Overload

1

"Daddy," Leah said, addressing Nim across the dinner table, "will you get to spend more nights at home now?"

There was a moment's silence in which Nim was aware that Benjy had put down his knife and fork and was watching him intently, silently endorsing his sister's question.

Ruth, too, who had been reaching for the pepper mill, changed her mind and waited with the children for Nim's answer.

"I might," he said; the suddenness of the question, and having three pairs of eyes focused on him, were disconcerting. "'that is, if I'm not given a lot of other work which could keep me at the office late."

Benjy, brightening, said, "And at weekends too-will you get more time with us, Dad?"

"Maybe."

Ruth intervened. "I think you are being given a message."

She smiled as she said it, something she had done infrequently since her return home several days ago. She was more serious than before, Nim was aware, at times preoccupied. The two of them still had not had their definitive, heart-to-heart talk; Ruth seemed to be avoiding it and Nim, still depressed from his recent experiences, had not felt like making the effort on his own.

Nim had wondered in advance: How did a husband and wife treat each other on the wife's return after she had been away for two weeks, almost certainly with another man? In their own case the answer seemed: Exactly as before she left.

Ruth had arrived back without fuss, had collected the children from her parents, then picked up the threads of life at home as if she had never dropped them. She and Nim continued to share a bedroom, as they always had-though not a bed; it seemed a long time since Nim had left his own twin bed to join Ruth in hers. But in other respects their regular life resumed.

Of course, Nim reminded himself, in the past there had been similar situations-in reverse-when he returned from extramarital excursions which, at the time, he believed Ruth had not known about, but now suspected that she bad. And one final reason for the quietus was, again, Nim's bruised ego-bruised elsewhere. He simply wasn't ready for more emotion yet.

Now they were all at home, having a family evening meal, the third in three days, which, in itself, was unusual.

"As you all know," Nim said, "there have been some changes at the office but I don't know yet how everything is going to work out." He noticed something about Bcnjy and leaned forward, inspecting him more closely.

"What happened to your face?"

Benjy hesitated, his small band going up to cover a bruise on his left cheek and a cut beneath the lower lip. "Oh, it was just something at school, Dad."

"What kind of something? Were you in a fight?"

Benjy appeared uncomfortable.

"Yes, he was," Leah said. "Todd Thornton said you're a fink, Daddy, because you don't care about the environment and want to spoil it. So Benjy bit him, but Todd's bigger."

Nim said severely to Benjy, "No matter what anyone says about anything, it's wrong and stupid to go around hitting people."

His son looked crestfallen. "Yes, Dad."

"We had a talk," Ruth said. "Benjy knows that now."

Beneath his outward reaction Nim was startled and shocked. It had not occurred to him until now that criticism directed at himself would find a target in his family also. He said softly, "I'm truly sorry if anything that happened to me has hurt any of you."

"Oh, that's all right," Leah assured him. "Mommy explained to us how what you did was honorable."

Benjy added eagerly, "And Mom said you had more guts, Dad, than all the others put together." Benjy made clear, by the way he snapped his teeth together, that he enjoyed the word "guts."

Nim had his eyes fixed on Ruth. "Your mother told you that?"

"It's true, isn't it?" Benjy asked.

"Of course it's true," Ruth said; she had flushed slightly. "But your father can't say it about himself, can he? Which is why I told you."

"So that's what we tell the other kids when they say anything," Leah added.

For an instant Nim felt a surge of emotion. The thought of Benjy fighting with his small fists to defend his father's reputation, then Ruth, rising above the differences between the two of them, to protect his lion or with the children, left Nim with a choked-up feeling close to tears. He was saved from more embarrassment by Ruth's exhortation, "All right, now let's everyone get on with dinner."

Later, while Nim and Ruth were still at the dining table sipping coffee, and the children had left to watch TV, he said, "I'd like you to know that I appreciate what you told Leah and Benjy."

Ruth made a dismissing gesture. "If I hadn't believed it, I wouldn't have told them. Just because you and I aren't Romeo and Juliet anymore, doesn't mean I've stopped reading and thinking objectively about outside things."

"I've offered to resign," he told her. "Eric says it isn't necessary, but I may still." He went on to speak of the various possibilities he was considering, including a move to another power company, perhaps in the Midwest. If that happened, Nim asked, how would Ruth feel about moving there with the children?

Her answer was quick and definite. "I wouldn't do it."

"Do you mind telling me why?"

"I should think it's obvious. Why should three members of our family-Leah, Benjy, me-be uprooted, go to live in a strange place, and mostly for your convenience, when you and I haven't yet discussed our own future together-if we have one, which seems unlikely."

So there it was, out in the open, and he supposed the signal for their serious talk had come. How strange, he thought, that it should happen at a moment when briefly they had seemed closer than in a long time!

He said, with the sadness that he felt, "What the hell happened to us?"

Ruth answered sharply, "You should be the one best able to answer that. I'm curious about one thing, though-just how many other women have there been in our fifteen years of marriage?" He was aware of the recent hardness he had observed in Ruth as she continued. "Or maybe you've lost count, the way I did. For a while I could always tell when you had something new going-or should I say 'someone' new? then later on I wasn't so sure, and I guessed that you were overlapping, playing the field, with two or even more at once. Was I right?"

Having trouble in meeting Ruth's eyes directly, he answered, "Sometimes."

"Well, that's one point settled anyway. So my guess was right. But you haven't answered the first question. flow many women altogether?"

He said unhappily, "I'll be damned if I know."

"If that's true," Ruth pointed out, "it isn't exactly complimentary to those other females you must have felt something for, however briefly.

Whoever they were, I'd say they deserved better from you than not even to be remembered."

He protested, "It was never serious. None of it. Not with any of them."

"That I do believe." Ruth's cheeks were flushed with anger. "For that matter, you were never serious about me.

"That isn't true!"

"How can you possibly say that? After what you've just admitted Oh, I could understand one other woman; maybe two. Any wife with 1sense knows that happens sometimes in the best of marriages. But not scores of women, the way it's been with you."

He argued, "Now you're talking nonsense. It was never scores."

"One score then. At least."

Nim was silent.

Ruth said thoughtfully, "Maybe that was Freudian-my saying scores' just now. Because that's what you like to do, isn't it?-score with as many women as you can."

He admitted, “There's probably some truth in that."

"I know there's truth." She added quietly, "But it doesn't make a woman-a wife-feel any better, or less belittled, dirty, cheated, to hear it from the man she loved, or thought she did."

"If you've felt that way so long," he asked her, "why did you wait until now to bring it up? Why have we never had this kind of talk before?"

"That's a fair question." Ruth stopped, weighing her answer, then went on,

"I suppose it was because I kept on hoping you would change; that you'd grow out of wanting to fornicate with every attractive woman you set eyes on, grow out of it the way a child learns to stop being greedy about candy.

But I was wrong; you haven't changed. And, oh yes, since we're being honest with each other, there was another reason. I was a coward. I was afraid of what being on my own might mean, of what it could do to Leah and Benjy, and afraid-or maybe too proud-to admit that my marriage, like so many others, wasn't working." Ruth stopped, her voice breaking for the first time.

"Well, I'm not afraid, or proud, or anything anymore. I just want out."

"Do you mean that?"

Twin tears coursed down Ruth's cheeks. "What else is there?"

A spark of resistance flared in Nim. Did he need to be so totally defensive? Weren't there two sides to everything, including this?

"How about your own love affair?" he asked. "If you and I go separate ways, does your man friend move in as soon as I step out?"

"What man?"

“The one you've been seeing. The one you went away with."

Ruth had dried her eyes. She regarded him now with an expression which seemed part amused, part sorrowing. "You really believe that. That I went away with a man."

"Well, didn't you?"

She shook her head slowly. "No."

"But I thought . . ."

"I know you did. And I let you go on thinking it, which probably wasn't a good idea. I decided-spitefully, I suppose-that it would do no harm, and might even achieve some good, if you had a taste of what I'd been feeling."

“Then how about those other times? Where were you?"

Ruth said, with a trace of her earlier anger, “There is no other man. Can't you get that through your thick head? there never has been. I came to you a virgin-you know that, unless you've forgotten or have me confused with one of your other girlfriends. And there hasn't been anyone else but you since."

Nim winced because he did remember, but persisted, “Then what were you doing . . . ?"

"That's my private business. But I'm telling you again: it wasn't a man."

He believed her. Absolutely.

"Oh Christ!" he said, and thought: Everything was coming apart at once; most of what he had done and said recently had turned out to be wrong. As to their marriage, he wasn't sure if he wanted it to go on or not. Maybe Ruth was right, and getting out would be the best thing for them both. The idea of personal freedom was attractive. On the other hand, there was a good deal he would miss-the children, home, a sense of stability, even Ruth, despite their having grown apart. Not wanting to be forced to a decision, wishing that what was happening could have been postponed, be asked almost plaintively, "So where do we go from here?"

"According to what I've heard from friends who traveled this route" -Ruth's voice had gone cold again-"we each get a lawyer and begin staking out positions."

He pleaded, "But do we have to do it now?"

"Give me one single, valid reason for waiting any longer."

"It's a selfish one, I'll admit. But I've just been through one difficult time..." He let the sentence trail off, realizing it sounded like self pity.

"I know that. And I'm sorry the two things have come together. But nothing is going to change between us, not after all this time. We both know that, don't we?"

He said bleakly, "I suppose so." there was no point in promising to revise his own attitudes when he wasn't sure he could, or even wanted to.

"Well, then..."

"Look . . . would you wait a month? Maybe two? If for no other reason than that we'll have to break the news to Leah and Benjy, and it will give them time to get used to the idea." He was not sure that the argument made sense; it probably didn't. Nor did it seem plausible that a delay would achieve anything. But instinct told him that Ruth, too, was reluctant to take the final, irrevocable step to end their marriage.

"Well . . ." She hesitated, then conceded, "All right. Because of what's happening to you just now, I’ll wait- a little while. But I won't say two months, or one. If I decide to make it less, I will."

"Thank you." He had a sense of relief that there would be an interval, however brief.

"Hey!" It was Benjy, appearing at the dining room door. "I just got a new cassette from the Merediths. It's a play. Wanna watch?"

The Merediths were next door neighbors. Nim glanced at Ruth. "Why not?"

In the basement recreation room Ruth and Nim sat side by side on a sofa, with Leah sprawled on a rug, while Benjy deftly inserted a video cassette into their Betamax tape deck, connected to a color TV. A group of residents in the area had an agreement which was becoming widespread: One family recorded a television program-usually the children of the house, or a baby-sitter, took care of it-hitting the "stop" button whenever commercials appeared. The result was a high quality recording, sans commercials, which the adults and other families watched later at their leisure, the cassettes being rotated among a dozen or so households.

Knowing that the practice was growing as increasing numbers of people shared the discovery, Nim wondered how long it would be before it affected TV network revenues. Perhaps it had already. In a way, Nim thought, the TV networks and stations were going through the same shoal waters power companies like GSP & L had already navigated. The TV people had abused their public privileges by flooding the airwaves with a vulgar excess of advertising and low-grade programming. Now, Betamax and comparable systems were giving the public a chance to strike back by being selective, and eliminating advertising from their viewing. In time, perhaps, the development would cause those in charge of TV to grasp the need for public responsibility.

The two-hour play on the borrowed cassette was Mary White, a tragic, moving story about the family of a loved teenager who had died. Perhaps because he had seldom been more aware of his own family, yet realized how little time was left in which it was likely to remain a unit, Nim was glad the lights were low, his sadness and his tears unobserved by the other three.

2

On a dark, lonely hill above the suburban community of Millfield, Georgos Winslow Archambault crawled on his belly toward a chain link fence protecting a GSP&L substation. The precaution-against being observed-was probably unneeded, he reasoned; the substation was unattended, also there was no moon tonight and the nearest main road, which carried traffic over the sparsely inhabited hill, was half a mile away. But recently, Golden State Piss & Lickspittle had hired more security pigs and set up mobile night patrols which varied their operating hours and routes-clearly so they would not create a pattern. So it made sense to be cagey, even though crawling while carrying tools and explosives was awkward and uncomfortable.

Georgos shivered. The October night was cold and a strong wind knifed around crags and boulders of the rocky hill, making him wish he had worn two sweaters beneath his dark blue denim jumpsuit instead of one.

Glancing back the way he had come, he saw that his woman, Yvette, was just a few yards behind, and keeping up. It was important that she did.

For one thing she had the wire and detonators; for another, Georgos was running behind schedule due to a traffic delay in getting out here from the city, a journey of twenty miles. Now he wanted to make up time because tonight's operation intervened the destruction of three substations by the entire Friends of Freedom force. At one of the other sites Ute and Felix were working together; at the third Wayde was operating alone.

Their plan called for all three explosions to occur simultaneously.

When he reached the fence, Georgos detached a pair of heavy wire shears from his belt and began cutting. All be Deeded was a small hole, close to the ground. Then if a patrol came around, after the two of them had gone and before the explosion, the cut fence might escape attention.

While Georgos worked he could see the widespread, shimmering lights of Millfield below him. Well, all of them would be out soon; so would a lot of others further south. He knew about Millfield and the other townships nearby. They were bourgeois communities, peopled mainly by commuters-more capitalists and lackeys!-and he was glad to be causing them trouble.

The hole in the fence was almost complete. In a minute or so Georgos and Yvette could wiggle through. He glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. Time was tight! Once inside, they would have to work fast.

The targets of tonight's triple strike had been chosen carefully. There used to be a time when Friends of Freedom bombed transmission towers, toppling two or three at once in an attempt to knock out service over a wide area. But not anymore, Georgos and others had discovered that when towers were toppled, power companies rerouted their power, so that service was restored quickly, often within minutes. Also, fallen towers were immediately replaced by temporary poles, so even that power highway was soon in use again.

Large substations, though, were something else. They were vulnerable, critical installations and could take weeks to repair or replace completely.

The damage which would be done tonight, if all went well, would cause a widespread blackout, extending far beyond Millfield, and it could be days, perhaps a lot longer, before everything was switched back on.

Meanwhile the disruption would be tremendous, the cost enormous. Georgos gloated at the thought. Maybe, after this, more people would take the Friends of Freedom seriously.

Georgos thought: His small but glorious army had learned a lot since their early attacks on the despicable enemy. Nowadays, well ahead of any operation, they studied GSP&L's layout and working methods, seeking areas of vulnerability, situations where the greatest havoc could be caused.

This aspect had been helped recently by an ex-GSP & L engineer, dismissed for stealing, who now nursed a hatred of the company. While not an active member of Friends of Freedom, the former employee had been bought with some of the fresh money supplied by Birdsong. Other money from the same source had been used to buy more and better explosives.

Birdsong had let slip one day where the cash was coming from-the Sequoia Club, which believed it was financing p & lfp. It greatly aniused Georgos that a fat-cat, establishment outfit was unknowingly footing the bill for revolution. In a way it was a pity that the dim-witted Sequoia crowd would never find out.

Click! The last strand of wire was severed and the cut portion of the fence fell away. Georgos pushed it inside the substation enclosure so it would be less noticeable, then followed it with three packets of plastic explosive, after which he wriggled through himself.

Yvette was still close behind. Her hand had healed-after a fashion -since her loss of two fingers when a blasting cap exploded prematurely a couple of months ago. The stumps of the fingers were ugly and not sewn up neatly as would have happened if a surgeon had attended her. But Georgos had done his best to keep the wounds clean and, largely through luck, infection was avoided. Also avoided were the dangerous questions certain to have been asked at a hospital or doctor's office.

Damn! His jumpsuit had caught on an end of wire. Georgos heard the denim rip and felt a sharp pain as the wire penetrated his undershorts and sliced into his thigh. In being cautious, he had made the aperture too small. He reached back, felt for the wire and managed to dislodge it, then continued through the fence with no further trouble. Yvette, who was smaller, followed without difficulty.

No talk was necessary. They had practiced beforehand and knew exactly what to do. Cautiously, Georgos taped plastic explosive to the three large transformers the substation housed. Yvette handed him detonators and played out wire to be connected to timing devices.

Ten minutes later all three charges were in place. Yvette passed him, one by one, the clockwork fuse mechanisms with attached batteries which he had carefully assembled yesterday for himself and the other two teams. Handling each one gingerly, making sure there would be no premature explosion, Georgos connected the wires from the detonators.

Again he checked his watch. By working fast they had made up some, but not all, of the lost time.

Ile three explosions would occur, more or less together, eleven minutes from now. It barely gave Georgos and his woman time to make it back down the bill to where their car was hidden, off the road, in a stand of trees. But if they hurried-ran most of the way-they would be safely en route to the city before a response to the massive power failure could be mounted. He commanded Yvette, "Get going! Move it!" This time she preceded him through the fence.

It was while Georgos himself was crawling out that he heard the sound of a car, not far away and ascending the hill. He paused to listen.

Unmistakably it was using the private gravel road, owned by GSP & L, which provided access to the substation.

A security patrol! It had to be. This late at night no one else would come here. As Georgos finished scrambling through and stood upright, he could see the reflection of headlights on some trees below. The road was winding, which explained why the car was not yet in sight.

Yvette had beard and seen too. As she started to say something, be motioned her to silence and snarled, "Over here!" He began running toward the gravel road, then across it to a clump of bushes on the far side. In the bushes he dropped and flattened himself, Yvette beside him doing the same. He sensed her trembling. He was reminded of what he forgot sometimes-that she was little more than a child in many ways; also, she had never been quite the same, despite her devotion to him, since the incident of the hand.

Now the headlights were in sight as the car rounded the last bend before the substation. It was approaching slowly. Probably the driver was being careful because the service road had no reflective markers and the edges were hard to see. As the headlights came nearer, the entire area was illuminated brightly. Georgos pressed down, raising his bead only slightly. Their chances of remaining concealed, he calculated, were good.

What worried him was the nearness of the explosion. He checked his watch.

Eight minutes to go.

The car stopped, only a few feet from Georgos and Yvette, and a figure got out on the passenger side. As the figure moved forward into the range of headlights, Georgos could see a man in security guard uniform. The guard had a flashlight with a powerful beam which be directed at the fence surrounding the substation. Moving the beam from side to side, be began walking, making a circuit of the fence. Now Georgos could distinguish the shape of a second man-the driver-who seemed to be staying in the car.

The first man had gone part way around when he stopped, directing the flashlight downward. He had found the opening where the fence 1was cut. Moving closer, he used the flashlight to inspect inside the fence.

The light moved over power lines, insulators and transformers, paused at one charge of plastic explosive, then followed the wires to the timing device.

