sloping upward. Getting onto it was awkward. Nim took a chance and leaped. As he landed clumsily on the moving belt, on hands and feet, a sharp edge of coal cut his left hand. He ignored the hurt and scrambled forward, upward, over loose, shifting coal, nearer to the workman who was lying dazed and was stirring feebly on a higher portion of the belt. By now the man was less than three feet from the deadly machinery ahead and moving closer.

What followed was a sequence of events so swift that its elements were inseparable.

Nim reached the workman and grabbed him, trying to pull him back. He succeeded briefly, then heard cloth rip and felt resistance. Somewhere, somehow, the man's clothing was caught in the moving belt. Nim tugged again, to no effect. The clanking machinery was barely a foot away. Nim struggled desperately, knowing it was the last chance. Nothing happened.

The workman's right arm, which was ahead of his body, entered the machinery and bone crushed horribly. Blood spurted as the conveyor belt moved on.

Then, with unbelieving horror, Nim realized his own clothing was caught. It was too late even to save himself.

At that moment the belt stopped.

After the briefest of pauses the conveyor reversed, brought Nim slowly back to the point where he had launched himself onto it, then stopped again.

Below the conveyor Folger had gone directly to a control box, bit a red "stop" button hard, then backed the conveyor down.

Now bands reached out, helping Nim return to the walkway. There were shouts and the sound of running feet as more help arrived. Newcomers lifted down the semi-conscious workman, who was moaning and bleeding badly. Somewhere below an alarm bell began ringing. Superintendent Folger, kneeling beside the injured workman, whipped off his leather belt and applied it as a tourniquet. Thurston Jones had opened a metal box and was telephoning, giving orders. Nim heard him say, "Get an ambulance and a doctor-fast!"

11

"I may not be a blinkin' hero like you," Thurston declared cheerfully, "but in this town I do have a little pull." He had been in another room of his home, telephoning, and had just returned to Nim, who was in the living room, wearing a borrowed bathrobe, his left hand bandaged, the right nursing a stiff scotch and water.

Thurston continued, "Your suit is being specially cleaned-no mean feat, let me tell you, on Saturday afternoon. It will be delivered here later."

"Thanks."

Thurston's wife Ursula had followed her husband in, accompanied by her younger sister Daphne, who, with her infant son, was visiting Dewer from Britain. The two women were remarkably similar, Nim had already observed. Neither was conventionally pretty; both were big-boned and tall, with high foreheads and wide generous mouths, a shade too wide for beauty. But their breezy, outgoing personalities were strong and attractive. Nim had met Daphne a half hour ago, for the first time, and liked her immediately.

“There is some other news," Thurston informed Nim. “The guy whose life you saved won't lose his arm. The surgeons say they can piece it together, and while it may not be strong enough to use in a coal plant anymore, at least he can put it around his wife and three small kids. Oh yes!-and the wife sends a message. She says she and those kids will be in church later today, thanking whatever saint they do business with for one N. Goldman, Esquire, and lighting candles for you. I pass that on in case you believe in any of that stuff."

"Oh, do stop a minute, Thurs," Ursula said. "You're making me cry.,,

"If you want the truth," her husband acknowledged, "I'm a bit choked up myself."

Nim protested, as he had earlier, "I didn't do much, if anything. It was your man Folger who stopped the conveyor and . . ."

"Listen," Thurston said. "You saw what happened before anyone else, you acted fast, and that couple of feet you pulled the guy back made all the difference. Besides, the world needs heroes. Why fight it?"

Events, since the dramatic, action-packed few minutes on the high walkway this morning, had moved swiftly. The injured workman, whose name Nim still didn't know, had received efficient first aid; then had been loaded carefully on a stretcher delivered to the walkway on the run by two plant employees. In what seemed only moments after Thurston's telephoned demand for an ambulance, a faint siren could be heard from the direction of downtown Dewer and a flashing red light, moving fast, became visible from the high vantage point, even while the vehicle was several miles away.

By the time the ambulance reached Cherokee plant, the stretcher had been taken down in a freight elevator and the injured man was whisked away to a hospital. Because of heavy bleeding and severe shock there had been early fears that he would die, fears that made the latest news welcome.

Only after the serious injury case had been dealt with, and the ambulance gone, had Nim's cut band been examined. There proved to be a deep gash in his palm at the base of the thumb. Thurston had driven Nim to a nearby suburban hospital emergency room where several stitches were put in.

Nim's face, hands and clothing had been black with coal dust and, after the stop at the hospital, he had been driven to Thurston's home, where Nim shed his suit-the only one he had brought-and soaked in a hot bath. Afterward, and wearing Thurston's robe, be had been introduced to Daphne, who competently put a fresh dressing and bandage on his hand. Daphne, Nim learned, was a qualified nurse and also a recent divorcee. The second condition was the reason for her current getaway-from-it-all visit to her sister.

Ursula wiped her eyes with a wisp of handkerchief, then said practically, "Well, now we know there's a happy ending, we can all feel better." She crossed the room to Nim and impulsively bugged and kissed him. "There!-that's instead of lighting candles."

"Hey!" Daphne said. "Can anybody do that?"

Nim grinned. "You bet!"

She promptly kissed him. Her lips were full and warm; he liked the feel of them, and a momentary fragrance which came and then was gone.

Daphne announced, "That's what you get for being a bloody hero, like it or not."

“That part," Nim said, "I like."

"What we all need now," Ursula said, "is a big dose of the jollies." She addressed her husband. "Thurs, what are our plans tonight?"

He beamed. "I'm glad you asked. We're dining and dancing. With my usual brilliant forethought I reserved a table for four at the San Marco Room of the Brown Palace."

"Sounds marvelous," Daphne said. "Can we get a baby-sitter for Keith?"

"Not to worry," Ursula assured her. "I'll arrange it."

"And I'm going dancing," Nim declared, "whether my suit comes back or not."

* * *

The music-from a lively, talented combo-plus wine and an excellent dinner, mellowed them all. Earlier, Nim's suit had been returned, seeming none the worse for its sojourn on the coal conveyor. Simultaneously with the cleaners' delivery, a reporter and photographer from the Dewer Post arrived, wanting an interview, and photographs of Nim. A little reluctantly, he obliged.

Soon after, with Nim and Daphne wedged tightly into the back of Thurston's Pinto, Daphne squeezed his arm. "I think you're rather super," she whispered. “The way you do things, and handle yourself, and it's nice you're modest, too."

Not knowing what to say, be took her hand and continued holding it, already wondering what the later portion of the evening might bring.

Now, dinner was over. Nim and Daphne had danced with each other several times, with an increasing closeness to which Daphne made clear she had no objection.

Once, when the two of them were at the table together, and Thurston and Ursula were dancing, he inquired what had gone wrong with Daphne's marriage.

With the frankness which seemed characteristic of both sisters she answered, "My husband was older than I am. He didn't like sex much, and most of the time couldn't get it up. There were other things wrong, but that was the main one."

"I assume that was not your problem."