The guard swung around and shouted, "Hey, Jake! Call in an alarm!

Something's funny here."

Georgos acted. He knew that seconds counted, and there was no alternative to what had to be done.

He leaped to his feet, at the same time reaching to his belt for a hunting knife he carried in a sheath. It was a long, sharp, vicious knife, intended for an emergency such as this, and it came out smoothly. The leap had carried Georgos almost to the car. One more pace and he wrenched open the driver's door. The startled occupant, an elderly man with gray hair, also in security guard uniform, turned. He had a radio mike in his hand, close to his lips.

Georgos lunged forward. With his left hand be pulled the guard from the car, spun him around, then with a powerful upward thrust buried the knife in the man's chest. The victim's mouth opened wide. He began a scream which almost at once subsided to a gurgle. Then he fell forward to the ground.

Pulling hard, Georgos retrieved the knife and returned it to the sheath. He had seen a gun in a holster as the guard fell. Now, snapping open the holster, he grabbed it. Georgos had learned about guns in Cuba. This was a- 38 Smith & Wesson revolver and, in the reflection from the headlights, he broke the gun and checked the chambers. All were loaded. He snapped the gun closed, cocked it, and released the safety.

The first guard had heard something and was returning to the car. He called out, "Jake! What was that? Are you okay?" His gun was drawn but he had no chance to use it.

Already Georgos had slipped like a silent shadow around the rear of the car, making use of darkness behind the lights. Now he was down on his knees, taking careful aim, the muzzle of the -38 cradled on his left elbow for stability, his right forefinger beginning to squeeze the trigger. The sights were lined on the left side of the approaching guard's chest.

Georgos waited until he was sure be would hit his target, then fired three times. The second and third shots were probably unnecessary. The guard pitched backward without a sound and lay still where he had fallen.

There was no time, Georgos knew, even to check his watch. He grabbed Yvette, who had risen to her feet at the sound of the shots, shoving her forward as they began running. They raced together down the hill, taking a chance on missing the roadway in the darkness. Twice Georgos stumbled and recovered; once he trod on a loose rock and felt his ankle twist, but he ignored the pain and kept moving. Despite his baste he made certain that Yvette stayed close. He could hear her breath, coming in sobs.

They were a third of the way down when the sound of an explosion reached them. The ground vibrated first, then the sound wave followed -a loud, reverberating cruump! Seconds later there was another explosion, and then a third, and the sky lit up with a bright, yellow-blue flash. The flash repeated itself, then the reflection of flames, from fiercely burning oil from the transformers, lighted the sky. Rounding a bend in the gravel road, Georgos had a sudden sense of something being different. Then he realized what it was: His objective had been fulfilled. All the lights of Millfield were out.

Aware of the urgent need to get clear, not knowing if the security guard in the car had radioed a message or not, Georgos continued running, leading the way.

With relief, and both of them near exhaustion, be found their car where they had left it-in the stand of trees near the foot of the hill. Minutes later they were on their way, headed for the city, with blacked out Millfield behind them.

* * *

"You killed those men! You murdered them!"

Yvette's voice, from the front seat of the car beside him, was hysterical as well as still breathless from her exertion.

"I had to."

Georgos answered tersely, without turning his head, keeping his eyes directed at the freeway which they had just reached. He was driving carefully, making sure to stay slightly below the legal speed limit. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped by the Highway Patrol for some driving infraction. There was blood, Georgos knew, on his clothing from the man he had knifed, and there would be blood on the knife also, identifiable by type. He had discovered, too, that he was bleeding copiously himself-from his left thigh where the wire had penetrated more deeply than he had realized earlier. And he could feel his ankle swelling from when it twisted on the rock.

Yvette whined, "You didn't have to kill them!"

He shouted at her fiercely, "Shut up! Or I'll kill you."

He was thinking back, mentally running over every detail that had happened, trying to remember if there were any clues left behind which would identify either him or Yvette. 'they had both worn gloves at the fence and in laying the charges. He had slipped his off to connect the timer, and later when he fired the gun. But the gloves had been on when he attacked with the knife, so there would be no fingerprints on the car door handle. Prints on the gun? Yes, but be had had the presence of mind to bring the gun with him and would dispose of it later.

Yvette was sniveling again. "That one in the car. He was an old man! I saw him."

"He was a dirty fascist pig!"

Georgos said it forcefully, in part to convince himself, because the memory of the gray-haired man had been eating at him too. He had tried to push out of his mind the recollection of the shocked, open mouth and stifled scream as the knife went in deeply, but be had not succeeded. Despite his anarchist training and the bombings since, Georgos had not killed anyone at close quarters before and the experience sickened him. He would never admit it though.

"You could go to prison for murder!"

He snarled back, "So could you."

There was no point in explaining that he was indictable for murder already-for the seven deaths resulting from the La Mission plant explosion and the letter bombs mailed to GSP & L. But he could set his woman straight about tonight, and would.

"Get this, you stupid whore! You're in this as much as I am. You were there, a part of it all, and you killed those pigs just as if you pulled the knife or fired the gun. So whatever happens to me happens to you. Don't ever forget it!"

He had got through to her, he could tell, because she was sobbing now, choking on words, burbling something incoherent about wishing she hadn't gotten into this. For an instant he felt compassion and a surge of pity. Then self-discipline reasserted itself; he dismissed the thought as being weak and counterrevolutionary. He estimated they were almost halfway to the city, then realized something he had been too preoccupied to take in earlier. The area they were passing through, normally brightly lighted and well beyond Millfield, was also in darkness; even street lights were out. With sudden satisfaction he thought: It meant that the other freedom fighters had succeeded in their objectives. The entire battle, fought under his generalship, had been won!

Georgos began humming a little tune, composing in his mind a communiqué to acquaint the world with one more glorious victory by Friends of Freedom.

3

"When the power failure happened," Karen Sloan said from her wheelchair, "Josie and I were on our way home in Humperdinck."

"Humperdinck?" Nim was puzzled.

Karen gave him one of her warm, glowing smiles. "Humperdinck is my beautiful, beautiful van. I love it so much I just couldn't call it van,' so I gave it a name."

They were in the living room of Karen's apartment and it was early evening in the first week of November. Nim had accepted-after several postponements because of pressures of work-an invitation from Karen to join her for dinner. Josie, Karen's aide-housekeeper, was in the kitchen preparing the meal.

The small apartment was softly lighted, warm and comfortable. Outside, in contrast, most of northern California was enduring a Pacific gale, now in its third day, which had brought strong winds and torrential rain. As they talked, rain pounded against the windows.

Other sounds merged softly; the steady hum of the respirator mechanism which kept Karen breathing, and an accompanying hiss of air, inward and out; small clatters of dishes, the noise of a cupboard door opening, then closing, from the kitchen.

"About the power failure," Karen resumed. "I'd been to a movie, at a theater where they have facilities for wheelchairs-I can do so many things now with Humperdinck that I couldn't before-and, while Josie was driving, all the street lights, and lights in buildings, went out."

"Almost one hundred square miles," Nim said with a sigh. "Everything went. Everything."

"Well, we didn't know that then. But we could see it was widespread, so Josie drove directly to Redwood Grove Hospital, which is where I go if I ever have problems. They have an emergency generator. The staff took care of me, and I stayed at the hospital for three days until the power was back on here."

"Actually," Nim told her, "I already knew most of that. As soon as I could after those explosions and the blackout, I phoned your number. I was at the office; I'd been called in from home. When there was no answer I had someone contact the hospital, which is listed on your info sheet.

They told us you were there, so I stopped worrying because there was lots to do that night."

"It was an awful thing, Nimrod. Not just the blackout, but those two men murdered."

"Yes, they were old-timers," Nim said, "pensioners who were brought back in because we were short of experienced security help. Unfortunately their experience belonged to another era and we found out later that the worst they'd ever dealt with was an occasional trespasser or small-time thief. They were no match for a killer."

"Whoever did it hasn't been caught yet?"

Nim shook his head. "It's someone we, and the police, have been looking for for a long time. The worst thing is, we still haven't the slightest idea who he is or where he operates from."

"But isn't it a group-Friends of Freedom?"

"Yes. But the police believe the group is small, probably no more than a half-dozen people, and that one man is the brains and leader. They say there are similarities in all the incidents so far which point to that-like a personal handwriting. Whoever he is, the man's a homicidal maniac."

Nim spoke feelingly. The effect of the latest bombing on the GSP & L system had been far worse than any other preceding it. Over an unusually wide area, homes, businesses and factories had been deprived of electric power for three to four days in many cases, a week in others, reminding Nim of Harry London's observation several weeks earlier that, "Those crazies are getting smart."

Only by a massive, costly effort which required bringing in all of GSP & L's spare transformers, borrowing some from other utilities, and diverting all available personnel to effect repairs, had power been restored as quickly as it was. Even so, GSP & L was being criticized for failure to protect its installations adequately. “The public is entitled to ask," the California Examiner pontificated in an editorial, "if Golden State Power & Light is doing all it can to prevent a recurrence. Judging by available evidence, the answer is 'no."' However, the newspaper offered no suggestion as to how the enormous, widespread GSP & L network could be protected everywhere twenty-four hours a day.

Equally depressing was the absence of any immediately usable clues. True, the law enforcement agencies had obtained another voice print, matching earlier ones, from the bombastic tape recording received by a radio station the day after the bombings. As well, there were some threads of denim material snagged on a cut wire near the site of the double murder, almost certainly from a garment worn by the attacker. The same wire also revealed dried blood which had been typed and found to differ from the blood of both dead guards. But, as a senior police detective told Nim in a moment of frankness, "Those things can be useful when we have someone or something to match them with. Right now we're no nearer to having that than we were before."

"Nimrod," Karen said, interrupting his thoughts. "It's been almost two months since we were together. I've truly missed you."

He told her contritely, "I'm sorry. I really am."

Now that he was here, Nim wondered how he could have stayed away so long.

Karen was as beautiful as be remembered her and, when they kissed a few minutes ago-a lingering kiss-her lips were loving, just as they had seemed before. It was as if, in a single instant, the gap in time had closed. Something else Nim was aware of: In Karen's company he experienced a sense of peace, as happened with few other people be knew. The feeling was hard to define, except perhaps that Karen, who had come to terms with the limitations of her own life, transmitted a tranquillity and wisdom suggesting that other problems, too, could be resolved.

"It's been a difficult time for you," she acknowledged. "I know because I read what the newspapers said about you, and saw reports on television,"

Nim grimaced. “The Tunipah hearings. I've been told I disgraced myself."

Karen said sharply, "You don't believe that, anymore than I do. What you said was sensible, but most reports played that part down."

"Any time you like, you can handle my public relations."

She hesitated, then said, "After it happened I wrote some poetry for you.

I was going to send it, then thought maybe you were tired of hearing from everybody, no matter what they said."

"Not everybody. Just most people." He asked, "Did you save it-the poem?"

"Yes." Karen motioned with her head. "It's over there. In the second drawer down."

Nim rose from his seat and crossed to a bureau beneath bookshelves. Opening the drawer he had been told to, he saw a sheet of Karen's blue stationery on top, which he took out, then read what was typewritten.

The moving finger sometimes does go back,

Not to rewrite but to reread;

And what was once dismissed, derided, mocked,

May, in the fullness of a moon or two,

Or even years,

Be hailed as wisdom,

Spoken forthrightly at that earlier time,

And having needed courage

To face the obloquy of others less perceptive,

Though burdened with invective.

Dear Nimrod!

Remind yourself: A prophet's seldom praised

Before sunset

Of the day on which he first proclaimed

Unpalatable truths.

But if and when your truths

In time become self-evident,

The

ir author vindicated,

Be, at that ha

r

v

est moment, forgiving, gracious,

Broad of mind, large-purposed,

Am

used by life's contrariness.

For not to all, only the few,

Are presbyopic gifts: long vision, clarity, sagacity,

By chance, through lottery at birth,

Bestowed by busy nature.

Silently, Nim read the words a second time. At length he said, "Karen, you never cease to surprise me. And whenever you do this I'm not sure of what to say, except I'm moved and grateful."

At that moment, Josie-short and sturdy, her dark features beaming -marched in with a loaded tray. She announced, "Lady and gentleman, dinner is served."

It was a simple but tasty meal. A Waldorf salad, followed by a chicken casserole, then lemon sherbet. Nim had brought wine-a hard-to-get Heitz Cellar Cabernet Sauvignon-superli. As on the last occasion, Nim fed Karen, experiencing the same sense of sharing and intimacy that he had before.

Only once or twice did he remember with a trace of guilt the excuse he had used for not being at home tonight-an evening business engagement for GSP & L. But he rationalized that spending the time with Karen was different from other occasions when he had cheated, and lied to Ruth, or tried to. Perhaps, even now, he thought, Ruth didn't believe him, but if so she had given no indication when he left this morning. Also in his favor, Nim. reminded himself: During the past four weeks there had been only one other occasion when he was not at home in time for family dinner, and then he genuinely had been working late.

Easily, leisurely, during their intensely personal dinner, Nim and Karen talked.

Josie had removed dishes and brought them coffee when, for a second time, the subject of Karen's van came up. Humperdinck. The special van, adapted under Ray Paulsen's direction to convey a quadriplegic's elaborate, powered wheelchair, and purchased from GSP & L by Karen's parents.

"Something I haven't explained," Karen told him, "is that I don't really own Humperdinck. I can't afford to. It has to be registered to my father, even though I use it."

Insurance was the reason. "Insurance rates for a disabled person are astronomical," Karen said, "even though someone like me will never drive. With the van in my father's name, the rates are lower, so that's why I don't own Humperdinck officially."

She went on, "Apart from the insurance, I was worried-still am a little-about Daddy borrowing the money to pay for Humperdinck. His bank said no, so he went to a loan company and they agreed, but at higher interest. I know it will be bard for him to make the loan payments because his business is not doing well, and he and Mother already help me with money when my allowances won't stretch. But they insisted I shouldn't concern myself, and to let them do the worrying."

Nim said thoughtfully, "Maybe there's something I could do. I could contribute a little money myself, then see if our company would donate. . ."

Karen cut in sharply, "No! Absolutely not! Nimrod, our friendship is wonderful and I cherish it. But I won't take money from you-ever and that includes your asking someone else. If my own family does something for me, that's different and we work it out together, but that's all. Besides, you already helped us enough with Humperdinck." Her voice softened. "I'm a proud and independent person. I hope you understand."

"Yes," he said, "I understand, and I respect you."

"Good! Respect is important. Now, Nimrod dearest, you'll only believe what a difference Humperdinck has made to my life if you let me show you.

May I ask you something bold?"

"Ask me anything."

"Could we have a date outside-perhaps go to the symphony?"

He hesitated only momentarily. "Why not?"

Karen's face lighted with a smile and she said enthusiastically, "You must tell me when you can be free and I'll make arrangements. Ob, I'm so happy!" Then, impulsively: "Kiss me again, Nimrod."

As he went to her, she tilted up her face, her mouth seeking his eagerly.

He put a hand behind her head, running his fingers gently through her long blonde hair. She responded by pressing her lips closer. Nim found himself emotionally and sexually stirred and the thought came to him: How much promise the next few minutes might hold if Karen were whole in body instead of what she was. Then he dismissed the thought and broke off the kiss. For a moment be caressed her hair again, then returned to his chair.

"If I knew how," Karen said, "I'd purr."

Nim heard a discreet cough and turned his bead to see Josie standing at the doorway. The aide-housekeeper had changed from the white uniform she wore while serving dinner to a brown wool dress. He wondered how long she had been there.

"Oh, Josie," Karen said, "are you ready to go?" For Nim's benefit she added, "Josie's visiting her family tonight."

"Yes, I'm ready," the other woman acknowledged. "But shouldn't I put you to bed before I go?"

"Well, I suppose so." Karen stopped, a faint flush suffusing her cheeks.

"Or perhaps, later on, Mr. Goldman wouldn't mind .

He said, "If you'll tell me what to do, I'll be glad to."

"Well, then, that's settled," Josie said. "So I'll be going, and good night."

A few minutes later they heard the sound of the outer door closing.

When Karen spoke there seemed a nervousness in her voice. "Josie won't be back until tomorrow morning. Normally I have a relief aide-housekeeper, but she's not well, so my big sister is coming for the night." She glanced at a wall clock. "Cynthia will be here in an hour and a half. Can you stay until then?"

"Of course."

"If it's inconvenient for you, Jiminy-he's the janitor you met the first time-will come in for a while."

Nim said firmly, “The hell with Jiminy! I'm here and I'm staying."

"I'm glad." Karen smiled. “There's some wine left. Shall we kill the bottle?"

"Good idea." Nim went into the kitchen, found glasses and the re-corked Cabernet. Returning, he divided the remaining wine and held one of the glasses while Karen sipped.

"I feel a wonderful glow," she said, “The wine helped, but that isn't all of it."

On impulse he leaned over, raised Karen's face in his hand, and kissed her once more. She responded as ardently as the other times, except that the kiss was longer. At length, reluctantly, he moved back, though their faces remained close.

"Nimrod." It was a whisper.

"Yes, Karen."

"I think I'm ready to go to bed."

He found his pulse beating faster. "Tell me what to do."

"Unplug my wheelchair first."

Nim went to the rear of the chair and did so. The power cord retracted into a housing as the battery on the chair took over.

A sudden smile of mischief flashed across Karen's face. "Follow me!"

Using the electric wheelchair's blow-sip tube control, and with a speed and dexterity which amazed him, Karen maneuvered herself from the living room, down a small hallway, and into a bedroom. There was a single bed, neatly turned down. Beside it a low-wattage light burned dimly. Karen swung her chair so it was at the foot of the bed, facing away.

“There!" She looked at Nim expectantly.

“All right. What next?"

"You lift me out of the chair, then just pivot-the way you would if you were playing golf-and put me on the bed. When Josie does it we use a body sling that winds up like a crane. But you're strong, Nimrod. You can lift me in your arms."

He did so, gently but surely, aware of the warm softness of her body, and afterward followed instructions which Karen gave him about her breathing apparatus. He switched on a small Bantam respirator already at the bedside; at once he could hear it cycling-a dial showed fifteen pounds of pressure; the rate was eighteen breaths a minute. He put a tube from the respirator into Karen's mouth; as she began breathing the pressure went to thirty. Now she could dispense with the pneumobelt she had been wearing beneath her clothes.

"Later," Karen said, "I'll ask you to put a chest respirator on me. Not yet, though."

She was horizontal on the bed, her long hair spread over the pillow. The sight, Nim thought, would have excited Botticelli.

He asked, "What do I do now?"