She threw back her head and laughed. "How did you guess?"

"But you did have a child?"

"Yes. That was one of the times we managed. Almost the only one. Anyway, I'm glad I have Keith. He's almost two and I love him dearly. By the way, Keith and I are sharing a room, but he's a sound sleeper."

"All the same," Nim said, "I won't come into his room."

"Fair enough. Just leave your door ajar. It's down the hall from mine."

When, for a change, Nim danced with Ursula she confided, "I love having Daphne here; we've always been close. The one thing I envy her, though, is having little Keith."

Nim asked, "You and Thurs haven't wanted children?"

"We both did. Still do. But we can't have them." Ursula's voice was clipped, as if she wished she hadn't brought up the subject, and he left it at that.

But later, when the sisters excused themselves and left the table temporarily, Thurston said, "I understand Ursula told you we can't have kids."

"Yes"

"Did she tell you why?"

Nim shook his head.

“The trouble's with me, not Ursula. We both had medical tests, lots of 'em. It seems my pistol will cock and fire, but I feed it only blanks. And I'll never have live bullets, so the doctors tell me."

"I'm sorry."

Thurston shrugged. "You can't have everything, I guess, and we've got a lot of other things going, Ursula and f." He added, "We considered adopting, but neither of us is sure about that."

When the women returned they all drank more wine, then danced again.

While they were dancing, Daphne murmured in Nim's ear, "Did I tell you I rather fancy you?"

His arms tightened around her in response. He hoped it would not be too long before they went back to the house.

* * *

They had returned an hour and a half ago. Thurston had driven the baby-sitter home, then all of them sat in the kitchen and talked while Ursula made tea, with Daphne helping. After that they said good night and went to bed. Now, Nim was almost asleep.

A sound aroused him- a creek, unmistakably the bedroom door opening fully, though he had left it ajar as Daphne told him. It was followed by another creak, then the click of a latch as the door closed. Nim lifted his head and strained to see in the darkness but couldn't.

He heard a soft pad of feet and the rustle of a garment; he guessed it was being removed. Then the bedclothes were eased back and a warm, soft, naked body slid in beside him. Arms reached out. In the darkness lips-exciting, welcoming-found his own. The kiss was long; it quickly grew passionate. As limbs pressed closely, Nim's blood surged, he became erect and urgent. His hands began moving gently and he sighed a mixture of sensual pleasure and contentment.

He whispered, "Daphne darling, all day I've been wanting this to happen.

He heard a gurgle of soft laughter. A finger reached out, groping for his lips to bridge them, cautioning silence. A low voice warned, "Shut up, you idiot! It isn't Daphne. I'm Ursula."

Shocked, Nim released himself and sat upright. His inclination was to leap from the bed. A hand restrained him.

"Listen to me," Ursula said urgently and softly. "I want a baby. And next to Thurs, who can't give me one-and I know he told you about that- I'd rather have it by you Nim, than anyone else I know."

He protested, "I can't do it, Ursula. Not to Thurs."

"Yes you can, because Thurs knows I'm here, and why."

"And Thurs doesn't mind?" Nim's voice was unbelieving.

"I swear to you, no. We both want a child. We both decided this is the best way." Again the soft laugh. "Daphne minds, though. She's mad as hell at me. She wanted you herself."

Conflicting emotions swirled within Nim. Then the humor of the situation got to him and he laughed.

"That's more like it," Ursula said. She pulled him toward her and he stopped resisting as their arms clasped each other again.

She whispered, "It's the right time of the month. I know it can happen. Oh, Nim dear, help me make a baby! I want one so."

What had he ever done, be wondered, to deserve all the exotic things that happened to him?

He whispered back, "Okay, I'll do my best." As they kissed and he became erect again, he asked impishly, "Do you think it's all right if I enjoy it?"

Instead of answering she held him tighter, their breathing quickened, and she cried out softly with pleasure as he caressed, then entered her.

They made love repeatedly and gloriously, Nim finding that his bandaged left hand impeded him not at all. At last, be fell asleep. When he awoke, daylight was beginning and Ursula had gone.

He decided to go back to sleep. Then, once more his bedroom door opened and a figure in a pale pink negligee slipped in. "I'll be damned," Daphne said as she took the negligee off, "if I'm going to be left out altogether. Move over, Nim, and I hope you have some energy left."

Together, happily, they discovered he had.

* * *

Nim's return flight to the West Coast, again with United, was in late afternoon. Thurston drove him to the airport; Ursula and Daphne came along, Daphne bringing her small son, Keith. Though conversation during the drive was friendly and relaxed, nothing was said about the happenings of the night. Nim kissed both sisters goodbye at the car. While the women waited, Thurston accompanied Nim into the terminal.

At the passenger security checkpoint they stopped to shake hands. Nim said, "I appreciate everything, Thurs."

"Me too. And good luck tomorrow and the other days at the hearings."

"Thanks. We'll need it all."

Still clasping Nim's band, Thurston seemed to hesitate, then said, "In case you're wondering about anything, I'd like to tell you there are things a man does because he has to, and because it's the best out of limited choices. Something else: there are friends and exceptional friends. You are one of the second kind, Nim. You always will be, so let's never lose touch."

Turning away toward the aircraft boarding ramp, Nim discovered that his eyes were moist.

A few minutes later, as he settled into his first-class seat for the homeward journey, a friendly air hostess inquired, "Sir, what will you have to drink after takeoff?"

"Champagne," he told her, smiling. Quite clearly, he decided, nothing else would match his successful weekend.

12

The young, presiding commissioner tapped lightly with his gavel.

"Before the examination of this witness begins, I believe it would be in order to commend him for his conduct two days ago when his prompt action and courage saved the life of a public utility employee in another state."

In the hearing room there was scattered applause.

Nim acknowledged, with some embarrassment, "Thank you, sir."

Until this morning he had assumed that news reports of the drama on the conveyor belt would be confined to Dewer. Therefore be had been surprised to find himself the subject of an Associated Press wire story, featured prominently in today's Chronicle-West. The report was unfortunate because it drew attention to his visit to the coal-generating plant and Nim wondered what use, if any, the opposition forces would make of this knowledge.

As on previous hearing days, the oak-paneled chamber was occupied by commission staff, counsel for various parties, waiting witnesses, officials of interested groups, press reporters, as well as a sizable contingent of the public-the last composed mainly of opposition supporters.

Again, on the bench, the same presiding commissioner was flanked by the elderly administrative law judge.

Among those in the bearing room whom Nim recognized were Laura Bo Carmichael and Roderick Pritchett, representing the Sequoia Club; Davey Birdsong of p & lfp, his outsize figure garbed as usual in shabby jeans and open-necked shirt; and, at the press table, Nancy Molineaux, smartly dressed and aloof.

Nim had already been sworn, agreeing to "tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." Now, the utility's portly general counsel, Oscar O'Brien, on his feet and facing the bench, would lead him through his testimony.