"Next . , ." she said, and in the soft, dim light lie saw a blush bloom again on her cheeks. "Next, Nimrod, you undress me."

Karen's eyes were partly closed. Nim's hands were shaking and he wondered if what he thought was happening could be true. Not long ago, he remembered, he had told himself that falling in love with Karen would intervene love without sex-in contrast to sex without love which he had experienced so often before. Was he wrong? With Karen could there conceivably be love and sex? But if it happened, surely he would be despicable, taking brutish advantage of her helplessness. Could he?

Should he? the ethical issues seemed a nightmare tangle of unanswered questions, a moral labyrinth.

He had unbuttoned Karen's blouse. Now be raised her shoulders while he eased it from her arms. She wore no brassiere. Her small breasts were superbly shaped, the tiny nipples slightly raised.

"Touch me, Nimrod." It was a soft command. Responding, be moved his hands lightly over her breasts, his fingertips caressing, then knelt and kissed them. At once he felt her nipples harden. Karen murmured, "Oh, that's wonderful!"

A moment later she told him, “The skirt unfastens on the left side."

Still gentle, he unbuttoned and removed it.

When Karen was naked, doubts and anxiety still plagued him. But be moved his bands, slowly and with skillful sensuality, as he knew by now she wanted. Soft murmurings made her pleasure clear. After a while she whispered, "I want to tell you something."

He whispered back, "I'm listening."

"I'm not a virgin. There was a boy it happened when I was fifteen, just before I . . ." She stopped, and he saw that tears were rolling down her cheeks."

"Karen, don't!"

She shook her bead. "I want to tell you. Because I want you to know there hasn't been anyone else in all those years; no one, between then -and you."

He waited, letting the purport of what she had said sink in before be asked, "Are you telling me . . . ?"

"I want you, Nimrod. All the way. Now!"

"Oh Christ!" Nim breathed the words, aware that his own desires never difficult to unleash-were making themselves known in urgent terms. Then he threw the complex equations overboard and started taking off his clothes.

Nim had wondered, like others he supposed, bow it would be for an unimpaired man to make sexual love to a quadriplegic woman. Would someone like Karen be totally passive? Would the man make all the effort, obtaining no response? And in the end would there be pleasure for one, or both, or neither?

He was discovering the answers, and all were unexpected.

Karen was demanding, responsive, exciting, satisfying.

Yes, in one sense she was passive. Her body, other than her head was unable to move. Yet Nim could feel the effect of their lovemaking transmitting itself through her skin, vagina, breasts, and most of all her passionate cries and kisses. It was not, he thought in a flash of whimsy, at all like having sex with a mannequin, as some might suppose. Nor was the pleasure brief. It was prolonged, as if neither wanted it to end. He had a sense, over and over, of glorious eroticism, of floating and soaring, of joy and loving, until at last, as always, the ending came: Attainment of a summit; climax of a symphony; the zenith of a dream. And for them both.

Could a quadriplegic woman have an orgasm? Emphatically, yes!

And afterward . . . once more . . . a return to tenderness and kindly loving.

Nim lay still, carefully considerate of Karen, blissful, spent. He wondered what she was thinking and if, in the aftermath, she had regrets.

As if telepathy had delivered both questions, Karen stirred. She said drowsily but happily, "Nimrod, a mighty hunter of the Lord." then: "This day has been the best in all my life."

4

Cynthia said, "I had a hard day and I could use a drink. There's usually scotch around here. How about Von? "

Nim told her, "Count me in.” It was an hour since he had made love to Karen, who was now sleeping. He felt the need for a drink too.

Karen's older sister had come to the apartment twenty minutes ago, using her own key. Nim had finished dressing sometime earlier.

She had introduced herself as Cynthia Woolworth. "Before you ask the question, no, my husband-unfortunately-is not connected with that wealthy family. I used to spend half my life answering that; now I get it out of the way at the beginning. Sloan was simpler."

"Thank you," he said. "I'll never mention it again."

Cynthia, he observed, was different from Karen, but also similar. Where Karen was blonde and slim, Cynthia was brunette, her figure full, though not excessively. Clearly, too, Cynthia's personality was more forceful and outgoing, though perhaps, Nim thought, the misfortune which life had dealt Karen early, and their differences in life styles since, could account for that. What both had in common was a rare natural beauty-the same delicate symmetry of features, full lips, wide blue eyes, a flawless skin and-more developed in Cynthia-elegant, slim bands. It occurred to Nim that both Sloan girls had inherited their charms from their mother, Henrietta, in whom traces of an earlier loveliness still lingered. Nim remembered that Cynthia was three years older than Karen, which made her forty-two, although she appeared younger.

Cynthia located the scotch, then ice and soda, and mixed two drinks efficiently. The quick economy of her movements showed she was used to managing for herself. She had demonstrated that from the time she arrived at the apartment, shook out her dripping raincoat and hung it in the bathroom, then following mutual introductions, instructed Nim, "All right, you sit down and relax-here, I brought the evening paper and I'll do what's needed for my sister."

She had walked into Karen's bedroom, closing the door so that Nim could hear a murmur of voices, but no more. When Cynthia came out fifteen minutes later, moving quietly, she announced that Karen was asleep.

Now, seated facing Nim, Cynthia swirled the liquor and ice in her glass and informed him, "I know what happened here tonight. Karen told me."

Startled by the directness, all he could think of in response was, "I see."

Cynthia threw back her head and laughed. She pointed an accusing finger.

"You're scared You're wondering if I'll be the avenging elder sister.

Or if I'll call the cops maybe, and holler 'rape!"'

He said stiffly, "I'm not sure I want, or need to discuss with you

"Oh, come on!" Cynthia had continued to laugh; now suddenly she stopped.

Her face became serious. "Look, Nimrod-if I can call you that-I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, and I can see I did. So now let me tell you something. Karen thinks you're a kind, sweet, gentle, loving man, and the best thing that's ever happened to her. And if you're interested in an outside opinion, I feel the same way."

Nim stared at her. As he did, he realized that for the second time tonight he was seeing a woman cry.

"Damn! I didn't mean to do that." With a tiny handkerchief Cynthia wiped her tears away. "But I guess I'm as happy and satisfied as Karen is herself." She regarded Nim in frank approval. "Well, almost."

Nim's tension of a moment earlier dissolved. Grinning, he acknowledged,

"I can only say one thing. I'll be damned!"

"I can say more than that, and will," Cynthia said. "How about another drink first?"

Without waiting for an answer she scooped up Nim's glass and replenished it, along with her own. Returning to her seat, she sipped the scotch before continuing, carefully choosing her words.

"For your sake, Nimrod, as much as Karen's, I want you to realize something. What happened between you and my sister tonight was wonderful and beautiful. You may not know this, or understand it, but some people treat quadriplegics the way they would a leper. I've seen it happen sometimes; Karen sees it more. That's why, in my book, you come out as Mr. Nice Guy. You've never thought of her, or treated her, as anything but a woman Ob, for God's sake! . . . Here I am crying again."

Cynthia's handkerchief was clearly inadequate. Nim handed her his own and she glanced at him gratefully. "It's the little things you do . . . Karen told me that . . ."

He said humbly, "It all started, you know-my coming to see Karen-accidentally."

"Most things do."

"And what went on between us tonight . . . well, I didn't plan it. I didn't even think . . ." Nim stopped. "It simply happened."

"I know that," Cynthia said. "And while we're about it let me ask you something else. Did you-do you-have any guilt feelings?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Don't I read something once, when I was finding out how I could best help Karen, by a man named Milton Diamond. He's a medical professor in Hawaii who made a study of sex and disabled people. I may not have the words exactly right, but the sense of what he wrote was: the disabled have enough problems without having conventional guilt-laden values forced on them . . private sexual satisfaction takes precedence over public approval; therefore any guilt is wrong . . . and sexually, for disabled people, anything goes." Cynthia added almost fiercely, "So don't you have any guilts either. Wipe them out!"

"I'm not sure," Nim said, "if I can take any more surprises tonight. Just the same, I'm glad we talked."

"I am too. It's a part of learning, and I had to learn about Karen, just as you have." Cynthia continued sipping her scotch, then said meditatively,

"Would you believe me if I told you that when Karen was eighteen and I was twenty-one I hated her?"

"I'd find it hard to believe."

"Well, it's true. I hated her because she got all the attention from our parents and their friends. Some days, at home, it was as if I didn't exist.

It was always, Karen this, and Karen that! What can we do for dear, poor Karen? Never, What can we do for healthy, normal Cynthia? It was my twenty-first birthday. I wanted a big party but my mother said it was

'inappropriate' because of Karen. So we had a little family tea-just my parents and me; Karen was in the hospital then-a lousy tea, and a shoddy, cheap little cake. As for my birthday presents, they were just tokens because guess where all the available money was going, every cent. I'm ashamed to say it, but that night I prayed for Karen to die."

In the silence which followed, even through drawn drapes, Nim could hear wind-driven rain against the window. He had understood what Cynthia had told him, and was moved. Yet, in a corner of his mind he thought: Glorious rain. To a utilities man, rain, sleet or snow meant stored-up hydroelectric power for the dry season ahead. He pulled back his thoughts and spoke to Cynthia.

"So when did your feelings change?"

"Not for years, and even then slowly. Before that I went through my own guilt period. I felt guilty because I was whole and Karen wasn't. Guilty because I could do the things she couldn't-play tennis, go to parties, neck with boys." Cynthia sighed. "I wasn't a good sister."

"But you are now."

"As much as I can be-after taking care of a husband, house and kids. It was after my first child was born that I began to understand and appreciate my little sister and we became close. Now the two of us are dear, loving friends, sharing ideas and confidences. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for Karen. And there isn't anything she doesn't tell me."

Nim said drily, "I'd gathered that."

They talked on. Cynthia told him more about herself. She had married at twenty-two; one reason was to get away from home. Since then her husband had held a succession of jobs; his present one was as a shoe salesman.

Nim surmised that the marriage was barely adequate, if that, and Cynthia and her husband stayed together for lack of an alternative and the sake of their three children. Before her marriage, Cynthia had taken singing lessons; now, four nights a week she sang in a second-rate nightclub to supplement her husband's meager pay. Tonight was a non-singing night and Cynthia would stay with Karen, her husband taking care of their one child still at home. Cynthia had two more scotches while they talked; Nim declined. After a while her voice became slightly slurred.

At length Nim stood up. "It's late. I have to go."

"I'll get your raincoat," Cynthia said. "You'll need it, even going to your car." She added, "Or you can stay if you want. There's a couch makes up into a bed."

"Thanks. I'd better not."

She helped him on with the coat and, at the apartment front door, kissed him fully on the lips. "That's partly for Karen," Cynthia said, "partly for me."

Driving home, he tried to push the thought away as being predatory and disloyal, but it persisted: So many attractive, desirable women in the world, and so many available and willing to share sexual pleasures. Experience, instinct, her own unmistakable signals told him: Cynthia was available too.

5

Among other things, Nim Goldman was a wine buff. He had a keen nose and palate and especially like varietal wines from the Napa Valley, which were California's finest and in good years rated with the premium wines of France. So he was glad to go to the Napa Valley with Eric Humphrey-even in late November-though he wondered why the chairman had invited him along.

The occasion was to celebrate a homecoming. An honored, victorious, sentimental homecoming of one of California's most distinguished sons.

The Honorable Paul Sherman Yale.

Until two weeks earlier he had been a revered Associate justice of the United States Supreme Court.

If ever a single individual merited the accolade "Mr. California," un-questionably it was Paul Sherman Yale. All that a Californian might wish or strive to be had been exemplified in his distinguished career, now drawing to a close.

Since his early twenties when-two years ahead of most contemporaries-he was graduated with honors from Stanford Law School, until his eightieth birthday, which he recently celebrated, Paul Yale had filled a succession of increasingly important public roles. As a young lawyer he established a state wide reputation as a champion of the poor and powerless. He sought, and won, a seat in the California Assembly and, after two terms there, moved up to become the youngest member ever elected to the state Senate.

His legislative record in both houses was remarkable. He was the author of early legislation to protect minorities and outlaw sweatshops. He also sponsored laws which aided California farmers and fishermen.

Moving on from the Senate, Paul Sherman Yale was elected the state's Attorney General, in which office be declared war on organized crime and sent some of its big-narne practitioners to jail. A logical next step was to Governor, a post he could have had for the asking. Instead be accepted President Truman's invitation to fill a vacancy on the U. S. Supreme Court. His Senate confirmation hearings were brief, their outcome a foregone conclusion since-both then and later-no breath of scandal or corruption ever touched his name, and another sobriquet sometimes applied to him was "Mr. Integrity."

While serving on the highest court, he wrote many opinions which reflected his broad humanity, yet were praised by legal scholars as being pure law." Even his dissents were widely quoted, and some prompted legislative changes. amidst it all, Mr. Justice Yale never forgot that he and his wife Beth were Californians and, at every opportunity, declared his continuing affection for his native state.

When, in due season, be concluded that his work was done, he resigned quietly and the Yales left Washington, typically without fuss, returning-as Paul Yale expressed it to Newsweek-"westward and home." He turned down the suggestion of a massive testimonial banquet in Sacramento, yet consented to a more modest welcome luncheon in his beloved birthplace, the Napa Valley, where the Yales planned to live.

Among the guests-at Yale's suggestion-was the chairman of Golden State Power & Light. Humphrey requested, and obtained, an extra invitation for his assistant, Nim.

En route to Napa Valley in the chairman's chauffeur-driven limousine, Humphrey was affable while he and Nim worked on plans and problems, as was usual on such journeys. It was obvious that the chairman had put his displeasure with Nim behind him. The purpose of their present journey was not mentioned.

Even with winter close at hand, and several weeks after harvest time, the valley was extraordinarily beautiful. It was a clear, crisp, sunny day, following several days of rain. Already early shoots of bright yellow mustard weed were growing between the rows of grapevines-now stark and leafless, and soon to be pruned in readiness for next season. Within the next few weeks the mustard would grow in profusion, then be plowed under to fertilize and, some said, add a special pungency to the flavor of grapes and wine.

"Notice the spacing of the vines," Humphrey said; be had put aside his work as they entered the central portion of the valley where vineyards stretched far into the distance to the lush green hills on either side. “The spacing's much wider than it used to be. That's for mechanical harvesting-the grape growers' way of beating the unions. The union leaders cheated their own members out of jobs by empire building and intransigence, so labor will soon be minimal here, with most jobs done by machine, and more efficiently."

They passed through the township of Yountville. A few miles further, between Oakville and Rutherford, they turned through an entranceway, framed by adobe-colored curving walls, into the mission-style Robert Mondavi Winery, where the luncheon would be held.

The guest of honor and his wife had arrived early, and were in the winery's elegant Vineyard Room, ready to greet others as they came. Humphrey, who had met the Yales several times before, introduced Nim.

Paul Sherman Yale was small, spry and upright, with thinning white hair, intense gray eyes which seemed to bore into whatever they were looking at, and a general liveliness which belied his eighty years. To Nim's surprise he said, "I've been looking forward to meeting you, young man. Before you go back to the city we'll find a corner somewhere and have a talk."

Beth Yale, a warm, gracious woman who had married her husband more than fifty years ago when he was a young Assemblyman, and she his secretary, told Nim, "I think you'll enjoy working with Paul. Most people do."

As soon as he could, Nim eased Humphrey aside. Low-voiced, he asked, "Eric, what's happening? What's all this about?"

"I made a promise," Humphrey said. "If I told you, I'd be breaking it. Just wait."

As the arriving guests multiplied and the line of those waiting to shake hands with the Yales lengthened, the sense of occasion grew. It seemed as if the entire Napa Valley had turned out to pay its homage. Nim recognized faces attached to some of the great names of California wine making: Louis Martini, Joe Heitz, Jack Davies of Schramsberg, today's host Robert Mondavi, Peter Mondavi of Krug, Andre Tchelistcheff, Brother Timothy of Christian Brothers, Donn Chappellet, others. The Governor, who was out of the state, had sent the Lieutenant Governor as his representative. The media had arrived in force, including TV camera crews.

The occasion, which had been billed as private and informal, would be viewed or read about by most Californians tonight and tomorrow.

Lunch-with Napa Valley wines, of course-was followed by introductory speeches, mercifully brief. A toast to Paul and Beth Yale was drunk; a spontaneous standing ovation followed. The guest of honor rose, smiling, to respond. He spoke for a half hour-warmly, simply, eloquently-a casual, easy talk with friends. There was nothing earth shattering, no strident revelations, simply the words of the local boy at last come home. "I am not entirely ready to die," he said. "Who is? But when I leave for eternity, I want to board the bus from here."

The kicker came at the end.

"Until that bus arrives, I intend to be active and, I hope, useful. There is a job I have been told that I can do and which may be of service to California. After due thought, and consultation with my wife, who was uneasy about having me at home all day anyway . . . [Laughter] . . . I have agreed to join the staff of Golden State Power & Light. Not as a meter reader; unfortunately my eyesight is failing . . . [More laughter] . . .but as a member of the board and a public spokesman for the company. In deference to my hoary old age I am being allowed to set my own office hours, so I shall probably arrive -on the days I choose to show up at all-in time for an expense account lunch . . . [Loud laughter] . . . My new boss, Mr. Eric Humphrey, is here today, probably to collect my Social Security number and employment record . . . [Laughter and cheers].

There was more of the same.

Afterward, Humphrey would inform Nim: “The old boy insisted on secrecy while he and I were negotiating, and then he wanted to make the announcement himself in his own way. It's why I couldn't tell you in advance, even though you are the one who will work with him in helping him get oriented."

Meanwhile, as Mr. Justice Yale (he would retain the title for the remainder of his life) concluded his speech and sat down to sustained applause, reporters crowded around Eric Humphrey. "We have yet to work out full details," Humphrey told them, "but essentially Mr. Yale's role will be as be described it-a spokesman for our company, both to the public and before commissioners and legislators."

Humphrey looked pleased as he answered reporters' questions-as well he might, Nim thought. Lassoing Paul Sherman Yale, bringing him into the GSP & L orbit, was a tremendous coup. Not only did Yale have built-in public credence, but every official door in California, from the Governor's downward, was open to him. Clearly, what he would be was a lobbyist of highest caliber, though Nim was certain the word "lobbyist" would never be spoken in his presence.

Already, the TV crews were maneuvering GSP & L's new spokesman into position for a statement. It would be one of many, Nim supposed -some of them the kind of statements Nim himself might have continued making if he hadn't blown it. Watching it happen, be felt a pang of envy and regret.