"Mr. Goldman," O'Brien began, as they had rehearsed, "please 1describe the circumstances and studies which lead you to believe that the proposal, now being submitted to this commission, is necessary and in the public interest."

Nim settled himself in the witness chair, aware that his presentation would be long and arduous.

“The studies of Golden State Power & Light," he began, "supplemented by those of government agencies, estimate that California's growth by the middle of the next decade, both of population and industry, will substantially exceed the national average. I will deal with specifics later. Parallel with that growth will be an escalating demand for electric power, greater by far than present generating capacities. It is to meet this demand that . . ."

Nim strove to keep his tone conversational and easy, to hold the interest of those listening. All the facts and opinions he would present were in briefs filed weeks ago with the commission, but spoken evidence was considered important. It was an admission, perhaps, that few would ever read the mountain of paper which grew in size daily.

O'Brien spoke his prompting lines with the confidence of an actor in a long-running play.

"As to environmental effects, will you please explain . . .

"Can you be specific about those coal deliveries which . . .

"You stated earlier there would be limits on disturbance of flora and fauna, Mr. Goldman. I think the commission would like assurance that Please enlarge on

"Would you say that . . .

"Now let's consider the. . ."

It took slightly more than a day and a half, a total of seven hours during which Nim remained in the witness chair, the focus of attention. At the end he knew he had presented the GSP & L case fairly and thoroughly. Just the same, he was conscious that his real ordeal-a succession of cross-examinations-was still to come.

In mid-afternoon of the second day of the resumed hearings, Oscar O'Brien faced the bench. "Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Tlat concludes my examination of this witness."

The chairman nodded. "I think Mr. Goldman deserves a break, and the rest of us would welcome one." He tapped with his gavel. "This hearing is adjourned until 10 am tomorrow."

* * *

Next day the cross-examinations began slowly and easily, like a car moving through low gears on a stretch of level road. The commission counsel, a dry-as-dust middle-aged lawyer named Holyoak, was first.

"Mr. Goldman, there are a number of points on which the commissioners require clarification. As it proceeded, Holyoak's questioning was neither friendly nor hostile. Nim responded in the same way, and competently.

Holyoak took an hour. Roderick Pritchett, manager-secretary of the Sequoia Club, was next and the interrogation moved into higher gear.

Pritchett, spare, neat and with mannerisms to match, wore a dark, conservatively tailored three-piece suit. His iron gray hair was precisely parted and in place; occasionally he put up a hand to satisfy himself it remained undisturbed. As he rose and approached the witness stand, Pritchett's eyes appeared to gleam behind his rimless glasses.

Shortly before the interrogation he had been conferring intently with Laura Bo Carmichael, seated beside him at one of the three counsel-witness tables.

"Mr. Goldman," Pritchett began, "I have here a photograph." He reached back to the counsel table and picked up an eight-by-ten glossy print. "I'd like you to examine it, then tell me if what you see is familiar to you."

Nim accepted the photograph. While he studied it, a Sequoia Club clerk was handing additional copies to the commissioner and administrative law judge, counsel, including Oscar O'Brien, Davey Birdsong and the press. Several more copies went to spectators who began passing them around.

Nim was puzzled. Most of the photo was black, but there was a certain familiarity . . .

The Sequoia Club manager-secretary was smiling. "Please take your time, Mr. Goldman."

Nim shook his head. "I'm not sure."

"Perhaps I can help." Pritchett's voice suggested a game of cat-and-mouse. "According to what I have read in newspapers, the scene you are looking at is one you personally observed last weekend."

Instantly Nim knew. The photo was of the Cherokee plant coal pile at Dewer. The blackness was explained. Mentally he cursed the publicity which had disclosed his weekend journey.

"Well," he said, "I suppose it's a picture of coal."

"Please give us a little more detail, Mr. Goldman. What coal and where?"

Reluctantly Nim said, "It's stored coal for use by a Public Service Company of Colorado plant near Dewer."

"Precisely." Pritchett removed his glasses, wiped them briefly, then replaced them. "For your information, the photograph was taken yesterday and flown here this morning. It isn't a pretty picture, is it?"

'No.

Ugly, wouldn't you say?"

'I suppose you could call it that, but the point is..."

“The point is," Pritchett interrupted, "you have already answered my question-I suppose you could call it that,' you said-which means you agree that the picture is ugly. That's all I asked. Thank you."

Nim protested, "But it should also be said . . ."

Pritchett waved an admonitory finger. "That's enough, Mr. Goldman! Please remember I am asking the questions. Now let's move on. I have a second photograph for you-and the commissioners-to look at."

While Nim fumed inwardly, Pritchett returned to the counsel table and this time selected a color photo. He handed it to Nim. As before the clerk passed out other copies.

Although Nim failed to recognize the specific scene, he had no doubt where the second photo was taken. It had to be Tunipah, at or near the site of the proposed generating plant. Equally obvious was that the photographer was a skilled professional.

The breathtaking beauty of the rugged California wilderness had been captured under a clear, azure sky. A stark, rocky promontory towered over a stand of majestic pines. Near the base of the trees was dense foliage, in the foreground a racing, foam-flecked stream. On the nearer bank of the stream a profusion of wild flowers delighted the eye. Further away, in shadows, a young deer had raised its head, perhaps startled by the photographer.

Pritchett prompted, "A truly beautiful scene, is it not, Mr. Goldman?"

"Yes, it is."

"Do you have any idea where that photograph was taken?"

"I presume it was Tunipah." there was no point in playing games, Nim decided, or in delaying the point which sooner or later Pritchett was going to make.

"Your presumption is correct, sir. Now I have a further question."

Pritchett's tone sharpened; his voice rose. "Does it disturb your conscience that what you and your company propose to do at Tunipah is superimpose this, this hideous ugliness"-he waved the coal pile picture in the air-"upon this serene and glorious beauty"-now he held up the second, color photo-"one of the few remaining unspoiled sanctuaries of nature in our state and country?"

The question-posed with dramatic rhetoric-produced a hum of approval from spectators. One or two applauded.

Nim answered quietly, "Yes, of course it disturbs me. But I see it as necessary, a compromise, a trade-off. Besides, in proportion to the total area around Tunipah . . ."

"That's sufficient, Mr. Goldman. A speech is not required, the record will show that your answer was 'yes."'

Pritchett paused briefly, then returned to the attack.

"Is it possible that your journey to the State of Colorado last weekend was undertaken because your conscience bothered you, because you had to see for yourself the ugliness of huge quantities of coal-the kind of quantities there would be at Tunipah-imposed on what was once a beautiful landscape?"

Oscar O'Brien was on his feet. "Objection!"

Pritchett swung toward him. "On what grounds?"

Ignoring Pritchett, O'Brien addressed the bench. “The question has twisted the witness's words. Further, it presumes a state of mind which the witness has not admitted having."

The presiding commissioner announced blandly, “The objection is overruled." O'Brien subsided, glowering.