6

"Apart from anything else," Beth Yale told Nim with a frankness he would later find characteristic, "we can use the money. No one gets rich being on the Supreme Court, and living in Washington is so expensive we rarely managed to save anything. Paul's grandfather did set up a family trust fund, but it's been horribly mismanaged would you mind putting on another log?"

They were seated before a fieldstone fireplace in a small, comfortable house located in a vineyard, a mile or so from where they had had lunch.

The house had been loaned to the Yales by its owner, who used it during summers, until they were able to locate a place of their own.

Nim added a log to the fire and stirred two others, partially burned, to a cheerful blaze.

A half hour ago Mr. Justice Yale had excused himself to have, as he put it, "a battery charge catnap." He explained, "It's a trick I learned many years ago when I found my attention wandering. Some of my colleagues even do it on the bench."

Before that they had talked for more than two hours about the affairs of Golden State Power & Light.

The "talk in a corner" with Nim, which Paul Yale had spoken of before the luncheon, had not happened for the reason that there Was no way he could escape his admirers while he remained at the Mondavi winery. He had therefore suggested that Nim come back to the house. "If I'm going to do something, young man, I like to get moving. Eric tells me you can supply the best over-all view of your company, so let us start viewing."

They had done precisely that. While Nim described the status, policies and problems of GSP & L, Paul Yale injected sharp, pertinent questions.

Nim found it a stimulating mental exercise, in a way like playing chess with a skilled opponent. And Yale's remarkable memory astounded him. The old man seemed to have forgotten nothing of his earlier days in California and his knowledge of GSP & L history at times exceeded Nim's.

While her husband was having his "battery charge," Beth Yale served tea before the fire. Soon after, Paul Yale reappeared.

He announced, "I heard you talking about the family trust."

His wife put fresh water into the teapot and set a cup before him. "I've always said you have ears which reach around corners."

"That's from years in court-straining to hear lawyers when they mumble.

You'd be surprised how many do." Paul Yale addressed Nim. "That trust fund Beth spoke of was set up because my grandfather hoped public service would become a tradition in our family. He believed anyone who traveled that route should not have to worry about having an adequate income. It's not a fashionable viewpoint nowadays, but I happen to agree. I've seen too many people in Washington's high places have to scratch around for extra money. It leaves them open to temptations."

The justice drank the tea his wife had poured, and observed, "A civilized custom, afternoon tea. It's something we owe the British; that, and the great body of our law." He put his cup down. "Anyway, as Beth said, the trust fund has been mismanaged. While I was on the Court there was nothing I could do, but now I've begun to repair some of the damage." He chuckled. "That is, as well as working for GSP & L."

"It isn't for ourselves," Beth Yale added. "But we have grandchildren who show signs of going into public life. It may help them later."

Nim sensed that the family trust fund was a sore point with the Yales.

Confirming this, Paul Yale grumbled, “The trust owns a winery, a cattle feedlot, two apartment buildings in the city and-can you believe it?-all of them have been losing money, creating debts, eating into capital. Last week I leaned hard on the administrator-read him the riot act about cutting down expenses." He stopped abruptly. "Beth, we're boring this young man with our family problems. Let's get back to God's Power & Love."

Nim laughed at the name, used by old-timers in the state for GSP & L.

"I'm concerned, as I'm sure you are, about all the sabotage and killings that have been going on," Paul Yale said. “The people who claim responsibility-what is it they call themselves?"

"Friends of Freedom."

"Ah, yes. An interesting exercise in logic: 'Be free my way or I'll blow you to pieces.' Are the police any closer to tracking them down, do you know?"

"Apparently not."

"Why do those people do it?" Beth Yale asked. "That's what's so hard to understand."

"A few of us at the company have done some thinking and talking about that," Nim told her.

Paul Yale asked, "What kind of thinking?"

Nim hesitated. He had mentioned the subject on impulse and now, under Mr. Justice Yale's penetrating gaze, he wished he hadn't. However, the question had to be answered.

Nim explained the police theory that the Friends of Freedom group was small, with one man the brains and leader. "Assuming that to be true, we thought that if we could get, even partially, inside the mind of the leader-we call him X-we'd improve our chances of catching him. We might even get lucky, guess what he would plan next, and be ready."

What Nim did not say was that the idea had occurred to him after the latest bombings when the security guards were murdered. Since then he, Harry London, Teresa Van Buren and Oscar O'Brien had met three times for lengthy brainstorming sessions and, while nothing positive had developed, all four felt they were moving closer to an understanding of the unknown saboteurs and 'X.' O'Brien, who still harbored hostility to Nim because of the Tunipah hearings, had opposed the suggestion at first, calling it "time wasting." But later the general counsel relented and joined in. He was something of a scholar and, with his sharp lawyer's mind, contributed substantially to the discussions.

"You've assumed your X is a man," Paul Yale said. "Have you considered the possibility of a woman?"

"Yes, but the odds favor a man, mainly because those tape recordings, received after every bombing, are of a man's voice and it's a reasonable assumption be is 'X' Also we concluded that in history almost all leaders of armed revolutions have been men; psychologists say women's minds are too logical and the details of revolution seldom make sense. Joan of Arc was an exception."

Paul Yale smiled. "What other theories do you have?"

"Well, even though the leader isn't a woman, we're convinced there is a woman in the so-called Friends of Freedom, and almost certainly she's close to X-

"Why do you believe that?"

"For several reasons. Number one, X is extremely vain. The tape recordings show that clearly; our 'think group' played all of them many times. Number two, he's strongly masculine. One thing we listened for was any hint of homosexuality, either in intonation or words. There wasn't any. On the contrary the tone, the choice of words . . . well, the description we all came up with after playing the tapes over and over was 'a young, robust male."'

Beth Yale had been listening intently. Now she said, "So your X is macho. Where does that lead you?"

"To a woman, we believe," Nim. answered. "Our reasoning was that a man like X would need to have a woman around; he couldn't exist without one. Also, she has to be a confidante-for the practical reason that she would be close, also because his vanity demands it. Look at it this way: X sees himself as a heroic figure, which is something else the tapes show. Therefore he would want his woman to view him the same way. So that's another reason she has to know about, and probably share in, what he's doing."

"Well," Paul Yale said, "you certainly have an abundance of theories." He sounded amused and skeptical. "I'd say, though, you've pushed supposition-pure conjecture, unsubstantiated-to the limits and beyond."

Nim conceded, "Yes, I suppose we have." He felt embarrassed, foolish. In light of a Supreme Court justice's reaction, all that he had just related seemed unconvincing, even absurd-especially now that he was away from the other three. He decided not to pass on the remainder of the think group's conclusions, though they were clear in his own mind.

The police were convinced, because of the modus operandi and a hint in the latest tape recording, that the Friends of Freedom leader, "X," was the actual murderer of the two guards. The quartet of Nim, London, Van Buren and O'Brien, after discussion, shared that view. Furthermore, they had argued at length among themselves and now believed that 'X"s woman was at the murder site. Their eventual reasoning: the project had been 'X"s most ambitious to date and, consciously or subconsciously, he would have wanted her to see him in action. Which made her not only a witness but an accessory to murder.

So how did that knowledge-or, rather, position-put them closer to learning the identity of "X"?

The answer: It didn't. But it revealed a potential weakness, a vulnerability, of "X," to be exploited. How to exploit it, if at all, was something unresolved.

Now, Nim thought, it all seemed way, way out.

He decided: Paul Yale's assessment was probably the kind of cold douche they all needed. Tomorrow he would consider dropping the whole "think tank" idea, leaving detective work where it belonged with the police, FBI, and various sheriff's departments, all of whom were working on the Friends of Freedom case.

His thoughts were interrupted by arrival of the Yales' housekeeper, who reported, "A car for Mr. Goldman has arrived."

"Thank you," Nim said. He rose to leave. A second company limousine had been ordered for him from the city since Eric Humphrey, who had a later engagement, had left the valley immediately after lunch.

Nim told the Yales, "It was a privilege to meet you both. And when you need me again, sir, I'm available."

"I'm sure I will soon," Paul Yale said, "and I enjoyed our talk." His eyes twinkled. "At least, the substantial part of it."

Nim resolved mentally that in future, when dealing with someone of Paul Sherman Yale's stature, he would confine himself to solid facts.

7

The big break, for Harry London, came swiftly and unexpectedly.

The Property Protection chief was in his small, glass cubicle office the department had still not been given permanent quarters and continued to operate in makeshift space-when he heard his secretary's telephone ring outside. A moment later his own extension buzzed. He picked up the phone lazily because that was how he felt. The past two months had been a desultory period in which nothing major had occurred concerning theft of service. Routine prevailed. In late summer a computer study had revealed a staggering thirty thousand possible cases of power theft and, since then, London, his deputy Art Romeo, and their staff-now increased to five investigators-had been checking out the suspect cases one by one. As Harry London knew from his experience as a Los Angeles detective, it was like most police work-plodding, repetitious, wearying.

And results were mixed.

About ten percent of the investigations so far had produced sufficient evidence for GSP & L to charge customers with cheating and to claim payment for estimated arrears. Another ten percent showed changes in consumption levels to be for valid reasons, such as genuine conservation, the consumers innocent. The remainder of cases were inconclusive. Of the provable cases, only a handful had been sufficiently serious to merit prosecution. To all concerned the task seemed slow and endless. Which was why Harry London, his chair tilted back, feet up on his desk, had reached a state of ennui on this particular mid-December afternoon.

"Yeah?" he said into the phone.

A whispering, barely audible voice inquired, "This Mr. London?"

"Yes, it is."

"This here's Ernie, janitor at the Zaco Building. Mr. Romeo said to call him or you if them guys come back. They're here now."

Harry London's feet bit the floor like slingshots. He snapped upright in his chair. “The same ones who bypassed the meters?"

"It's them all right. They come in a truck, same's before. They're workin' now. Listen, cain't stay on this phone more'n a minute."

"You don't have to," London said, "so listen carefully. Get the license number of that truck."

"Already got it."

"Great! Now, some of us will be down there as fast as we can make it. While we're on the way, don't do anything to make those men suspicious, but if they start to leave, try to keep them talking." While speaking, London pressed a button summoning his secretary.

The caller, still whispering, sounded doubtful. "Do it if I can. Listen, Mr. Romeo said I'd get paid if . . ."

"You'll get yours, my friend. That's a promise. Now just do what I said. I'm leaving now." London slammed down the phone.

His secretary, a young, bright Chinese-American named Suzy, was standing in the doorway. He told her, "I need help from the city police. Phone Lieutenant Wineski; you know where to get him. If Wineski isn't available, ask someone else in the Detective Division to meet me at the Zaco Building. Say the case I told Wineski about is breaking. Then try to get Art Romeo. Tell him the same thing, and to bust his ass and get to Zaco. Got it?"

"I have it Mr. London," Suzy said.

"Good kid!" London hurried out and ran for the elevator which would take him to the basement parking garage.

Going down, be calculated that with fast driving and reasonable traffic he could be at the Zaco Building in ten minutes or less.

* * *

Harry London's estimate overlooked two factors-early commuter traffic out of the city and Christmas shoppers, clogging downtown streets and slowing movement to a crawl. It took him a frustrating twenty minutes to reach the Zaco Building, which was on the opposite side of the city's business district. As he pulled up, he recognized an unmarked police car which had preceded him by seconds only. Two men in plain clothes were getting out. One was Lieutenant Wineski. London blessed his good luck. Wineski was a friend, a police officer whom London had cultivated and whose presence would save time-wasting explanations.

Lieutenant Wineski had seen London and was waiting, the other officer beside him. The second man was a detective named Brown whom London knew slightly.

"What gives, Harry?" Wineski was young, smart, ambitious; he kept his body trim and, unlike most of his detective colleagues, dressed well. He also liked unusual cases because, more often than not, they brought publicity.

Around police headquarters the guessing was that Boris Wineski would go high in the force, possibly to the top.

London answered, "A hot tip, Boris. Let's go." Together the trio hurried across the forecourt of the building.

Two decades earlier the twenty-three story, reinforced-concrete Zaco Building had been modem and fashionable, the kind of place where a topflight brokerage house or advertising agency might have rented several floors. Now, like other office structures of its genre, it was showing signs of seediness, and some of the first-class tenants had moved to newer buildings where glass and aluminum predominated. Most of the Zaco Building's space was still rented, but to less prestigious tenants with a high attrition rate. It was a safe assumption that the building was less profitable than in its heyday.

All of this Harry London knew from earlier investigation.

The building's lobby, of imitation marble, with a bank of elevators facing the main entrance, was beginning to fill with departing office workers.

Dodging the outgoing flow, London led the way to an inconspicuous metal door which he knew, from a surreptitious previous visit, opened onto a stairway providing access to three lower floors.

On the way in he had given the two detectives a quick summary of the phone call twenty-five minutes earlier. Now, hurrying down cement stairs shielded by fire doors, he found himself praying that the men they were seeking had not already left.

Something else the Property Protection chief knew was that the extensive electric and gas metering and controls were on the lowest floor. From there the building's general power supplies were monitored-for heating, elevator operation, air conditioning and lighting.

Near the foot of the last stairway a thin, gaunt man in coveralls, with unkempt sandy hair and a stubble of beard, appeared to be inspecting garbage cans. He looked up, then abandoned what he was doing and came forward as Harry London and the detectives clattered down.

"Mr. London?" Unmistakably it was the same weak voice as on the telephone.

"Right. You Ernie, the janitor?"

The man in coveralls nodded. "Sure took your time."

“Never mind that. Those men still here?"

'Inside." the janitor motioned to a metal door, similar to others on the floors above.

'How many?"

'Three. Listen, how 'bout my money?"

"For Chrissake!" London said impatiently. "You'll get it."

Lieutenant Wineski cut in. "Is anybody else in there?"

The janitor, looking surly, shook his head. "Ain't nobody else down here but me."

"All right." Wineski moved forward, taking command. He told the other detective and London, "We'll do this fast. Harry, you come in last. When we're inside, stay back by the door until I tell you." To the janitor: "You wait out here." Wineski put a hand on the metal door then ordered, "Now!”

As the door flew open, the trio rushed in.

Inside, against an interior wall some twenty-five feet away, three men were working. Afterward Harry London would report with relish: "If we'd mailed 'em a list, with specifications of how we'd like the evidence laid out they couldn't have done better."

An electric current transformer cabinet-installed, then locked by GSP & L-was open. Several transformer switches, it was discovered later, had been opened, bound with insulating tape, then closed. The effect was to reduce electric meter recordings by a third. A few feet away a gas meter had an illegal bypass partially exposed. Supplies and tools for the work being done were spread around-insulated pliers, socket wrenches, lead disc seals and a mechanic's seal press (both stolen from GSP & L), and the transformer cabinet casing with a key-also stolen-in its lock.

Wineski announced in a loud, clear voice, "We are police officers." He ordered, "Don't move! Leave everything where it is."

At the sound of the opening door, two of the men working had spun around.

The third, who was lying full length and working on the gas meter bypass, rolled sideways to see what was happening, then shifted quickly to a crouch. All three were wearing neat, uniform-type coveralls with shoulder patches bearing the intertwined initials Q.E.G.C. which later inquiry would enlarge to Quayle Electrical & Gas Contracting.

Of the two men nearest the entry door, one was huge, bearded, and with the physique of a wrestler. His forearms, where the sleeves were rolled back, showed bulging muscles. no other was young-he seemed little more than a boy-with a narrow, sharp-featured face. It registered instant fright.

The big, bearded man was less intimidated. Ignoring the command not to move, he grabbed a heavy pipe wrench, raised it, and leaped forward.

Harry London, who had stayed back as instructed, saw Wineski reach swiftly under his coat; an instant later a gun was in his hand. The detective rapped out, "I'm a crack shot. Is you move another foot I'll put a bullet in your leg." As the bearded giant hesitated: "Drop the wrench-now!"

The other detective, Brown, had produced a gun also, and reluctantly the would-be attacker obeyed.

"You by the wall!" Wineski snapped; the third man, older than the other two, was now standing upright and looked as if he would try to run. "Don't start anything! just turn around and face that wall! You other two-join him, do the same."

Scowling, with hatred in his eyes, the bearded man moved back. The youthful workman, his face white, his body visibly trembling, had already hurried to comply.

There was a pause in which three sets of handcuffs clicked.

"All right, Harry," Wineski called over. "Now tell us what all this stuff means."

"It's the kind of solid evidence we've been looking for," the Property Protection chief assured him. "Proof of big-time electric and gas stealing."

"You'll swear to that in court?"

"Sure will. So will others. We'll give you as many expert witnesses as you want."

"Good enough."

Wineski addressed the three handcuffed men. "Keep facing the wall but listen carefully. You are all under arrest and I am required to advise you of your rights. You are not obliged to make a statement. However, if you do . . ."

When the words of the familiar Miranda ritual were finished, Wineski motioned Brown and London to join him by the outer door. Keeping his voice low, be told them, "I want to split these birds. From the look of him, the kid's ready to break; he may talk. Brownie, get to a phone. Call in for another car."

"Right." the second detective put away his gun and went out.

The door to the stairway was now open and, moments later, hurrying feet could be beard coming down. As London and Wineski swung toward the doorway, Art Romeo appeared and the two relaxed.

Harry London told his deputy, "Pay dirt. Take a look."

The little man who, as usual, looked like a shifty underworld cbaracter himself, Surveyed the scene and whistled softly.

Lieutenant Wineski, who had known Romeo before he worked for GSP & L, told him, "If that's camera equipment you've got, better start shooting."

"Will do, Lieutenant." Romeo unslung a black leather case from his shoulder and began assembling a pbotoflash unit.

While he was taking several dozen photographs, from various angles, of the spread-out equipment and uncompleted illegal work, police reinforcements arrived-two uniformed officers, accompanied by the returning Detective Brown.

A few minutes later the arrested men were led out-the youngest, still frightened, first and separately. While one uniformed officer remained to guard the evidence, Wineski followed. He told Harry London with a wink, "Want to question that kid myself. Let you know what happens."

8

"Wineski was dead right," Harry London informed Nim Goldman. “The kid-he was eighteen, by the way, and not long out of trade school-broke down and spilled his guts. Then Wineski and Brown used what he told them to pry more information out of the other two."

It was four days after the confrontation and arrests at the Zaco Building. Immediately following those events London had reported briefly to Nim. Now, as Nim's guest at lunch in the officers' dining room at GSP & L headquarters, he was supplying further details.

"Go ahead," Nim said, "tell me more." they had paused to enjoy large mouthfuls of lamb stew-a popular "special of the day" for which the chef was noted.

"Well, according to Boris Wineski, when they questioned the big guy-his name is Kasner-he didn't talk much. He's street-wise, has an arrest record, no convictions. The older one, who was working on the gas bypass, let out a few things we didn't know, then he clammed up too. By that time, though, it didn't matter. The police had all the important information-and their truck."

"Oh, yes, the truck. Did the police impound it?"

"Damn right!" Not surprisingly, London sounded happy; he had been in an upbeat mood for the past few days. "That truck was loaded up with even more evidence of illegality than was left around in the Zaco Building.

There were electric meters, seals, locking rings and keys, meter-size jumper cables, you name it. And almost all the stuff was stolen-naturally. You can't buy those items on the open market. One thing we now believe is that the Quayle people have a helper right here in the company who has been their source of supply. We're working on the accomplice angle."

"That Quayle outfit," Nim queried, "What's been found out about them?"

"Plenty. First, there was enough damaging stuff on the truck and in the Zaco Building for Wineski to ask for a warrant to search the Quayle offices. He did ask, and he got it fast. Result: the police were in there before the Quayle people even knew their men had been arrested."

"Don't let your stew get cold," Nim said. "It's good."

"Sure is. Fix it so that I eat up here more often, would you?"

"Go on getting the kind of results you did last week, and you could be up here regularly before you know it."

The dining room, reserved for company vice presidents and above, and their guests, was modest in size and decor, so as not to create an impression of opulence when outsiders were brought in. But the food was exceptional. Its quality far exceeded that of the general staff cafeteria located on a lower floor.

"Getting back to Quayle Electrical & Gas," London said, "first they've got a legit business-good size, with a fleet of twenty-five trucks. They also have a string of subcontractors, smaller firms, to whom they farm out work.

The way it looks now-and again I'm quoting Lieutenant Wineski-is that Quayle has used the legitimate side of its business as a cover for power stealing, which they've been into in a big way. There was a lot more material on their premises-the same kind of stuff that was on the truck they sent to Zaco."

"Tell me one thing," Nim said. "If a company like Quayle was legit to begin with, why in God's name would they get into power theft?"

London shrugged. “The oldest reason: Money. Some of this is guesswork, but the way the pieces are coming together it looks as if Quayle -like a lot of businesses nowadays-has had trouble making a profit because of high costs. But the illegal stuff shows a big profit. Why? Because they can charge maybe five, six, seven times what they would for ordinary work. And the outfits they do it for-like the Zacc, Building are glad to pay because they expect even bigger savings in their costs. Something else you have to remember, Nim, is that until recently it's all been easy, a pushover; they've gotten away with it."

“The way it all sounds," Nim said, "there's still a good deal to unravel?"

"A big ball of yarn," London acknowledged. "And it could be months before the whole picture becomes clear. Right now, though, two things are helping. One, the D.A.'s office is really interested; they've put a prosecutor on the case and Wineski's working with him. Two, the Quayle outfit kept detailed records of all its jobs, and those of subcontractors too."

Nim asked, "And the police have those records?"

"Right-except the D.A. may have them by now. They turned up in the search. Only trouble is, there's nothing to show what work was legitimate, and what was illegal. That's where my department, my people, are helping out."

“In what way?"

'We're checking every job that the Quayle outfit did in the past year. Something their records-work orders-show is precisely what materials were used in each case. If we can show they were stolen or used for illegal purposes-and in a lot of instances it looks as if we can-the D.A. will have a big, fat, prosecutable case."

Nim ruminated, digesting the information be had been given. He asked,

"How about the company that owns the Zaco Building, and other people Quayle did illegal work for? Presumably we'll be going after them too?"

"Damn right we are! There should be records of payments to Quayle Electrical in the books of Zaco, and the others, which opens up another whole side to the case." London's voice reflected mounting enthusiasm. "I'm telling you, Nim, we've uncovered a fat rat's nest. I predict some big names in this town will have mud on them before all this is over."

“The chairman will want a detailed report," Nim said. "And progress reports later."

"He'll get them. So will you."

"How about staff? Can you handle all this with the people you have now?"

"Not sure yet, Nim. I may need some help. If so, I'll let you know next week."

"What's happened to the three men who were arrested?"

“They're out on bail. The police are protecting the kid, hiding him, because they intend to use him as a prosecution witness. By the way, one thing he let out was that only some of the Quayle crews-the trusted ones-have been doing power theft installations. If we can narrow that down to which crews, it should make investigation easier."

"Just one thing puzzles me," Nim said. "Since the illegal work at the Zaco Building was already done, why did the Quayle crew go back?"

"That's one great big laugh," London answered. "A laugh on them. That way the kid heard it, and told Wineski, somebody in charge at Zaco heard a rumble about our snooping-Art Romeo's and mine. It had them worried. So they decided not to steal as much, and what those three guys were doing was modifying the work they'd done earlier. If they'd left well enough alone, we could have stewed forever, waiting."

"Speaking of stew," Nim said, "have some more."

* * *

Later that afternoon, while Nim was with J. Eric Humphrey in the chairman's office suite, he described the substance of the Property Protection chief's report. "You could think of it as a small Christmas present," Nim said.

Humphrey expressed brief approval, smiled at the reference to Christmas, which was five days away, then let the subject drop. As Nim was aware, other matters were weighing more heavily on the chairman's mind.

One was Tunipah. Another was water. A third was oil.

Hearings on GSP&L's Tunipah license application before the California Energy Commission were proceeding even more slowly than anticipated, their pace described by Oscar O'Brien the day before: "A snail by comparison is supersonic." Clearly it would be months before the present, first stage of hearings was concluded, with the prospect of subsequent stages stretching on for years. Coupled with that the other related hearings-before the Public Utilities Commission, Water Quality Resources Board, and Air Resources Board-had not even begun.

As a result, O'Brien had now revised his earlier estimate that licensing procedures would take six to seven years. “The way things are going," he reported yesterday, "it could be eight years, even ten, before we get permission to start construction. Assuming we ever do."

As to other proposed generating plants, including Devil's Gate pumped storage and Fincastle geothermal, progress was equally, dispiritingly slow.

And all the while, as Eric Humphrey, Nim, and others in the GSP&L hierarchy realized, a day of reckoning was drawing closer; a day when public demands for electric power would surpass by far what could be produced with existing facilities. On that day and beyond, the unbuilt plants of Tunipah, Fincastle, Devil's Gate, et al, would be desperately, but vainly, longed for.

Water was the second reason for the chairman's concern. Despite two winter storms with accompanying rainfall, seasonal precipitation in California so far had been alarmingly small. Reservoirs, depleted by an earlier drought were far below normal levels for the third week of December. And snow, which usually fell heavily in the Sierra Nevada and elsewhere, had been exceptionally light or nonexistent.

In a good precipitation year, winter snow was money in the bank for a huge public utility like Golden State Power & Light. When the snow melted in the spring, great rivers and streams cascaded downward, filling reservoirs which would fuel a vast network of hydroelectric power stations during the summer ahead.

Now, according to estimates which Eric Humphrey had been given, hydroelectric power next year might be reduced by twenty-five percent because of the lack of runoff water.

Then oil.

For Golden State Power & Light, as well as other public utilities companies, along both coasts, oil loomed as the largest question mark, the biggest potential worry of them all.

Only that morning, in the Chronicle-West, a syndicated business columnist had summed up the situation:

The danger about oil has been creeping up, like a tiger in the grass, while we haven't noticed or maybe didn't want to.

It began with the decline of the U.S. dollar several years ago -our once respected "greenback," but no longer strong, no longer "good as gold" because the dollar's gold backing was canceled out during the Nixon presidency.

Then, while the dollar plunged because of ineptitude and politics in Washington, the oil exporting nations of the Middle East, North and West Africa, Indonesia and Venezuela raised their dollar prices in an attempt to stay even.

That didn't work. The dollar continues to sink like the setting sun, worth less and less in terms of real value because the U.S. has paid (and goes on paying) far more for imported oil than it earns from exports.

And, as more dollars departed for Saudi Arabia, Iran and elsewhere, more were printed by the U. S. Treasury-depleting the dollar's value even further.

After that we witnessed some interim experiments payment for oil through a "basket of currencies" was one. (That's a highfalutin name for a mixture including deutschemarks, guilders, French and Swiss francs, pounds sterling, yen and dollars.) But that, too, proved ineffective because the ailing dollar and pound tipped the basket downward.

Finally, the oil nations demanded payment in the only money which, in this world's long history, has never failed to keep its value-gold.

The United States refused. It still does. (Of course you can see the Treasury's viewpoint. The U.S. doesn't have that much gold left, having squandered enormous amounts in futile attempts to "demonetize" gold. In fact, there's only sufficient in Fort Knox and the Fed Reserve banks to pay one year's oil bill with a bit left over.)

Instead the U. S. Treasury, which for more than a decade has relied on printing-press money-backed by nothing-to pay its way, has offered to run the presses faster and produce more paper dollars.

But this time the oil nations have been adamant. They have said, in effect, "If we want paper money we can print our own -without giving away our oil to get it." And, like the mythical Chinese laundryman who insisted, "No tickee, no washee," they now threaten: "No gold, no oil."

So, it seems, an impasse is imminent.

True, the oil has not stopped flowing-yet! Equally true: It could be a year or more before it does.

Meanwhile, discussions between governments are continuing, so a compromise is possible.

We'll wait and see.

The general uncertainty about oil was an ominous, overhanging cloud for GSP & L because nearly half of the company's generating capacity was dependent on oil fuel, the bulk of it imported.

Natural gas, which used to be available to generate electricity, was already in short supply.

Thus, the prospect of an oil, gas and water shortage simultaneously was something which Eric Humphrey, Nim, and other executives preferred not to think about-and shuddered when they did.

* * *

"Is there any chance, do you think," Eric Humphrey asked Paul Sherman Yale, "of the Governor's changing his mind and coming out with an endorsement of our Tunipah plans? After all, with an ongoing oil and gas crisis, what stronger argument is there for a coal-burning plant?"

Mr. Justice Yale had joined Humphrey and Nim shortly after Nim's report on theft of service. The previous day, GSP & L's new and distinguished spokesman had been in Sacramento at the state capitol.

“The Governor acknowledges that argument," Yale said, "and he's vacillating. I saw him yesterday and urged him to make a pro-Tunipah statement. I'd say the chances are sixty-forty that he will."

"I'm pleased to bear it." Humphrey noticeably brightened and Nim thought: Once more the chairman's wisdom in hiring Paul Yale was being demonstrated.

Yale seemed able to walk into the Governor's office without advance notice whenever he chose and the same was true of his access to senior legislators.

"I can tell you, gentlemen," Yale said, "that there's plenty of worrying in Sacramento about oil. 'nose I talked with yesterday, including the Governor, see gasoline rationing as inevitable soon, whether the present crisis is settled or not."

"Personally," Humphrey said, "I'd consider that a good thing. The way North Americans have used cars, especially big cars, squandering gasoline as if there were no tomorrow, has been gross and disgusting. The Europeans-rightly so-believe we're irresponsible."

Nim resisted an impulse to remind the chairman about his own big car.

Instead, be told Yale, "I hope Sacramento realizes that producing electricity is a much more economical use of oil than in an automobile."

Paul Sherman Yale smiled. "I assure you I lose no opportunity public and private-to make that clear."

Nim remembered that Yale had made that point publicly a week ago. It was on a TV program, meet the State Press, where, considering 2the short time since his appointment, the former Associate justice showed himself adroitly knowledgeable about GSP&L affairs. Watching the show at home, Nim had again felt regret at not being the utility's policy spokesman anymore. But honesty made him admit that Yale did the job superbly.

"I assume," Paul Yale said, "that Golden State Power still includes nuclear generating plants on its future shopping list."

"Officially, yes," Nim answered. "We have two nuclear plants under construction-got them licensed just before nuclear licensing became a practical impossibility. Also, we've applied for two more nuclear construction permits, but the application is getting nowhere. So unofficially." He shrugged.

“The fact is," Eric Humphrey added, "the likelihood of more nuclear plants being approved for California becomes increasingly remote. The only sure thing is that the nuclear debate-pro and con-will go on and on with nothing resolved. We can't wait."

Eric Humphrey's mind had swung back to their earlier discussion about oil. "I sometimes think if I were an Arab I'd refuse paper dollars for my oil and demand gold, or at least a gold-backed currency. I wonder if the United States will give in and use some of our gold, even though it would not last long."

"Do we even have as much gold as we're supposed to?" Nim asked. “There seems some doubt about it."

Humphrey looked surprised. Mr. Justice Yale didn't; a soft smile played around his lips.

"I subscribe to a financial newsletter-the International Harry Schultz Letter," Nim said. “There are often things in there which prove to be true but newspapers don't seem to want to publish. Schultz has been writing about two men-a Washington lawyer, Dr. Peter Beter, who used to be counsel for the United States Export-Import Bank, and Edward Durell, an American industrialist. Both are shouting 'fraud' about Fort Knox gold, claiming there may be a lot less there that the world believes."

Paul Sherman Yale nodded. "Quite a few in Washington have heard of both men, but not many will admit it. Incidentally, I subscribe to Schultz's letter too."

"What Beter and Durell argue," Nim explained to Humphrey, "is that Fort Knox gold hasn't been audited properly since 1953. They also claim that most of the remaining gold is impure-from melted-down coins containing silver, copper and antimony, which President Roosevelt called in when gold ownership for Americans was made illegal. That alone would mark the gold holdings down by twenty percent, possibly more."

"I've not beard that before," Humphrey said. "It's interesting."

Nim went on, “There's more. It's believed that in the 1960 dollar crisis a whole lot of U.S. gold was used to support the dollar, with the intention it would be replaced. It never was."

"In that case," Humphrey asked, "why keep it a secret?"

Paul Yale interjected, "That's easy to answer. If the rest of the world believed the United States doesn't have the gold it claims to, there would be a fresh run on the dollar-panic selling." He added thoughtfully, "I've heard rumors in Washington about that missing gold. They say every new Treasury Secretary is sworn to secrecy, then told the facts. One thing is clear: the government won't permit an independent audit of Fort Knox gold." He shrugged. "I have no means of knowing if any of what Beter and Durell claim is true. But stranger things have happened, especially in Washington."

Eric Humphrey sighed. “There are days," he told Yale, "when I find myself wishing my assistant were less well informed, that be read less widely, and once in a while reined in that searching mind of his. As if I didn't have enough to worry about-Tunipah, coal, water, gas, oilnow he's added gold."

9

In the chairman's mahogany-paneled office in the Sequoia Club's Cable Hill headquarters, Laura Bo Carmichael hesitated, her pen poised over a check in front of her. It was for twenty-five thousand dollars.

The check was drawn on the club's special projects account. It was payable to: power & light for people.

The money would be the second installment of the total-fifty thousand dollars-pledged to Davey Birdsong's organization last August, five months ago. The first payment had been made immediately following the confidential agreement between the Sequoia Club and p&lfp. Now the second half was due.

The signature of Roderick Pritchett, the Sequoia Club's manager secretary, was already on the check, one line below where the chairman's was required. With a squiggle of Laura Bo's pen-her signature was usually unreadable-she could make the check official. Yet still she hesitated.

The decision to ally the Sequoia Club with p & lfp had plagued her with doubts, immediately after it was made and ever since.

These doubts were reinforced at the Tunipah hearings where Davey Birdsong, she thought-,- ha& behaved -abominably. All of Laura Bo's intellect rebelled against what she saw as his cheap, shoddy tactics, his clownish playing to the gallery, his cynical appeal to the lowest levels of intelligence.

Now she asked herself again: Had she been wrong in casting the deciding vote which approved the alliance and made the money available? Had the respected Sequoia Club debased and dishonored itself by an association, for which-if the truth became public, as it might-Laura Bo, as chairman, would be held responsible?

Shouldn't she have sided, after all, with Priscilla Quinn, who had laid her opinion about Birdsong on the line? Laura Bo could remember clearly and uncomfortably-Priscilla's words: "All my instincts are against trusting him . . . I have principles, something that disgusting man appears to lack." And afterward: "I think you will all regret that vote. I wish my dissent to be recorded."

Laura Bo Carmichael regretted her vote already. She put her pen down, the check still unsigned, and reached for an intercom handset. When the manager-secretary answered, she asked,

"Roderick, could you come in, please?"

"It occurs to me," she told him a few minutes later, "that we might reconsider making this second payment. If the first was a mistake, then at least we need not compound it."

Pritchett, dapper and well groomed as usual, seemed surprised. He took off his rimless glasses and polished them with a handkerchief, a time-honored, time-consuming tactic.

"Has it occurred to you, Madam Chairman," he said, replacing the glasses, "that if we withheld those funds we would be violating an agreement, honorably entered into, and fulfilled-so far-by the other side?"

"But has it been fulfilled? What did we get for the first twenty-five thousand-Birdsong's histrionics at the Tunipah bearings?"

"I'd say," Pritchett said, picking his way carefully among the words, "that Birdsong has achieved a good deal more than histrionics. His tactics, while rough-certainly rougher than we could resort to ourselves have been shrewd. So far he has caused most of the media's attention to be focused on opposition to Tunipah while the arguments of Golden State Power have received only trifling attention. He also succeeded in demolishing their key witness, Goldman-first by provoking him, then standing back while Goldman antagonized everyone in sight, including his own company."

"I felt sorry for him," Laura Bo said. "I've known Nim Goldman for a long time and, while he may be misguided, he's honest and sincere. He did not deserve what happened."

Pritchett said primly, "In these kind of contests some of those intervened-and their reputations-are apt to get bruised. The important thing, from the point of view of the Sequoia Club, is to win. Where Tunipah is concerned I believe we will."

"And I've never believed," Laura Bo responded, "in winning at all costs. I listened to that argument many years ago. To my dying day I will regret not contesting it."

The manager-secretary felt like sighing but restrained himself. He had encountered Mrs. Carmichael's recurring guilt about Hiroshima/Nagasaki many times before and had learned to cope with it. Nimbly backtracking, he assured her, "My choice of words was unfortunate. What I should have said is that the agreement with Birdsong will help attain our objectives, which are admirable, as we both know."

"But where is all that money going?"

"Some of it to Birdsong himself, of course. After all, be's putting in many hours personally-still attending those hearings every day, cross-examining new witnesses, at the same time keeping himself and opposition to Tunipah in the news. Then there are his supporters. He's managed to pack the hearing room with them continuously; that alone gives an impression of strong, spontaneous opposition to Tunipah from the public."

"Are you suggesting it is not spontaneous? That Birdsong pays those people to be there?"