"No," Nim said, addressing Pritchett, "the way you put it was not the reason for my journey. I went because there were technical aspects of a coal-fired generating plant I wished to review in advance of these hearings." Even to Nim, the reply seemed unconvincing.

Pritchett observed, "I am sure there are some here who will believe you."

His tone declared: I don't.

Pritchett continued with other questions but they were anticlimactic. The Sequoia Club, through its shrewd use of the contrasting photographs, had scored heavily and Nim blamed himself.

At length the club's manager-secretary resumed his seat.

The presiding commissioner consulted a sheet in front of him. "Does the organization 'power & light for people' wish to question this witness?"

Davey Birdsong responded, "It sure does."

The commissioner nodded. Birdsong lumbered to his feet.

The big man wasted no time on preliminaries. He asked, "How did you get here?"

Nim looked puzzled. "If you mean whom do I represent.

Birdsong snapped, "We all know who you represent-a rich and greedy conglomerate which exploits the people." the p&lfp leader slammed a meaty hand on a ledge by the witness chair and raised his voice. "I mean exactly what I said: 'How did you get here?"'

"Well . . . I came in a taxi."

"You came in a taxi? A big, important wheel like you? You mean you didn't use your personal helicopter?"

Nim smiled thinly; it was already obvious what kind of interrogation this would be. He answered, "I don't have a personal helicopter. And I certainly didn't use one today."

"But you do use one sometimes-right?"

"On certain special occasions . . ."

Birdsong cut in. "Never mind all that! You do use one sometimesyes or no?"

"Yes."

"A helicopter, paid for with the hard-earned money of gas and electricity consumers in their monthly bills?"

"No, it is not paid for in utility bills. At least, not directly."

"But consumers pay indirectly-right?"

"You could say that about every piece of working equipment .

Birdsong slammed his hand again. "We're not talking about other equipment. I'm inquiring about a helicopter."

"Our company has several helicopters which .

"Several! You mean you get a choice-like between a Lincoln and a Cadillac?"

Nim said impatiently, “They are mainly for operational use."

"Which doesn't stop you using one when you need it personally, or think you need it-right?" Without pausing for an answer, Birdsong reached into a pocket and produced a newspaper sheet which he unfolded. "You remember this?"

It was Nancy Molineaux's article in the California Examiner, published shortly after the press visit to Devil's Gate Camp.

Nim said resignedly, "I remember it."

Birdsong read out details of the newspaper and date, which the stenotypist recorded, then swung back to Nim. "It says here: 'Mr. Goldman . . . is too important to ride on a bus, even though one privately chartered by Golden State Power-was going his way . . . and had plenty of spare seats. Instead he chose a helicopter . Birdsong looked up, glaring. "Is all that true?"

“There were special circumstances."

"Never mind them. I asked: 'Is that true?"'

Nim was aware of Nancy Molineaux watching from the press table; a soft smile played about her face. He said, "It was a prejudiced report, but-more or less-it's true."

Birdsong appealed to the bench. "Will the chairman please instruct this witness to respond with a simple 'yes' or 'no."'

The commissioner said, "It might save everyone time if you did, Mr.

Goldman."

His face set grimly, Nim answered, "Yes."

"It took a lot of effort," Birdsong said, "like pulling teeth." He was facing the bench again and, chameleon-like, had slipped from hardness into affability. "But we finally have an admission from the witness that the contents of this courageous newspaper report are true. Mr. Chairman, I would like the article entered into evidence to demonstrate the rich living which officials like Goldman here, and wotsis-name the chairman, accustom themselves to at the expense of poor consumers. Also it shows why expensive boondoggles like Tunipah, aimed at supporting this kind of habit as well as making extortionate profits, are foisted on an unsuspecting public."

O'Brien, on his feet, protested wearily, "I object-to inclusion of the report which is irrelevant to this hearing; also to the last remarks which are unsupported by evidence or testimony."

The commissioner consulted briefly with the administrative law judge, then announced, "Your objection will be recorded, Mr. O'Brien. The document-the newspaper report-will be admitted as an exhibit."

"Thank you sir," Birdsong said. He returned his attention to Nim.

"Do you, personally, own stock in Golden State Power & Light?"

"Yes," Nim said. He wondered what came next. He owned a hundred and twenty shares which he had acquired, a few at a time, through a payroll savings plan. Their present market value was slightly more than two thousand dollars-far less than the original cost since the value of GSP & L stock had slumped a month ago after omission of the dividend. But he decided not to volunteer more information than was asked. It proved to be a mistake.

"If this Tunipah deal goes through," Birdsong continued, "is it likely the value of all Golden State Power shares will go up?"

"Not necessarily. They could equally well go down." As he spoke, Nim wondered: Should he elaborate, add that with a huge construction program, to be financed by the sale of securities including new common stock at below book value, the existing GSP & L shares would be diluted and might slump? Such an answer would require complex explanations; it would also-in this context-look like waffling. Nor was Nim sure that the company's treasurer would want the statement made in public. He decided to leave well enough alone.

"Not necessarily," Birdsong repeated. "But the market price of those shares could go up. Surely you'll admit that."

Nim said tersely, "In the stock market, anything can happen."

Birdsong faced the courtroom and sighed theatrically. "I suppose that's the best answer I can expect from this unco-operative witness, so I will make the statement: the shares probably would go up." He swung back to Nim. "If that happened, isn't it true that you would have a vested interest in Tunipah, that you, too, would be a profiteer?"

The notion was so absurd, Nim wanted to laugh. The best he could hope for, for a long time to come, was that the value of his small shareholding would return to its level at the time of purchase.

Birdsong said suddenly, "Since you seem reluctant to answer, I'll put the question another way: If the value of Golden State shares go up because of Tunipah, will your shares be worth more as well?"

"Look," Nim said, "I only . . ."

From the bench the commissioner cut in testily, "It's a simple question, Mr. Goldman. Just answer 'yes' or 'no."'

About to explode at the unfairness, Nim was aware of Oscar O'Brien signaling with a gentle shake of his head. It was a reminder, Nim knew, of the instructions to be patient and resist provocation. He answered with a terse, "Yes."

Birdsong declared, "Now that we have that admission also, Mr. Chairman, I wish the record to show that this witness has a vested financial interest in the outcome of this hearing, and therefore his testimony should be judged accordingly."

"Well, you just put it in the record yourself," the commissioner said, his irritation still showing. "So why not move along?"

"Yessir!" the p & lfp leader thrust a hand through his beard as if in thought, then returned to Nim. "Now then, I have some questions about the effect of Tunipah on the utility bills of ordinary working people, the ones who . . ."

It went on and on. Birdsong concentrated-as he had while cross-examining J. Eric Humphrey-on the suggestion that profit, and nothing else, was the motive behind Tunipah; also that consumers would foot the bill and receive nothing or little in return. What angered Nim, beneath the unruffled surface be struggled to maintain, was that not once were the major, important issues-future power requirements based on growth, industry economics, maintenance of living standards-touched on. Populist froth was being paraded; nothing more. But it would gain attention.