"Not all." Again Pritchett chose his words warily; he knew bow it was being done because he had talked to Birdsong, but was reluctant to be specific. "Let's say some of those people have expenses, they have to absent themselves from work, and so on. Also those same supporters, or others Birdsong recruited, staged demonstrations at the Golden State Power & Light annual meeting. He told us about his plans there, if you remember, when we met."

Laura Bo Carmichael appeared shocked. "Paid demonstrators! A paid disruption of an annual meeting! All of it with our money. I do not like it."

"May I remind you of something, Madam Chairman," Pritchett remonstrated.

"We entered into this arrangement with p & lfp with our eyes open. When our committee met-Mr. Irwin Saunders, Mrs. Quinn, you, me-we were aware that Birdsong's methods might be, well . . . unorthodox compared with our own. A few days ago I went over my notes of that August meeting and we agreed there could be certain things 'we'd be better off not knowing! Those, incidentally, were Mr. Saunders' exact words."

"But did Irwin, at that time, understand Birdsong's methods?"

"I think," Pritchett said drily, "as an experienced lawyer be had a pretty good idea."

The point was valid. As his friends and enemies knew, Irwin Saunders was a rough-and-tumble fighter in the courts and was not noted for ethical niceties. Perhaps more accurately than anyone, be had judged in advance how Birdsong would work.

The manager-secretary, though not mentioning it to Laura Bo, was also concerned about another matter involving lawyer Saunders.

Roderick Pritchett was due to retire soon. Saunders was the influential chairman of the Sequoia Club's finance committee, which would decide how large a pension-or how small-Pritchett would receive.

The club's pensions for retired staff were neither automatic nor fixed, but based on years of service and the committee's opinion of an individual's performance. Roderick Pritchett, who knew he had had his critics across the years, particularly wanted to look good to Saunders in these final months, and the Tunipah hearings and Davey Birdsong could be critical factors.

He told Laura Bo, "Mr. Saunders is delighted with Birdsong's efforts in opposing Tunipah. He telephoned to say so and reminded me that Birdsong promised 'continual harassment of Golden State Power & Light on a broad front! The p & lfp has delivered on that. Another thing agreed to was no violence-you may recall I raised that point specifically. Birdsong has also kept his promise there."

Laura Bo asked, "And have you heard from Priscilla Quinn?"

"No." Roderick Pritchett smiled. "But, of course, Mrs. Quinn would be elated, even triumphant, if you backed down now and refused to make that second payment. I imagine she would go around telling everyone she was right and you were wrong."

It was a shrewd thrust. Both of them knew it.

If the original decision were reversed at this late stage, it would be remembered that Laura Bo Carmichael had cast the pivotal vote; therefore her embarrassment would be acute, not least because of the accompanying admission that twenty-five thousand dollars of the club's money had been spent unwisely. And Priscilla Quinn's sharp tongue would make the most of that.

Woman versus woman. For all her disdain of femininity, her determination not to let her sex influence her decisions, in the end it was Laura Bo's womanly pride which proved persuasive.

Picking up her pen, she scribbled a signature on the p & 4 check and banded it to a smiling Roderick Pritchett.

The check was mailed to Birdsong later that same day.

10

"We need more violence! More, more, more!" Davey Birdsong thumped a clenched fist angrily, his voice raised to a shout. "A pisspot ful more, to shake people up! And some bloody, messy deaths; a lot of them. It's the only way, the absolute only way, to stir the goddam dumb public off their complacent asses and get action. You don't seem to realize it."

Across the rough wooden table which divided them, Georgos Winslow Archambault's thin, ascetic face flushed at the final accusation. He leaned forward and insisted, "I do realize that. But what you are talking about requires organization and time. I'm doing my best, but we can't take on a target every night."

"Why in bell not?" the big, bearded man glared at Georgos. "For Chrissakes! All you do now is let off some pissant firecrackers, then laze around here for a goddam month's vacation."

Their discussion, which had quickly developed into an argument, was taking place in the basement workshop of the rented east-side house the Friends of Freedom hideaway. As usual the workshop was cluttered with tools and hardware of destruction-wires, metal parts, chemicals, timing mechanisms, and explosives. Birdsong had arrived ten minutes ago after taking his usual precautions against being followed.

"I told you before, there's enough bread for whatever you need," the p& Ifp leader continued. The trace of a smile lighted his face. "And I just got more."

“The money is important" Georgos conceded. "But we take the risks here.

You don't."

"Goddammiti-you're supposed to take risks. You're a soldier of the revolution, aren't you? And I take risks too-of a different kind."

Georgos shifted uncomfortably. He resented this entire dialogue, just as be did the increasing dominance of Birdsong, which had happened since Georgos' own source of funds dried up and Birdsong's replaced it. More than ever Georgos bated his movie-actress mother, who, without knowing it, had financed Friends of Freedom in the beginning, then had ceased to do so with the ending of Georgos' allowance through the Athens law firm.

He had read in a newspaper recently that she was seriously ill. He hoped it was something painful and terminal.

“The last attack on the enemy," Georgos declared stiffly, "was our most successful. We caused a power failure over one hundred square miles."

"Sure. And what effect did it have?" Contemptuously, Birdsong answered his own question. "Nil! Were any of our demands met? No! You killed two lousy pig security guards. Who cares? Nobody!”

"I'll admit it was surprising and disappointing that none of our demands. . ."

Birdsong cut him off. “They won't be met! Not until there are bodies in the streets. Blood-drenched, putrefying piles of bodies. Not until the dead cause panic among the living. That's the lesson of every revolution! It's the only message the docile, moronic bourgeois understand."

"I know all that." then, sarcastically, "Perhaps you have some better ideas for .

"You're damn right I do! Now listen to me."

Birdsong lowered his voice; his anger and contempt appeared to dissipate. It was as if, like a schoolmaster, he had impressed the need to learn upon a pupil. Now the lesson itself, in lower key, would follow.

"First," he said, "we state some articles of faith. We ask ourselves: Why are we doing what we are? And the answer is: Because the existing system in this country is stinking, rotten, corrupt, oppressive, spiritually bankrupt. What's more, the system can't be changed-that's been tried-, it doesn't work. So everything existing, the whole geared-to-the rich, grind-the-poor capitalist system, has to be destroyed to allow us the true believers, we who love our fellow men-to build anew and decently. The revolutionary is the only one who sees that clearly. And the destruction, piece by piece, is what Friends of Freedom-along with others like us-are beginning to do."

While he talked, Davey Birdsong sbowed-as he had elsewhere-his chameleon quality. In part he had become the university lecturer-persuasive, eloquent; in part he was a mystic, speaking to his own inner soul as much as to Georgos.

He continued, "So where does the destruction begin? Ideally, everywhere. But because, so far, we are few in numbers, we choose a common denominator-electricity. It affects all the populace. It lubricates the wheels of capitalism. It makes the bloated rich more bloated still. It allows minor comforts-palliatives-to the proletariat, deluding the masses into believing they are free. It is capitalism's tool, an opiate. Cut off the electricity, disrupt the core of its system, and you thrust a dagger in capitalism's heart!"

Brightening, Georgos injected, "Lenin said, 'Communism is Soviet government plus the electrification of . . ."'

"Don't interrupt! I know exactly what Lenin said, and it was in another context."

Georgos subsided. This was a new and different Birdsong from the several variants he had seen before. Also there seemed little doubt, at this moment, about who was in command.

"But," the big man resumed-be had risen and was striding back and forth-"we have seen that more is required than disruption of electricity alone. We must draw greater attention to Friends of Freedom, and our objectives, by disrupting-destroying-electricity's people."

"We already did some of that," Georgos pointed out. "When we blew up their La Mission plant; then the letter bombs. We killed their chief engineer, their president . . ."

"Piddling numbers! Penny antel I mean something big, where the killing will not be in ones and twos but hundreds. Where bystanders will be wiped out too, proving there's no safety on the sidelines of a revolution. Then our aims get attention! That's when fear will set in, followed by panic. When all in authority and below, everyone, will be scurrying to do exactly what we want!"

Davey Birdsong's eyes were focused on the distance, clearly far beyond the dismal, disordered basement. It was as if he were seeing a dream, a vision, Georgos thought-and found the experience heady and infectious.

The prospect of more killing excited Georgos. The night of the bombing at Millfield, after he had slain the two security guards, he had been briefly sickened; it was, after all, the first time he had killed another human being face to face. But the feeling quickly passed, to be replaced by a sense of elation and-curiously, he thought-sexual arousement. He had taken Yvette that night and used her savagely, reliving, while he did, the powerful upward knife thrust with which he had killed the first guard. And now, remembering, listening to Birdsong's talk about mass killings, Georgos felt his sexual organs stir again.

Birdsong said quietly, “The opportunity we need is coming soon."

He produced a folded newspaper page. It was from the California Examiner of two days earlier and a single-paragraph item had been ringed in red crayon.

POWER GROUP TO MEET

Possible nationwide shortages of electric power will be discussed next month when the National Electric Institute holds a four-day convention in the city's Christopher Columbus Hotel. A thousand delegates from public utilities and electrical manufacturers are expected to attend.

"I scratched around for more details," Birdsong said. "Here are the exact dates of the convention and a preliminary program." He tossed two typewritten sheets on the workshop table. "It will be easy to get the final program later. That way we'll know where everybody is, and when."

Georgos' eyes were agleam with interest, his resentment of a few minutes earlier forgotten. He gloated, "All those big wheels from power outfits-social criminals! We can mail letter bombs to selected delegates. If I begin work now . . ."

"No! At best you'd kill half a dozen-probably not that many because after the first explosion they'd get wise and take precautions."

Georgos conceded, "Yes, that's true. Then what do you . . . ?"

"I have a better idea. Much, much better; also bigger." Birdsong permitted himself a thin, grim smile. "During the second day of that convention, when everybody has arrived, you and your people will plant two series of bombs in the Christopher Columbus Hotel. The first set of bombs will be exactly timed to go off during the night-say at 3 am That stage of bombing will concentrate on the main floor and mezzanine. The objective will be to block or destroy all exits from the building as well as every stairway, every elevator. So no one can escape from the floors above when the second stage begins."

Georgos nodded his understanding, listening intently as Birdsong continued.

"A few minutes after the first bombs have exploded, other bombs also exactly timed-will go off on the floors above. Those will be fire bombs-as many as you can plant and all containing gasoline, so as to set the hotel on fire and keep it burning."

A wide, anticipatory smile spread over Georgos' face. He said breathlessly, "It's brilliant! Magnificent! And we can do it."

"If you do it right," Birdsong said, "not one person on those upper floors will leave that building alive. And at three in the morning, even those who stayed out late will be in bed. We will execute everybody: Those convention delegates-our main target for punishment-and their women, children, and all others in the hotel who have chosen to get in the way of a just revolution."

"I'll need more explosives; a whole lot." Georgos' mind was working fast. "I know how and where to get them, but it will cost."

"I already told you we have plenty of money. For this time out, and more."

"Getting the gasoline is no problem. But clockwork mechanisms-I agree with you the timing will have to be exact-those ought to come from out of town. Bought in small numbers from several places. That way we won't attract attention."

"I'll do that," Birdsong said. "I'll go to Chicago; it's far enough away. Get me a list of what you need."

Still concentrating, Georgos nodded. "I must have a floor plan of the botel-at least the main floor and mezzanine where we'll set the first explosives."

"Does it have to be exact?"

"No. Just a general layout."

“Then we'll draw our own. Anyone can walk in there, anytime."

"Something else which will have to be bought," Georgos said, "is several dozen fire extinguishers-portable ones, the red-painted kind that stand on their own base."

"Fire extinguishers! For Chrissakes, we want to start a fire, not put one out."

Georgos smiled slyly, knowing it was his turn to be superior. “The fire extinguishers will be emptied, their casings weakened, and our time bombs put inside them. It's something I've been working on. You can set down a fire extinguisher anywhere-especially in a hotel-without it being suspect or, most times, even noticed. If it is noticed, it simply looks as if the management is taking extra safety precautions."

Grinning broadly, Birdsong leaned forward and thumped Georgos on the shoulders. "That's diabolical! Beautifully diabolical!"

"We can work out later how to get the extinguishers into the hotel." Georgos was still thinking aloud. "It shouldn't be difficult. We could 2rent a truck or buy one, and paint a fake company name on it, so it looks official. We'd print up some kind of authorization-maybe get a hotel purchase order and copy it-which our people would carry, in case they were stopped by anyone, asking questions. Then we'll want uniforms-for me, the others . . ."

"No problem about a truck or uniforms," Birdsong said, "and we'll work on the purchase order thing." He mused. "It's all coming together. I have that feeling. And when it's over, people will see our strength and fall over themselves to obey our orders."

"About the explosives," Georgos said. "I'll need ten thousand dollars cash-small bills-in the next few days, and after that . . ."

With mounting enthusiasm, they continued planning.

11

"If there's an obscure Jewish holiday which no one else ever heard of," Nim told Ruth, speaking from the driver's seat of his Fiat, "you can be sure your parents will dust it off and use it."

His wife, in the seat beside him, laughed. He had noticed, earlier this evening, when he came home from work and while they were getting ready to go out, that Ruth was in an easy, cheerful humor. It contrasted with the moodiness, and sometimes outright depression, she had exhibited in recent weeks.

It was now mid-January, and even though three months had passed since their talk about a possible divorce, and Ruth's concession that she would wait "a little while," neither had raised the subject again directly. But clearly, it would have to be discussed soon.

Basically, their relationship-an uncertain truce-remained unchanged. Nim, however, had consciously been more considerate, continuing to spend increased time at home and with the children, and perhaps Leah's and Benjy's obvious enjoyment of their father had caused Ruth to hold back from a final confrontation. Nim, for his part, was still unsure bow he wanted their dilemma to be resolved. Meanwhile, the problems of GSP & L kept him intensely occupied, with little room for personal concerns.

"I can never remember all those Jewish holidays," Ruth said. "What did father say this one was?"

"Rosh Hashanah L'Elanoth-or Jewish Arbor Day. I did some research in the office library, and literally it means New Year of the Trees."

"New year for Jewish trees? Or just any trees?"

He chuckled. "Better ask your old man."

They were traveling across town, beading west, and Nim threaded the car through traffic which never seemed to lessen, whatever time of day it was.

A week ago, Aaron Neuberger had telephoned Nim at work to suggest he bring Ruth for a Tu B'Shevat party-the more common name of the same holiday. Nim had accepted immediately, partly because his father-in-law was unusually friendly on the phone, partly because Nim had mild guilt feelings about his own behavior to the Neubergers in the past and it seemed an opportunity to expiate them. His skepticism, though, about his parents-in-law's almost fanatic Jewishness had not changed.

When they arrived at the Neubergers' bome-a spacious, comfortable duplex apartment in a well-to-do area of the city's west side, several cars were already parked outside and, nearer the house, they could bear the sound of voices from the upper level. Nim was relieved to know there were other guests, the presence of strangers might prevent the usual barrage of personal questions, including the inevitable one about a bar mitzvah for Benjy.

Going in, Ruth touched the mezuzab at the doorway, then kissed her hand, as she usually did out of deference to her parents. Nim, who in the past had scoffed at the custom as being-among other things superstitious, on impulse did the same.

Inside, there was no doubt about their welcome-especially Nim's.

Aaron Neuberger, who was apple-cheeked, stocky and totally bald, had sometimes regarded Nim with thinly veiled suspicion. But tonight his eyes were friendly behind thick-lensed glasses as he pumped his son-in-law's hand. Rachel, Ruth's mother, a voluminous woman who disapproved of diets for herself and others, clasped Nim in her arms, then held him back appraisingly. "Is my daughter not feeding you at all? All I feel is bones. But we will put some meat on them tonight."

Nim was amused and, at the same time, touched. Almost certainly, be thought, word had reached the Neubergers that his and Ruth's marriage was in jeopardy; therefore the older couple had set aside other feelings in an attempt to hold the family together. Nim glanced sideways at Ruth, who was smiling at the demonstrative reception.

She was wearing a softly draped dress of blue-gray silk, with pearl earrings of the same shade. As always, her black hair was elegant, her skin soft and unblemished, though paler than normal, Nim thought.

As Nim and Ruth moved forward to meet those who had arrived earlier, be whispered, "You look beautiful tonight."

She looked at him sharply and said, low-voiced, "Have you any idea how long it is since you told me that?"

There was no time for anymore. They were surrounded by faces, going through introductions, and shaking hands. among the two dozen or so guests there were only a few whom Nim knew. Most were already eating, plates piled high with delicacies from an elaborate buffet.

"Come with me, Nimrod!" Ruth's mother seized his arm in an iron grip and propelled him from the living room to the dining room where the buffet was set up. “The rest of our friends, you can meet later," she instructed. "For now, have something to fill that emptiness inside before you faint from hunger." She took a plate and began piling food on it generously, as if it were the day before the fast of Yom Kippur. Nim recognized several varieties of knishes, kishke cooked in cbolent, loksben kugel, stuffed cabbage and pitcha. Set out ready as sweets were honey cake, strudel and apple pirushkes.

Nim helped himself to a glass of white Israeli Carmel wine.

As he returned to the living room, the purpose of the occasion became clear. Rosh Hashanah L'Elanoth, their host explained, is celebrated in Israel by the planting of trees and in North America by eating fruit of a kind not partaken of, thus far, in the Jewish year. To make the point, Aaron Neuberger and others were nibbling on figs from several dishes spread around.

Something else the Neubergers made plain was that they expected donations from their guests, and the money collected would be sent to Israel to pay for tree plantings. Already, several fifty- and twenty-dollar bills had been deposited on a silver tray, put out for the purpose. Nim added twenty dollars of his own, then helped himself to figs.

"If you'll pardon an atrocious pun," a voice behind him said, "I suppose it all shows we give a fig."

Nim turned. The speaker was an elderly, gnomish man with a cherubic, cheerful face beneath a cloud of white hair. Nim remembered him as a doctor-an internist-who sometimes attended the Neubergers. He groped in memory for a name and found it.

"Good evening, Dr. Levin." Raising his glass of wine, Nim offered the toast, "L'Chaim."

"L'Chaim . . . how are you, Nim? Don't see you often at these Jewish wingdings. I'm surprised at your interest in the Holy Land."

"I'm not religious, Doctor."

"Nor am I, Nim. Never have been. Know my way around a sanitarium a whole lot better than a synagogue." the doctor finished the fig be had been eating and selected another. "But I like the forms and ceremonies, all the ancient history of our people. It isn't religion, you know, that holds Jewish people together. It's a sense of community going back five thousand years. A long, long time. Ever think about that, Nim?"

"Yes, since you ask. I've been thinking quite a lot about it."

The older man regarded him shrewdly. "Troubles you sometimes, does it? Wondering how much of a Jew you can be? Or if you can be one at all without observing all that labyrinthine ritual stuff old Aaron does?"

Nim smiled at the reference to his father-in-law, who, across the room, had maneuvered a newly arrived guest into a comer and was earnestly describing Tu B'Shevat: has its roots in the Talmud . . ."

"Something like that," Nim said.

“Then I'll give you some advice, son: Don't let it worry you worth a damn. Do what I do: Enjoy being a Jew, be proud of all the achievements of our people, but as to the rest-pick and choose. Observe the High Holy Days if you like-personally I take them off and go fishing -but if you don't observe them, that's allowable in my book too."

Nim found himself warming toward the cheerful little doctor and told him, "My grandfather was a rabbi, a sweet old man I remember well. It was my father who broke away from religion."

"And you wonder sometimes if you should go back?"

"In a vague way. Not too seriously."

"In any way-forget itl It's a mental impossibility for someone at your stage-or mine-to become a practicing Jew. Start going to synagogue, you'll find that out in five minutes. What you feel, Nim, is nostalgia, an affection for things in the past. Nothing wrong with it, but that's what it is."

Nim said thoughtfully, "I suppose so."

"Let me tell you something else. People like you and me have the same concern for Judaism that we might have for old friends-an occasional sense of guilt for not having seen them more often, plus emotional attachment. I felt that way when I went with a group to Israel."

"A religious group?"

"Nope. Mostly businessmen, a few other doctors, couple of lawyers." Dr. Levin chuckled. "Hardly any of us took a yarmulke. I didn't. Had to borrow one when I went to the Wall in Jerusalem. Just the same, it was a deeply emotional experience, something I'll never forget. Had a sense of belonging and pride. I felt Jewish then! Always will."

Nim asked, "Do you have children, Doctor?"

The other shook his head. "Never did. My dear wife-she's dead now, bless her memory! . . . she and I both regretted it. One of the few things I do regret."

"We have two children," Nim said. "A girl and a boy."

"Yes, I know. And because of them you started thinking about religion?"

Nim smiled. "You seem to know all the questions as well as answers."

"Heard 'em before, I guess. That, and I've been around a long time. Don't worry about your kids, Nim. Teach them decent human instincts -I'm sure you have. Beyond that, they'll find their own way."

2tlere was an obvious next question. Nim hesitated, then asked it, "Would a bar mitzvah help my son find his way?"

"Won't harm him any, will it? You wouldn't be exposing him to some social disease if you sent him to Hebrew school. Besides, a bar mitzvah's always followed by a damn good party. You meet old friends, eat and drink more than you should, but everybody loves it."

Nim grinned. "That's more sense on the subject than I've beard anywhere else."

Dr. Levin nodded sagely. "Here's some more. Your boy is entitled to make a choice-that's his right, his heritage. Studying for a bar mitzvah gives him that. It's like opening a door; let him decide if he wishes to go through it. Later on, he'll either go Aaron's way, or yours and mine, or maybe somewhere in between. Whichever he chooses, it's not for us to worry."

"I'm grateful to you," Nim said. "You've helped my thinking."

"Glad to. There's no charge."

While they had been talking, the number of guests had increased while the hubbub of other conversations swelled in volume. Nim's cherubic companion glanced around, nodding and smiling; obviously be was acquainted with almost everyone who had come. His eyes stopped at Ruth Goldman, now chatting with another woman; Nim recognized her as a concert pianist who often performed for Israeli causes.

"Your wife looks beautiful tonight," Dr. Levin observed.

"Yes," Nim said, "I told her that as we came in."

The doctor nodded. "She conceals her problem, and her anxiety, well." He stopped, then added, "My anxiety, too."

Nim regarded him, puzzled. "You're speaking of Ruth?"

"Of course." Levin sighed. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have to treat patients I care about as much as I do your wife. I've known her since she was a little girl, Nim. I hope you realize that everything possible is being done. Everything."

"Doctor," Nim said; he had a sudden sense of alarm, a cold contraction in his stomach. "Doctor, I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about."

"You don't?" Now it was the older man's turn to be startled; an expression of guilty confusion crossed his face. "Ruth hasn't told you?"

"Told me what?"

"My friend," Dr. Levin put a hand on Nim's shoulder, "I just made a mistake. A patient, any patient, is entitled to have confidence respected, to be protected against a gabby doctor. But you're Ruth's husband. I assumed . . ."

Nim protested, "For God's sake, what are we discussing? What's the mystery?"

"I'm sorry. I can't tell you." Dr. Levin shook his head. "You'll have to ask Ruth. When you do, tell her I regret my indiscretion. But tell her also-I think you ought to know."

Still with some embarrassment, and before he could be subjected to more questioning, the doctor moved away.

For Nim, the next two hours were agony. He observed the social rituals, met guests whom he had not already talked with, joined in conversations, and answered questions from a few people who knew his role at GSP & L.

But all of the time his thoughts were on Ruth. What in hell did Levin mean by: "She conceals her problem, and her anxiety, well."? And: "Everything possible is being done. Everything."?

Twice he eased his way through talkative groups to be beside Ruth, only to find that private conversation was impossible. "I want to talk to you," he managed to say once, but that was all. Nim realized he would have to wait until they were on their way home.

At last the party began to wane, the number of guests to thin. The silver tray was piled high with money for more trees in Israel. Aaron and Rachel Neuberger were at the outer doorway, bidding good night as people left.

"Let's go," Nim said to Ruth. She retrieved her wrap from a bedroom and they joined the exodus.

They were almost the last to leave. As a result, the four had a moment of intimacy which had not been possible earlier.

As Ruth kissed her parents, her mother pleaded, "Couldn't you stay a little longer?"

Ruth shook her bead. "It's late, Mother; we're both tired." She added, "Nim has been working very hard."

"If he works so hard," Rachel shot back, "then feed him better!"

Nim grinned. "What I ate tonight will hold me for a week." He held out his hand to his father-in-law. "Before we go, there's something I think you'd like to know. I've decided to enroll Benjy in Hebrew school so he can have a bar mitzvah."

For brief seconds there was a silence. Then Aaron Neuberger raised his hands to the level of his head, palms outward, as if in prayer. "Praise he to the Master of the Universe! We should all live and be well until that glorious day!” Behind the thick-lensed glasses his eyes were wet with tears.

"We'll talk about specifics. Nim began, but failed to finish because both of Ruth's parents, together, bugged him tightly in their arms.

Ruth said nothing. But a few minutes later when they were in the car, and as Nim pulled away, she turned toward him. "That was a beautiful thing you just did, even though it goes against your beliefs. So why?"

He shrugged. "Some days I'm not sure what I believe. Besides, your friend Dr. Levin helped straighten my thinking."

"Yes," Ruth said quietly, "I saw you talking with him. For a long time."

Nim's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"Such as?"

His pent-up frustration poured out. "Such as why you've been going to Dr. Levin, what it is you are anxious about, and why you've kept it from me. And, oh yes, your doctor asked me to say he was sorry for being indiscreet, but that I ought to know-whatever the hell that means."

"Yes," Ruth said, "I suppose it's time you did." Her voice was flat, the earlier cheerfulness gone. "But will you wait until we are home? I'll tell you then."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

"I think I'd like a Bourbon and soda," Ruth said. "Do you mind getting it for me?"

They were in the small, cozy living room of their house, the lights turned low. It was almost I am Leah and Benjy, who had gone to bed several hours ago, were asleep upstairs.

"Sure," Nim said. It was unusual for Ruth, who rarely drank anything stronger than wine, to ask for hard liquor. He crossed to a sideboard which did duty as a bar, mixed a Bourbon and soda, and poured a cognac for himself. Returning, he sat facing his wife while she gulped a third of her drink, then, with a grimace, put the glass down.

"All right," he said. "Now give!"

Ruth took a deep breath, then began. "You remember that mole I had removed-six years ago?"

"Yes, I do." Strangely, Nim had recalled it only recently-the night he had been alone in the house, with Ruth away, when he made the decision to visit Dewer. He had noticed the mole in the oil painting of Ruth which hung in their living room, the portrait where she was wearing a strapless evening gown. Nim glanced at it now. There was the mole, just as he remembered it before it was removed: small and dark, on the left shoulder. He asked, "What about it?"

"It was a melanoma."

"A what?"

"A melanoma is a mole which may have cancer cells. That's why Dr. Mittelman-you remember, he was the one who took care of me then -advised me to have it removed. I agreed. Another doctor-a surgeon -did the cutting. It wasn't a big deal, and afterward both of them said the mole came away cleanly; there was no sign of anything having spread."

"Yes, I do remember Mittelman saying that." Nim had been mildly concerned at the time, but the physician was reassuring, insisting the procedure was a long-shot precaution, nothing more. As Ruth had just pointed out, it all happened six years ago; Nim had forgotten the details until now.

"Both doctors were wrong," Ruth said; the level of her voice dropped until it was barely a whisper. “There were cancer-melanoma-cells. They had spread. Now . . . They've spread still more . . . through my body."

She barely managed to get the last words out. Then, as if a dam pent up too long had burst, her control dissolved totally. The breath went out of her in a wail, her body shook with violent sobbing.

For moments Nim sat helpless, numb, unable to comprehend, much less believe, what he had just heard. Then reality penetrated. With a whirlwind jumble of emotions-horror, guilt, anguish, pity, love-he went to Ruth and took her in his arms.

He tried to comfort her, holding her tightly, her face pressed hard against his own. "My darling, my dearest love, why have you never told me? In God's name-why?"

Her voice came weakly, muffled by tears. "We weren't close . . . not loving anymore, the way it used to be . . . I didn't want just pity.. . you had other interests . . . other women."

A wave of shame and self-disgust swept over him. Instinctively, releasing Ruth, he fell to his knees before her and, taking her hands, be pleaded, "It's late to ask forgiveness, but I do. I've been a goddam fool, blind, selfish . . ."

Ruth shook her head; characteristically, some of her control returned.

"You don't have to say all that!"

"I want to say it because it's true. I didn't see it before. I see it now."

"I already told you I don't want . . . only pity."

He urged, "Look at me!" When she lifted her head he said softly, "I love you."

"Are you sure you're not just saying it because . . . ?"

"I said I love you, and I mean it! I always have, I guess, except I got mixed up and stupid. It needed something like this to make me realize .. . He stopped, then pleaded again, "Is it too late?"

"No." Ruth gave the ghost of a smile. "I never did stop loving you, even though you've been a bastard."

"I admit it."

"Well," she said, "maybe we owe Dr. Levin something."

"Listen, dearest." He groped for words, wanting to offer reassurance. "We'll fight this thing together. We'll do everything that's medically possible. And there'll be no more talk of separation or divorce."

She said loudly, strongly, "I never wanted either. Oh, Nim darling, hold me! Kiss me!”

He did. Then, as if it had never been, the gulf between them disappeared.

He asked, "Are you too tired to tell me everything? Tonight? Now?"

Ruth shook her head. "I want to tell you."

For another hour she talked while Nim listened, occasionally interjecting questions.

About eight months ago, he learned, Ruth became aware of a small lump on the left side of her neck. Dr. Mittelman had retired from practice the year before. She went to Dr. Levin.

The doctor was suspicious of the lump and ordered a series of tests, including chest X-ray, liver scan, and bone scan. The extensive tests explained Ruth's daytime disappearances which Nim had noticed. Results showed that melanoma cells, after lying dormant for six years, had suddenly spread throughout Ruth's body.

“The day I heard," she said, "I didn't know what to do or think."

"Whatever else was wrong between us," Nim protested, "you should have told me."

"You seemed to have so much else on your mind. It was about the time that Walter was killed in that explosion at La Mission. Anyway, I decided to keep it to myself. Afterward, I took care of the insurance forms, all the rest."

"Your parents don't know?"

"No."

After the test results, Ruth explained, she had begun attending a local hospital once a week, as an outpatient, for chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatments. That, too, explained more daytime absences.

She suffered occasional nausea and some weight loss because of the treatments, but managed to conceal both. Nim's repeated absences from home had made it easier.

Nim put his head in his hands, his shame deepening. He had assumed Ruth was meeting another man, while all of the time . . .

Later, Ruth went on, Dr. Levin informed her of a new treatment being used at the Sloan-Kettering Institute in New York. He believed she should go there to learn about it. Ruth went-for a two-week stay and another battery of tests.

That was the time of her prolonged absence from home which Nim had thought of with indifference, or as an inconvenience to himself.

He was bereft of words.

"What's done is done," Ruth told him. "You couldn't possibly have known."

Nim asked the question be had been dreading. "What do they say about the future-the prognosis?"

"First of all, there is no cure; second, it's too late for surgery."

Ruth's voice was steady; most of her normal poise was back. "But I could have a lot of years left, though we'll never know until they run out.

Also I don't know about the Sloan-Kettering Institute yet-whether I'll be better off taking their treatment or not. The doctors there are working on a method which uses microwaves to raise the temperature of a tumor, followed by radiation which may-or may not-destroy the tumor tissue." She smiled wanly. "As you might imagine, I've found out as much about it as I can."

"I'd like to talk to Dr. Levin myself-tomorrow," Nim said, then corrected himself. "That is, later today. Do you mind?"

"Mind?" Ruth sighed. "No, I don't mind. It's so wonderful to have someone to lean on. Oh, Nim, I've needed you so much!"

He held her again. Soon afterward, he turned out the lights and led the way upstairs.

For the first time in many months Nim and Ruth shared a bed and, in the early morning as dawn was breaking, they made love.

12

A knife blade flashed. Blood spurted. Watching the procedure of castration, Nim felt slightly sick.

Beside him, Mr. Justice Yale chuckled, "Be thankful you were destined to be a man, not a steer."

The two were on a narrow catwalk above an animal pen, part of a cattle feedlot in California's agricultural heartland-the San Joaquin Valley.

The feedlot was one of the properties of the Yale Family Trust.

“The thought of any male being cut off from sex depresses me," Nim said.

He had flown here early this morning, his purpose to brief Paul Yale on electric power as it related to agriculture. California farmers were enormous users of electricity; agriculture and associated industry consumed a tenth of everything GSP & L generated. Without electricity, farming-indispensable to the state's well-being-would wither.

Later today the ex-Supreme Court justice would appear as GSP & L's spokesman at a regional hearing on the utility's plans for Tunipah. It was one of an Energy Commission series-some called it a traveling road show at which local leaders and citizens were invited to testify about power needs in their areas. The San Joaquin Valley farmers, who saw their livelihood threatened by power shortages, were already among Tunipah's staunch advocates.

Inevitably, there would be opposition too.

Still watching the activity below them, Yale told Nim, "I know what you mean about eliminating manhood-even in animals. In a way it's a pity; it's also necessary. When you're a farmer you don't even think about those things."

"Are you enjoying being one?"

"A part-time farmer? I'm not sure." the old man frowned. "Mostly I've been looking at balance sheets, trying to find out why this operation and others in that family trust of ours won't show a profit."

"What's happening right now," Nim said, "seems to be efficient."

"Efficient but damned costly."

They were observing the "check in" process in which calves, born on a grazing range and raised for six months there, were brought to the feedlot to be fattened for market.

Five cowboys-middle-aged men garbed in denims-kept the operation moving.

It began with herding a half-dozen calves into a circular pen. Inside, the animals were prodded, by electric cattle prods, into a narrow cement corridor, the walls extending above their heads but open at the top. A grubicide solution, to kill grubs and insects, was poured generously over each animal.

The corridor led-with an awful inevitability, Nim thought-to a hydraulic squeeze. This was a metal cage. As each calf entered, the cage contracted so the creature was held tightly with its head protruding and body lifted from the ground. The frightened animal bellowed lustilywith good reason, as the next few minutes proved.

First procedure was the discharge into each ear of a syringe containing motor oil. It would remove ticks. Next a huge hypodermic was shoved into the bellowing mouth and a worming solution injected. After that, the sharp extremities of both horns were clipped off with a heavy shear, leaving the soft and bloody insides exposed. Simultaneously came a strong, sickening smell of burning hair and flesh as a red-hot electric branding iron was pressed into the creature's side.

Then, at the touch of a lever, and with a hiss of air, the cattle squeeze rotated ninety degrees onto its side. In what had been the bottom, a small "gate" was exposed, which a cowboy opened. Inserting an aerosol can containing disinfectant, the man sprayed the calf's genitals, then put the can down and picked up a knife. Reaching inside, he slit the scrotum, probed with fingers, then pulled out and cut the testicles, which he tossed into a container beside him. Another application of the aerosol spray on the now bleeding, gaping wound, and the operation was complete.

The steer, having been deprived of all desires other than to eat would fatten nicely.

The hydraulic squeeze was opened. Still bellowing, the animal ran out into a further holding pen.

From beginning to end it had taken less than four minutes.

"It's faster and simpler than it used to be," Yale told Nim. "In my grandfather's day, and even recently, the calves would have to be lassoed and roped up before the things you're watching could be done.

“Nowadays our cowboys rarely ride horses; some of them don't even know how."

Nim. asked, "Is the modem way cheaper?"

"It ought to be, but isn't. It's the inflated cost of everything that does us in-labor, materials, feed, electricity-especially electricity.

This operation runs on it. We use electric power for the mill which mixes feed for forty thousand cattle. And did you know that in the pens there are bright lights on all night?"

"As I understand it," Nim said, "it's so the cattle can see to cat."

"Right. They sleep less, feed more, and fatten faster. But our power bills are astronomical."

Nim hummed "It seems to me I've heard that song before," and Yale laughed.

"Sound like a bellyaching consumer, don't I? Well, today I am. I've told the trust manager, Ian Norris, to cut down, economize, search out waste, conserve. We have to."

Nim had met Norris briefly, earlier this morning. He was a dour, humorless man in his late fifties who had an office in the city and managed other estates as well as the Yale Family Trust. Nim guessed that Norris had preferred it when Paul Sherman Yale was in Washington and unintervened in trust business.

"What I'd like to do," Yale said, "is sell off this property and some of the others my grandfather left. But right now is a had time."

While they talked, Nim had continued watching the procession below them.

Something puzzled him.

"That last calf," he said. "And the one before it. They weren't castrated. Why?"

A cowboy nearby, overhearing Nim's question, turned. He had a swarthy Mexican face and was grinning broadly. So was Mr. Justice Yale.

"Nim, my boy," the old man said. He leaned nearer, speaking confidentially. “There's something I should tell you. nose last two were girls."