Activity at the press table made that clear.

Nim also admitted to himself that the two-pronged attack-the Sequoia Club emphasizing environmental issues and the p & lfp dwelling on rates and finance, however superficially-was effective. He wondered if there had been liaison between the two groups, though he doubted it. Laura Bo Carmichael and Davey Birdsong were on different intellectual planes. Nim still respected Laura Bo, despite their differences, but he despised Birdsong as a charlatan.

During a short recess, after Birdsong had concluded his questioning, Oscar O'Brien warned Nim, "You're not through yet. After the other witnesses I'll want you back on the stand for redirect, and when I've finished the other people can have at you again if they want." Nim grimaced, wishing his part were over, thankful that it would be soon.

* * *

Laura Bo Carmichael was next on the stand.

Despite her small, slight figure, the Sequoia Club chairman occupied the witness chair with grande dame demeanor, She was wearing a severe, tailored suit of beige gabardine and, as usual, her graying hair was cut severely short. She wore no ornamentation or jewelry. Her manner was serious. Her voice, as she responded to questions put to her by Roderick Pritchett, was crisp and authoritative.

"We have heard stated in previous testimony, Mrs. Carmichael," Pritchett began, "that a public need for more electrical power justifies building a coal-powered generating plant in the Tunipah area. Is that your opinion?"

"No, it is not."

"Will you explain to the commissioners your reasons-and those of the Sequoia Club-for opposing that construction?"

"Tunipah is one of the few, the very few, remaining natural wilderness areas in California. It abounds with treasures of nature-trees, plants, flowers, streams, unique geologic formations, animal, bird and insect life, some of those features representing strains which have become extinct elsewhere. The region is, above all, magnificently beauti-1ful. To despoil it with a huge, ugly, high-polluting industrial plant, serviced by a new railroad-itself polluting and intrusive-would be sacrilegious, an ecological stride backward to the last century, a blasphemy against God and nature."

Laura Bo had spoken calmly, without raising her voice, which made her statement more impressive. Pritchett paused before his next question, allowing the impact of her words to sink in.

“The spokesman for Golden State Power & Light Mr. Goldman," Pritchett said, "has assured the commission that disturbance of the natural state of Tunipah would be minimal. Would you care to comment on that?"

"I have known Mr. Goldman for a number of years," Laura Bo responded. "He means well. He may even believe what he says. But the truth is: No one can build any kind of a plant at Tunipah without doing tremendous, irreversible environmental damage."

The Sequoia Club manager-secretary smiled. "Am I correct in my impression, Mrs. Carmichael, that you do not really trust GSP&L where that 'minimal damage' promise is concerned?"

"Yes, you are-even if that promise could be fulfilled, which it cannot."

Laura Bo turned her head, directly addressing the two occupants of the bench who had been listening intently. "In the past, Golden State Power and most other industrial companies have proven themselves untrustworthy where environmental choices were concerned. When they were left alone they poisoned our air and water, plundered our forests, squandered mineral resources, scarred our landscapes. Now that we live in another era, where these sins are recognized, they tell us: Trust us. Our past mill not repeat itself. Well, I, and many others, do not trust them-in Tunipah or anywhere else."

Listening, Nim thought: there was a compelling logic to what Laura Bo was saying. He could, and did, dispute her view of the future; Nim believed that GSP & L and other organizations like it had absorbed the lessons of old mistakes, and had learned to be good ecological citizens, if for no other reason than that nowadays it was simply good business. However, no fair-minded person could argue with Laura Bo's assessment of the past.

Something else she had already done during her short time on the witness stand, Nim decided, was raise the level of debate far above the gallery-playing pettiness of Davey Birdsong.

"A few minutes ago," Pritchett said to Laura Bo, "you stated that some strains of natural life at Tunipah have become extinct elsewhere. Will you tell us what they are?"

The Sequoia Club chairman nodded. She said with authority, “There are two that I know of: a wild flower, the Furbish lousewort, and the Microdipodops, otherwise known as the kangaroo mouse."

Here is where we part company, Nim mused. He remembered his argument with Laura Bo over lunch two months ago when he had ob-1jected: "You'd let a mouse, or mice, prohibit a project which will benefit millions of people?"

Evidently the same possibility had occurred to Roderick Pritchett because his next question was: "Do you expect criticism on those two issues-the Furbish lousewort and the Microdipodops? Do you expect people to say that human beings and their desires are more important?"

"I expect a great deal of that kind of criticism, even abuse," Laura Bo said. "But nothing changes the short sightedness and folly of reducing, or eliminating, any endangered species."

"Would you explain that a little more?"

"Yes. A principle is intervened, a life-and-death principle which is repeatedly and thoughtlessly violated. As modern society has developed cities, urban sprawl, industry, highways, pipelines, all the rest-we have upset the balance of nature, destroyed plant life, natural watersheds and soil fertility, banished wild creatures from their habitat or slaughtered them en masse, disrupted normal growth cycles, all the while forgetting that every intricate part of nature depends on all the other parts for continuance and health."

From the bench the commissioner injected, "But surely, Mrs. Carmichael, even in nature there is flexibility."

"Some flexibility. But almost always it has been pushed beyond the limits."

The commissioner nodded politely. "Please proceed."

Her regal manner unruffled, Laura Bo continued, “The point I am making is that past environmental decisions have been' based on short term expediency, almost never a larger view. At the same time, modern science-and I speak as a scientist myself-has operated in self-contained compartments, ignoring the truth that 'progress' in one area may be harmful to life and nature as a whole. Automobile emissions-a product of science-are a huge example, and it is expediency which permits them to stay as lethal as they are. Another example is the excessive use of pesticides which, in preserving certain life forms, have wiped out many more. The same is true of atmospheric damage from aerosol sprays. It is a long list. We have all been moving, and still are, toward environmental suicide."

While the Sequoia Club chairman had been speaking, the hearing room had hushed to a respectful silence. Now no one moved, waiting for her next words.

"It is all expediency," she repeated, her voice rising for the first time.

"If this monstrous Tunipah development is allowed to proceed, expediency will doom the Furbish lousewort and the Microdipodops, and much else besides. Then, if the process continues, I foresee the day when a single industrial project-just like Tunipah-will be ruled as more important than the last remaining stand of daffodils."

The concluding words brought an out burst of applause from the spectator section. While it persisted, Nim thought angrily: Laura Bo was using her stature as a scientist to mate a non-scientific, emotional appeal.

He went on seething for another hour as the questions and responses -in similar vein-continued.

Oscar O'Brien's subsequent cross-examination of Laura Bo produced nothing in the way of retraction and in some areas strengthened her earlier testimony. When the GSP&L counsel inquired with a broad smile if she really believed "that a few populated mouse holes and an unattractive wild flower-almost a weed-are more important than the electrical needs of several million humans," she replied tartly, "To ridicule is easy and cheap, Mr. O'Brien, as well as being the oldest lawyer's tactic in the book. I have already stated why the Sequoia Club believes Tunipah should remain a natural wilderness area and the points which seem to amuse you are two among many. As to the 'electrical needs' of which you speak, in the opinion of many, the need for conservation, of making better use of what we have, is a greater need by far."

O'Brien flushed and snapped back, "Since you know so much better than experts who have investigated Tunipah, and find it an ideal site for what is proposed, where would you build?"

Laura Bo said calmly, "That is your problem, not mine."

Davey Birdsong declined to cross-examine Laura Bo, stating grandiosely,

"Power & light for people supports the Sequoia Club view, so well expressed by Mrs. Carmichael."

On the following day, as the last of several more opposition witnesses was concluding, O'Brien whispered to Nim beside him, "Get yourself together. You're on again next."

13

Nim felt jaded, anyway. The prospect of new testimony and additional cross-examinations soured him still more.

He had slept only intermittently the night before and, when he did sleep, dreamed he was in a cell-like enclosure, without door or windows, in which all four walls comprised banks of circuit breakers. Nim was trying to keep the circuit breakers switched on and current-which he knew was needed-flowing. But Davey Birdsong, Laura Bo Carmichael and Roderick Pritchett had him surrounded and were determinedly snapping the breakers off. Nim wanted to shout at the others, to argue and plead, but his voice wouldn't work. In desperation he sought to move faster. To offset their six hands against his two he tried kicking switches with his feet. But his limbs resisted; they seemed encased in glue and moved with maddening slowness. With despair Nim realized he was losing, could not keep pace with the others, and soon all the switches would be off. It was then he awoke, soaked in perspiration, and couldn't sleep again.

Now, with Nim once more in the witness chair, the presiding commissioner was saying, "I remind the witness he is already sworn . . ."

When the preliminaries were over, Oscar O'Brien began, "Mr. Goldman, how many shares of Golden State Power & Light do you own?"

"One hundred and twenty."

"And their market value?"

"As of this morning, two thousand one hundred and sixty dollars."

"So any suggestion that you, personally, are likely to make a lot of money out of Tunipah is . . ."

"Ridiculous and insulting" Nim snapped before the question could be completed. He had personally asked O'Brien to get that into the record, and hoped the press would report it-as they had Birdsong's charge about profiteering. But Nim doubted if they would.

"Quite so." O'Brien seemed taken aback by Nim's intensity. "Now let us go back to the environmental impact statement about Tunipah. Mrs. Carmichael in her testimony argued that . . ."

The idea was to counteract testimony by opposition witnesses which had been erroneous, excessively prejudiced or incomplete. Nim wondered, while responding to O'Brien's questions, what effect it would all have. He decided: probably none.

O'Brien concluded in less than half an hour. He was followed by Holyoak, the commission counsel, and Roderick Pritchett, neither of whom gave Nim a hard time and both were mercifully brief.

Which left Davey Birdsong.

The p & lfp leader indulged in his characteristic gesture of passing a band through his bushy, gray-flecked beard as he stood regarding Nim.

"Those shares of yours, Goldman. You said they were worth" Birdsong consulted a slip of paper-"two thousand one hundred and sixty dollars. Right?"

Nim acknowledged warily, "Yes."

“The way you said it-and I was right here, listening; so were others -made it sound as if that kind of money was just peanuts to you. A ,mere' two thousand, you seemed to say. Well, I guess to someone like you who's used to thinking in millions, and riding around in helicopters..."

The commissioner interrupted. "Is this a question, Mr. Birdsong? If so, please come to the point."

"Yessir!” the big man beamed toward the bench. "I guess it's just that Goldman here gets under my skin because he's such a big cheese, or acts that way, and can't understand how much that kind of money means to poor people . . ."

The commissioner rapped sharply with his gavel. "Get on with it!"

Birdsong grinned again, secure in the knowledge that however much he might be scolded, the chances of being cut off entirely were remote. He turned back to Nim.

"Okay, here's my question: Did it occur to you that money like that -'mere thousands,' as you put it-means a fortune to a lot of people who will have to foot the bill for Tunipah?"

"In the first place I didn't say 'mere thousands,' or imply it," Nim retorted. "You did. In the second, yes it did occur to me, because that kind of money means a lot to me too."

"If it means that much," Birdsong said quickly, "maybe you'd like to double it."

"Maybe I would. What the hell's wrong with that?"

"I'm asking the questions." Birdsong smiled maliciously. "So you admit you'd like to double your money, and maybe you will if this Tunipah deal goes through, won't you?" He waved a hand airily. "No, don't bother answering. We'll draw our own conclusions."

Nim sat, fuming. He saw O'Brien watching him intently, trying to convey a message: Watch yourself! Be wary and moderate.

"You said some things about conservation," Birdsong resumed. "I have some questions on that too."

During the re-examination by O'Brien, conservation had been mentioned briefly. It gave p & lfp a right to raise the subject now.

"Do you know, Goldman, that if big, rich outfits like Golden State Power spent more on conservation instead of on multimillion dollar rip-offs like Tunipah, we could cut the use of electricity in this country by forty percent?"

"No, I do not know that," Nim shot back, "because a forty percent saving from conservation is unrealistic and a figure you probably pulled out of the air, the way you do most of your other accusations. The best that conservation will do-and is doing already-is help to offset a part of new growth and buy us a little time."

"Time for what?"

"Time to let the bulk of people realize they are facing an electrical crisis which can change their lives-for the worse-in ways they never dreamed of."

"Is that really true?" Birdsong taunted. "Or isn't the real truth that Golden Power doesn't want conservation because conservation interferes with profits?"

"No, it isn't the truth, not any kind of truth, and it would take a twisted mind-like yours-to suggest or believe it." Nim knew he was being baited, and was rising to the bait, probably just as Birdsong intended. Oscar O'Brien was frowning; Nim looked the other way.

"I'll ignore that nasty remark," Birdsong said, "and ask another question. Isn't the real reason you people aren't working hard at developing solar energy and wind power-which are available now-is because those are cheap power sources, and you wouldn't make the huge profits you expect from Tunipah?"

“The answer is 'no,' even though your question's a distorted half-truth.

Solar electricity is not available in sizable amounts, and won't be until the turn of the century at the earliest. Costs of collecting solar power are extremely high-far more than electricity from coal at Tunipah; also, solar may be the biggest polluter yet. As to wind power -forget it, except for peripheral, small applications."

Above Nim, the commissioner leaned forward. "Did I understand you, Mr Goldman, to say that solar power can pollute?"

"Yes, Mr. Chairman." the statement often surprised those who hadn't considered solar in all its aspects. "With today's technology, a solar power plant with the same output that we are proposing for Tunipah would need one hundred and twenty square miles of land just to house its collectors. That's roughly seventy-five thousand acres-two thirds the size of Lake Tahoe-compared with three thousand acres required by a conventional power plant such as we are proposing now. And remember-land used for those solar collectors would be shut off to any other use. If that isn't pollution . . ."

He left the sentence unfinished as the commissioner nodded. "An interesting point, Mr. Goldman. One, I suppose, that many of us hadn't thought of."

Birdsong, who had been standing impatiently during the exchange, resumed his attack. "You tell us, Goldman, that solar power won't be ready until the next century. Why should we believe you?"

"You don't have to." Nim slipped back into his earlier manner, making his contempt for Birdsong clear. "You can believe or disbelieve anything you want. But a consensus of the best technical judgments, made by experts, says that large-scale use of solar electricity is twenty-plus years away; even then it may not fulfill expectations. That's why, in the meantime, there must be coal-burning plants like Tunipah-and in a lot more places than just Tunipah-to meet the coming crisis."

Birdsong sneered, "So we're back to that fake, make-believe, phony crisis."

"When it happens," Nim told him heatedly, "you can read those words back and eat them."

The commissioner reached for his gavel to command order, then hesitated; perhaps curious to see what would happen next, he let his band fall back.

Birdsong's face reddened, his mouth tightened angrily.

"I won't be eating any words. You will!” be spat at Nim. "You'll choke on words-you and that capitalist gang at Golden State Power. Words, words, words! From these hearings, which those of us who stand against you will keep going as long as we can, and from other hearings like them. After that, still more words because we'll drag this Tunipah boondoggle through the courts, and tie you up with appeals, injunctions, and every other legal blockage in the book. Then if that isn't enough we'll raise new objections, so the whole cycle will start again and, if we have to, we'll go on for twenty years. The people will stop your profiteering schemes, and the people will win!"

The p & lfp leader paused, breathing heavily, then added, "So maybe solar energy will get here first after all, Mister Goldman. Because let me tell you, you won't get those coal-burning plants. Not Tunipah or any others. Not now or ever."

As the commissioner hesitated again, seeming fascinated by the verbal duel, a burst of applause erupted in part of the spectator section. At the same moment, Nim exploded. He slammed a fist down hard on an arm of the witness chair, then leaped to his feet. Eyes blazing, he faced Davey Birdsong.

"So maybe you will stop those plants being built-Tunipah and others-just the way you say. It happened with nuclear; it can happen again with coal. And if you do it, it will be because this crazy, self-defeating system gives limitless power to egomaniacs and kooks and charlatans like you."

Suddenly the hearing room had fallen silent. Nim's voice rose as he continued. "But spare us any sanctimonious drive], Birdsong, about you representing the people. You don't. We represent the people-ordinary, decent, normal-living people who rely on power companies like ours to light and heat their homes, and keep factories working, and do the million other things you'll cut people off from if you and your kind have their selfish, short-sighted way."

Nim swung toward the bench ' directly addressing the commissioner and administrative law judge. "What's needed now, in this state and most others, is intelligent compromise. Compromise between the 'no-growth-at-any-pricers' like the Sequoia Club and Birdsong and those who call for maximum growth and damn the environmental Well, I-and the company I work for-admit the need for compromise, and urge it on ourselves and others. We recognize there are no easy, simple choices, which is why we seek the middle ground, namely: Let there be some growth, but for God's sake grant us the means-electrically-to accommodate it."

He turned back to Birdsong. "What you'll do for people in the end is make them suffer. Suffer from desperate shortages, from massive unemployment, from all the big and small things which won't work without electric power-all of it when the crisis hits, a crisis which isn't phony but is real, a crisis which will sweep across North America, and probably a lot of other places in the world."

Nim asked the silent, surprised figure in front of him, "And where will you be then, Birdsong? In hiding, probably. Hiding from the people who'll have found out what you really are-a cheat and faker who misled them."

Even while speaking, Nim knew he had gone too far, had broken recklessly the normal constraints of public hearings, as well as restrictions placed on him by GSP & L. Perhaps he had even given Birdsong grounds for claiming libel. Yet another part of Nim's mind argued that what he had said needed to be said, that there were limits to patience and reasonableness, and that someone had to speak out plainly, fearlessly, accepting whatever consequences came.

He stormed on, "You sound off about forty percent conservation, Birdsong. That isn't conservation; that's deprivation. It would mean a whole new way of life, and a damn sight poorer one.

"Okay, there are some who say we ought to have lower standards of living, all of us, that we live too well and should be deprived. Well, maybe that's true, maybe not. But either way, that kind of decision for change isn't for power companies like GSP & L to make. Our responsibility is to maintain the living standards which people-through their elected governments-tell us that they want. It's why we'll go on protecting those standards, Birdsong, until ordered otherwise-but ordered officially, not by overinflated, self-appointed pecksniffs like you."

As Nim paused for breath, the commissioner inquired coolly, "Have you quite finished, Mr. Goldman?"

Nim swung to face the bench. "No, Mr. Chairman, I haven't. While I'm on my feet there are a couple of other things I'd like to say."

"Mr. Chairman, if I might suggest a recess. It was Oscar O'Brien, competing for attention.

Nim said firmly, "I intend to finish, Oscar." He observed that everyone at the press table was scribbling and the official stenotypist had his head down, fingers racing.

“There will be no recess for the moment," the commissioner said, and O'Brien subsided unhappily, with a shrug. Birdsong was still standing, silently, but a balf-smile now replaced his surprised expression. Perhaps be was reasoning that Nim's outhurst had harmed GSP & L's cause and was helping p & lfp. Well, Nim thought, whether that was true or not, having gone this far he was damned if he would get fainthearted. He addressed the commissioner and the administrative law judge, both watching him curiously.

"This entire exercise, Mr. Chairman-and I mean this hearing and others like it-is a futile, time-wasting, costly charade. It's futile because it takes years to accomplish what ought to be done in weeks, and sometimes even longer to do nothing. It's time-wasting because those of us who are real producers, not paper-eating bureaucrats, could spend the endless hours we're required to be here a helluva lot more usefully to the companies we work for and society as a whole. It's outrageously costly because taxpayers and power users-who Birdsong claims to represent, but doesn't-get stuck with paying millions for this crazy, coun-terproductive, comic-opera pseudo-system. And it's a charade because we pretend that what we are doing here makes sense and reason when all of us on our side of the fence know damn well it doesn't."

The commissioner's face flushed crimson. Decisively, this time, he reached for his gavel and slammed it down. Glaring at Nim, be pronounced, "That is all I will allow on that subject, but I give you due warning, Mr. Goldman: I intend to read the transcript carefully and consider other action later." then to Birdsong with equal coldness: "Have you concluded your questioning of this witness?"

"Yessir!" Birdsong grinned broadly. "If you ask me, he just pissed in his own nest."

The gavel slammed. "I am not asking you."

Oscar O'Brien was on his feet again. Impatiently the commissioner waved him down and announced, "This hearing is adjourned."

* * *

There was a buzz of excited conversation as the hearing room emptied. Nim did not share in it. He had glanced toward O'Brien, who was stuffing papers into a briefcase, but the lawyer shook his head-a gesture combining disbelief and sadness-and a moment later stalked out alone.

Davey Birdsong joined a group of supporters who were noisily congratulating him, and they all went out, laughing.

Laura Bo Carmichael, Roderick Pritchett, and several others from the Sequoia Club regarded Nim curiously but made no comment as they, too, left.

The press table emptied quickly, except for Nancy Molineaux, who appeared to be reviewing her notes and making more. Her bead came up as Nim passed by. She said softly, "Baby, oh baby! Did you ever crucify yourself!"

"If I did," he told her, "I'm sure you'll make the most of it."

She shook her head and smiled lazily. "Don't need to make anything, man.

You stuck your own ass in the blender. Man, A man! Wait till you see tomorrow's papers."

He didn't answer and left Ms. Molineaux still working on her notes, no doubt seeking the sharpest quotes with which to impale him. Nim was sure the bitch would slant her story to make him look as had as possible and she would enjoy it, he thought, even more than her report about the helicopter at Devil's Gate.

A sense of loneliness engulfed him as he left the bearing room alone.

Outside he was surprised to find several TV reporters with mini-cameras awaiting him. He had forgotten how fast the visual media, once tipped off, could cover a breaking story.

"Mr. Goldman," one of the TV men called out, "we heard about 1some things you said in there. Would you repeat them so we can have a story on the news tonight?"

For a second Nim hesitated. He didn't have to do it. Then he decided: He was in so much trouble already that nothing more which might be said or done could make things worse. So why the hell not?

"Okay," he responded, "here's the way it is." He began speaking forcefully, heatedly, once more as cameras rolled.

14

"From this moment on," J. Eric Humphrey said, his voice with a cutting edge like steel, "you will cease to be a spokesman for this company about anything. You will not appear on TV or radio. You will not give interviews to the press or respond to a reporter's question, even if asked the time of day. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Nim said, "it's clear."

The two faced each other, the chairman's desk between them. The setting was unusually formal since Humphrey had chosen not to use the more casual conference area where he and Nim normally had discussions.

It was the afternoon of the day following Nim's outhurst at the California Energy Commission bearing.

"As to public bearings," Humphrey went on, "you will, of course, no longer appear at any. Other arrangements will be made."

"If you want my resignation, Eric, you can have it."

Nim had been thinking about that possibility all day. His departure, he reasoned, might relieve GSP & L of some embarrassment, and be was aware of owing a loyalty to the utility which in the past had treated him well.

Also, from his own point of view be was not sure be wanted to continue working with some kind of stigma, expressed through a restriction of his activities. His pride was intervened there, and why not?

One thing Nim knew for sure: He would have no trouble getting a senior appointment elsewhere. Plenty of public utilities would jump at the chance of recruiting someone with his background and experience, as he had learned from job offers before now. On the other band, he was reluctant to leave California, which Nim, and a multitude of others, believed to be the most agreeable and exciting place in the world to live and work. Someone had said: If something happens good or bad-it happens in California first. Nim agreed wholeheartedly. There was also the problem of Ruth and Leah and Benjy. Would Ruth want to move-to Illinois, for example-the way things were between them? Probably not.

"No one said anything about reigning," Eric Humphrey acknowledged huffily.

Nim resisted an impulse to smile. This was not the moment. But be knew, without indulging in egotism, that he was valuable to the chairman in a host of ways, entirely apart from public appearances. His planning role was one. In fact, being a GSP & L policy spokesman had not been part of Nim's original duties, but had been added later and increased as time went by. In a way, Nim thought, he would be glad to be rid of the public aspect, so maybe he could put the pieces together and carry on. Anyway, he decided, for the moment he would do nothing rash.

"That is all for now," Humphrey said coldly, returning to papers he had been studying when Nim was summoned. It was clear that the chairman would need time to get over his personal displeasure.

* * *

Teresa Van Buren was waiting in Nim's office.

"I want you to know," the PR director said, "that I spent an hour with Eric this morning arguing against his decision not to let you loose in public anymore. At one point he got as angry with me as be is with you."

"Thanks, Tess." Nim dropped into a chair. He felt exhausted physically, as well as mentally.

"What truly sent our esteemed chairman up the wall, and made him un-persuadable, was your doing your thing on television after the bearing.

That really guaranteed maximum exposure." Van Buren chuckled. "If you want the truth, I don't object to that, though you could have been more tactful, then and at the hearing. But the main thing is, I think you'll be vindicated eventually."

"In the meantime," Nim said, "I'm gagged."

"Yes, and I'm afraid that's going to be known outside of here. Do you mind?" Without waiting for an answer, Van Buren produced a California Examiner. "Have you seen the afternoon paper?"

"I saw an early edition."

At lunchtime Nim had read a front-page Nancy Molineaux story which was headed:

Tirade by GSP & L's Goldman

Disrupts Energy Hearing

The report began:

An intemperate attack by Nimrod Goldman, a Golden State Power & Light vice president, on opposition witnesses and the California Energy Commission itself, created turmoil yesterday at a public hearing called to consider a proposed Dew generating plant at Tunipah.

A shocked Commissioner Hugh G. Forbes, who presided, later dubbed Goldman's remarks as "insulting and unacceptable" and said he will consider possible legal action.

The later Examiner edition which the PR chief had brought contained a new lead and heading:

GSP & L Disciplines Goldman

And Disavows His Outburst

Nimrod Goldman, former "fair-haired boy" at Golden State Power & Light, today stands in disgrace, his future with the giant utility uncertain because of a public temper tantrum yesterday. Meanwhile his GSP&L bosses have disassociated themselves from Goldman's vitriolic attack on . . .

And so on.

Van Buren said apologetically, “There was no way to stop the news getting out about your being cut off as a spokesman. If it hadn't come from my office-and, as it was, I only answered questions-someone else would have leaked it."

Nim nodded glumly. "I understand."

"By the way, don't take seriously any of that stuff about the commission taking action. I talked to our legal department and it's just hot air.

There's nothing they can do."

"Yes," he told her, "I already figured that."

"But Eric did insist on a repudiation statement. He's also writing a private letter of apology to the commission."

Nim sighed. He still did not regret having spoken out; be had thought about that, too, since yesterday. But it was depressing to be treated like an outcast by colleagues. It also seemed unfair that most press reports-including that of the morning Chronicle-West and other California papers-had focused on the sensational aspects of yesterday, glossing over or ignoring the serious points which Nim had made. Nor had Davey Birdsong's antics-the insults and provocation-been given more than the briefest mention, and even then not critically. The press, it seemed to Nim, operated on its own double standard. However, that was nothing new.

Van Buren glanced at the Examiner again. "Nancy made the most of it all, and has given you the hardest time; she goes for the jugular as a habit.

You two don't seem to like each other."

Nim said feelingly, "I'd gladly cut that bitch's heart out. If she had one."

The PR director frowned. "That's pretty strong, Nim." "Maybe. But it's how I feel." Nim thought: It was Nancy Molineaux's description,

"Nimrod Goldman . . . today stands in disgrace," which had really got to him a moment ago, had really hurt. Not least, he admitted to himself, because it was true.