* * *

They had lunch in Fresno, in the Windsor Room of the Hilton Hotel. During the meal Nim continued the briefing be had come for. It proved an easy task. As soon as any fact or statistic was presented, Mr. Justice Yale appeared to have it memorized. He rarely asked for repetition and his sharp, probing questions showed a quickness of mind, plus a grasp of the big picture. Nim hoped that when he was eighty his mental powers would be as good.

Much of their talk was about water. Ninety percent of electric power used by farmers in the lush San Joaquin Valley, Nim reported, was to pump water from wells for irrigation. Therefore, interruptions in power supply could be disastrous.

"I remember this valley when it was mostly desert" Paul Yale reminisced.

"There was a time when nobody believed anything would grow here. The Indians called it 'Empty Valley.' "

“They hadn't heard of rural electrification."

"Yes, it wrought miracles. What's that line from Isaiah?-'the desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose."' Yale chuckled. "Maybe I can slip that into my testimony. A line or two from the Bible adds a touch of class, don't you think?"

Before Nim could answer, the maitre d' came to their table. He announced, "Mr. Yale, there's a telephone call for you. You may take it at the hostess' desk if you wish."

The older man was gone several minutes. Nim could see him across the room, writing in a notebook as be listened intently to whatever was being said on the telephone. When he returned to the table, he was beaming and had the notebook open.

"Some good news from Sacramento, Nim. Excellent news, I think. An aide to the Governor will be at the bearing here this afternoon; he'll read a statement that the Governor now strongly supports the plans for Tunipah. A confirming press release is going out now from the Governor's office." Yale glanced at his notes. "It speaks of 'a personal conviction, after study, that the Tunipah development is essential to the growth and prosperity of California."'

"Well," Nim said, "you really pulled it off. Congratulations!"

"I'll admit I'm pleased." Pocketing the notebook, Yale glanced at his watch. "What do you say we get some exercise and walk over to that hearing?"

"I'll walk with you, but I won't come in." Nim grinned. "You may remember-at the Energy Commission I'm still persona non grata."

* * *

Their destination was the State Building, some ten minutes away.

It was a bright pleasant day and Paul Yale, spry in walking as in much else, stepped out briskly. After the flow of talk before and during lunch, both fell silent.

Nim's thoughts returned, as they had so often lately, to Ruth. A week and a half had passed since the soul-searing night when he learned that Ruth's life was endangered by cancerous cells at large in her body. Apart from a talk with Dr. Levin, Nim had kept the knowledge to himself. There seemed no point in turning Ruth-as he had seen happen with other families-into an object of gossip and speculation.

Dr. Levin's attitude had been neither defeatist nor reassuring. "Your wife may have many years of normal life," be had said. "But you must also know that her condition could deteriorate suddenly and rapidly.

“Treatment, though-whether it's chemotherapy or immunotherapy will tilt the odds in her favor."

As to possible additional therapy, Ruth was to make another trip to New York soon; it would be decided then if the newer, in-part-experimental method at the Sloan-Kettering Institute was likely to help her. For Nim, as well as Ruth, the waiting was like living on the loose ledge of a precipice, wondering if it would collapse or hold.

“The only advice I can give," Dr. Levin had added, "is what I've told your wife already: Live one day at a time, and use it to the full. Don't let her put things off that she wants to do, and can. Come to think of it, that's good counsel for us all. Remember that you or I could drop dead from a heart attack or be killed in a traffic accident tomorrow, with your wife suryiving us by many years."

The doctor had sighed. "I'm sorry, Nim; maybe that sounds like a load of bull. I know you want something definite. Everybody does. But the advice I've given you is the best I have."

Nim had taken Dr. Levin's advice by spending as much time with Ruth as possible. Today, for example, he could have stayed on overnight in Fresno; there were local developments about which he might usefully inform himself.

Instead, he had arranged to take an afternoon flight back, and would be home for dinner.

His thoughts were jerked into the present by Mr. Justice Yale, who observed, “There seems to be an extraordinary number of people around for this time of day."

Nim had been preoccupied; now he looked about him. "You're right. There are."

The streets within immediate view contained large numbers of pedestrians, all apparently heading in the same direction-toward the State Building. Some were hurrying, as if anxious to get ahead of others. Cars, too, were streaming in and a traffic jam was developing. among occupants of the cars and those on foot, women and teen-agers seemed to predominate.

"Perhaps," Nim said, "word got around that you were coming here."

The old man chuckled. "Even if it did, I don't have the charisma to pull a crowd this size."

They reached the grassy mall which fronted on the State Building. It was packed with people.

"If you want to find something out, a good way is to ask," Yale said. He touched the arm of a middle-aged man in workman's clothes. "Excuse me. We are curious to know why so many people are here."

The other looked at him incredulously. "You ain't heard?"

Yale smiled. "It's why I asked."

"It's Cameron Clarke. He's coming here."

“The movie actor?"

"Who, else? Gonna speak his piece at some gumment hearing. Bin on radio all morning. On TV too, so my old lady says."

Nim asked, "What government hearing?"

"How should I know? Who cares? just wanna get a look at him, is all."

Paul Yale and Nim exchanged glances as the same thought occurred to them.

"We'll know soon enough," Yale said.

They began easing their way closer to the State Building, a functional, uninteresting edifice with steps in front. At the same time a black limousine with a police motorcycle escort approached from the opposite direction. A cry went up, and was repeated, “There he is!" the crowd surged forward.

More policemen appeared. They cleared a way for the limousine to reach the sidewalk near the steps. As the car stopped, a uniformed chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door. A short, slight young man emerged. He had a shock of blond hair and was wearing a lightweight tan suit. The crowd cheered.

"Cameron! Hi there, Cameron!" Someone began the cry and others took it up.

Like royalty, Cameron Clarke waved in response.

He was Hollywood's current gold-plated box office guarantee. His handsome, boyish, amiable face was known to fifty million worshiping fans from Cleveland to Calcutta, from Seattle to Sierra Leone, from Brooklyn to Baghdad. Even august justices of the U. S. Supreme Court had heard of Cameron Clarke, as Paul Sherman Yale had demonstrated moments earlier. The mere presence of Clarke anywhere was sufficient to set off a near-riot of adulation. The Fresno police, undoubtedly aware of this, were doing their best to control the crowd now.

Press photographers, who had begun shooting as the limousine stopped, were continuing as if film were inexhaustible. A TV crew, which had been waiting, moved in closer to the movie star.

An interview ensued.

Interviewer (with great respect): Mr. Clarke, why are you here?

Cameron Clarke: I am here, as an ordinary humble citizen, to protest an ill-conceived, sordid and totally unneeded scheme which would desecrate the magnificent, unspoiled area of California known as Tunipah.

Interviewer Sir, those are strong words. Would you explain why you feel that way?

Cameron Clarke.: Certainly. The Tunipah plan is ill-conceived because it is anti-en-vironment. It is sordid because the objective is to make profits for Golden State Power & Light, which doesn't need them. It is unnecessary because another source of power is available; furthermore, conservation could reduce power needs by more than Tunipah would generate.

Nim and Paul Yale were within hearing. "He's reciting lines," Nim 2muttered angrily. "I wonder what uninformed idiot wrote them for him."

Interviewer: What is that other source of power, Mr. Clarke?

Cameron Clarke.: Solar energy.

Interviewer: You believe that solar could be available now?

Cameron Clarke.: Absolutely. However, there is no hurry, even for solar. The talk we hear of electrical shortage is just a scare tactic-propaganda put out by the power companies.

A spectator shouted, "Attaboy, Cameron! That's telling the bastards! Stick it to 'em!"

The actor looked up, waved an acknowledgment, and smiled.

Nim told his companion, "I think I've heard enough. If you don't mind, Mr. Yale, I'll start back north and leave you to the hearing. It looks as if it will be quite a production."

"I know who'll be the star, and it isn't me," Yale said ruefully. "All right, Nim; you go. Thanks for all your help."

As Nim elbowed his way outward through the crowd, Yale beckoned a policeman and identified himself. A moment later, unnoticed, he was escorted into the State Building.

The TV interview with Cameron Clarke was continuing.

* * *

"Actually," Oscar O'Brien said next day, "when you get Cameron Clarke by himself, you find out he's a pretty decent guy. I talked to him; I also know a couple of his friends. He has a solid marriage and three kids he's crazy about. The trouble is though, whenever he opens his mouth in public, what he says gets treated as if it came from Mount Olympus."

The general counsel, who had appeared at the Fresno hearing, was reporting-at an inquest session-to J. Eric Humphrey, Teresa Van Buren, and Nim.

"As it turned out," O'Brien said, "the main reason Clarke is opposed to Tunipah is that he owns property near there-a hideaway place he and his family use in summers. They keep horses, ride the trails, fish, sometimes camp out overnight. He's afraid our Tunipah development would spoil all that, and he's probably right."

Eric Humphrey asked, "Was the point not made that the welfare of millions of Californians outweighs the holiday privileges of one individual?"

"It was made all right," O'Brien said. "Christ knows, I tried on cross-examination. But do you think anyone cared? No! Cameron Clarke objected to Tunipah and the god of the silver screen had spoken. That was all that mattered."

The lawyer stopped, remembering, then said, "When Clarke spoke 2his piece at the hearing about despoiling nature-and, by God, I have to admit he was good, it was like Marc Antony orating over Caesar's corpse-there were people, among those crowded in, who were crying. I mean it-crying!"

"I still think someone wrote his lines," Nim said. "From all I bear, he doesn't know that much about anything."

O'Brien shrugged. "It's academic."

He added, "I'll tell you something else. When Clarke had finished testifying and was ready to leave, the presiding Commissioner sent word he would appreciate an autograph. Wanted it for his niece, he said. Damn liar! It was for himself."

"Whichever way you slice it," Teresa Van Buren pronounced, "Cameron Clarke has done our cause a lot of harm."

No one mentioned what scarcely needed saying: That TV, radio and print reviews of the movie actor's brief appearance had eclipsed all other news about Tunipah. In the Chronicle-West and California Examiner, the statement by the Governor of California in support of the project rated a brief paragraph near the end of the Clarke-dominated report. On TV it was not mentioned at all. As to Paul Sherman Yale's appearance, that was totally ignored.

13

Instinct told Nancy Molineaux she was onto something. Possibly a major story, though so far it was shapeless and insubstantial. There were other problems. One was that she didn't really know what she was looking for. Another was the practical need to do other, regular reporting jobs for the California Examiner, which limited the time available for her nebulous quest. Making it even more difficult was the fact that she had not confided in anyone yet, particularly the Examiner's city editor, who was always in a mad rush for results and could never understand that finesse and patience could sometimes be important tools of a good reporter. Nancy had both.

She had been using them since the Golden State Power & Light annual shareholders meeting when Nim Goldman suggested to her in anger, "Why not investigate him?"

"Him" was Davey Birdsong.

Goldman, of course, had blown his cool and did not expect her to take the suggestion seriously. But, after thinking about it, Nancy bad.

She had been curious about Birdsong before. Nancy mistrusted people who were always on the side of righteousness and the downtrodden, or would like you to think they were, as Davey Birdsong did. Nancy's experience was that those kinds of liberal-populist do-gooders were usually looking out for number one first, with all others trailing a long way behind and getting the leftover crumbs. She had seen a lot of that at first hand-in black communities as well as white.

Mr. Milo Molineaux, Nancy's father, was not a liberal do-gooder. He was a building contractor who, throughout his life, had pursued one forthright, stated objective: To transform himself from a poor boy, born of black parents in rural Louisiana, into a rich man. He had succeeded, had done it honestly, and nowadays Mr. Molineaux was very rich indeed.

Yet her father, Nancy had observed, had done more for people of his own race-by providing steady employment, fair wages and human dignity-than a thousand political activists and their kind who (as the saying went) "had never had to meet a payroll."

She despised some of the liberals, including white ones who acted as if they were trying to atone personally for three hundred years of black slavery. The way those idiots behaved was as if a black person could do nothing wrong-ever. Nancy amused herself by being rude and bitcby to them, watching them take it and smile, and letting her get away with the inexcusable just because she was black. While they did, her contempt for them grew.

She did not despise Nim Goldman. In fact-though the knowledge would have amazed Nim-she had come to like and admire him.

Goldman hated her guts, and Nancy knew it. He hated her straightforwardly, making no effort to conceal it. He hated her as a reporter and as a woman. Nancy was perfectly sure her color had nothing to do with Goldman's hatred, which would have been just as intense had she been white, yellow or a shade of purple. Where his hatred of Nancy Molineaux was concerned, Goldman was color-blind.

Which was as it should be. Ergo, Nancy respected him.

In a perverse way-which she recognized as perverse-she rather enjoyed arousing Goldman's anger. It was so goddam refreshing! just the same, enough was enough. Twice she had impaled him well and truly, but it wasn't fair to go on doing it. Besides, the son-of-a-bitch had guts and was honest, which was more than you could say for most of those sleazy pontificators at the bearing where Goldman had spoken his mind and afterward got gagged.

About that hearing, Nancy had written the story she had to because she prided herself in being-first and foremost-a good journalist. Which meant being ruthless, putting emotions, personal feelings, second. But none of it had stopped her feeling sorry for Goldman and mentally wishing him well.

If she ever got to know him better-which was unlikely-someday she might tell him all of that.

Meanwhile there was a certain logic and justice, Nancy Molineaux thought, in that having abandoned Goldman as a target, she had switched attention to Davey Birdsong.

Birdsong she most certainly did not admire, being certain-even at this early stage of her inquiries-that he was a phony and probably a crook.

She had begun, soon after the GSP & L shareholders' meeting, by quietly investigating Birdsong's p & lfp. That had taken several months because she worked in her spare time and there were some extended periods when she didn't have any. But results, while slow, were interesting.

Birdsong, Nancy learned, had founded p & lfp four years earlier, at a time when inflation, plus increased oil prices, had forced electricity and gas rates substantially higher. Without question, the rate increases caused hardship to lower- and middle-income families. Birdsong had proclaimed himself the people's champion.

His flamboyance earned him instant media attention and he capitalized on it by recruiting thousands of members into p & lfp. To accomplish this, Birdsong employed a small army of university students as canvassers and Nancy had managed to locate several-now ex-students -who had worked for him. All, without exception, were soured by the experience.

"We thought we were doing something noble, helping the underprivileged," one of the former students, an architect, told Nancy. "But we discovered what we were mostly doing was helping Davey Birdsong."

Her informant continued, "When we went out canvassing we were given petitions to take with us which Birdsong had had printed up. The petitions were addressed to the Governor, State Senate and House, the Public Utilities Commission . . . you name it. They urged 'reduced utility rates for bard-pressed residential users,' and we went door-to-door, asking people to sign. Hell!-who wouldn't sign that? just about everybody did."

Another ex-canvasser-a young woman who had consented to talk to Nancy at the same time-took up the story.

"As soon as we had a signature-not before-we were told to explain that organizing petitions cost money. So would everyone please help by donating three dollars to the campaign, which included a year's membership in p & lfp? By that time, the people we'd been talking to figured they owed us something for our trouble-it was smart psychology, Birdsong's good at that-and there were very few, even poor families, who didn't come through with the three bucks."

”There was nothing really dishonest, I guess," the young architect said, "unless you call collecting a whole lot more money than was needed to run p & lfp dishonest. But what really was cheating was what Birdsong did to the students who worked for him."

"Birdsong promised us, as wages," the young woman said, "one dollar out of every three collected. But he insisted all the money must go to him first-as be explained it-to be entered in the books, then we would be paid later. Well, it was later, much later. Even then we only got a fourth of what he'd promised-twenty-five cents instead of a dollar out of every three. We argued with him, of course, but all be would say was that we had misunderstood."

Nancy asked, "You didn't have anything in writing?"

"Nothing. We trusted him. After all, he was on the side of the poor against big business-or so we thought."

"Also," the architect added, "Birdsong was careful-as we realized later-to talk to each of us separately. That way . . . no witnesses. But if there was a misunderstanding, all of us made the same one."

“There was no misunderstanding," the young woman informant said.

"Birdsong is a con man."

Nancy Molineaux asked those two ex-canvassers and others for estimates of how much money was collected. In his own public statements, Birdsong had reported p & lfp as having twenty-five thousand members. But most whom Nancy talked to believed the real figure was substantially higher-probably thirty-five thousand. If so, and allowing for the amount paid out to canvassers, the first year's receipts of p & lfp were probably close to a hundred thousand dollars, mostly in cash.

"You're not kidding," the architect had said when informed of Nancy's estimate. "Birdsong has a profitable racket." He added ruefully, "Maybe I'm in the wrong one."

Something else Nancy discovered was that collection of money by p & lfp was continuing.

Davey Birdsong was still hiring university students-there was always a new generation which needed part-time work and money-and the objective was to get more p & lfp annual memberships, as well as have existing ones renewed. Apparently Birdsong was no longer cheating the students; probably he realized he couldn't get away with it indefinitely. But, for sure, a pot full of cash was flowing into p & lfp.

What did Birdsong do with it? There seemed no simple answer. True, he did provide an active, vocal opposition to Golden State Power & Light on several fronts-at times successfully-and many who belonged to p & lfp believed they were getting their money's worth. But Nancy questioned that.

With help from an accountant she had done the arithmetic and, even allowing for the most generous expenses and a personal salary for Birdsong, there was no way he could have spent more than half of what was coming in. So how about the remainder? the best guess was that Birdsong, who controlled p & lfp totally, was siphoning it off. Nancy couldn't prove it, though. Not yet.

Her accountant adviser said that eventually the Internal Revenue Service might demand an accounting from p & lfp and Birdsong. But the IRS, he pointed out, was notoriously understaffed. Therefore lots of so-called non-profit organizations were never audited and got away with financial skulduggery.

The accountant asked: Did Nancy want him to tip off the IRS confidentially?

Her emphatic answer: No. She wasn't ready to tip off anybody.

The accountant's services were available to Nancy because her father was an important client of his firm. The same applied to a lawyer often retained by Milo Molineaux, Inc., and Nancy took the ex-university students to him and had them swear out affidavits. They co-operated willingly.

She was building her dossier carefully.

Nancy Molineaux knew about Birdsong's other income from university lecturing and writing. There was nothing wrong with that, or even unusual, but it reinforced her curiosity about what Davey Birdsong did with all that money.

Then there was a vague rumor-she overheard it at a cocktail partythat Birdsong and p & lfp had appealed to the Sequoia Club for financial support. Nancy considered that unlikely and, even if true, was certain the wealthy and prestigious Sequoia Club would have no truck with the likes of Davey Birdsong. Just the same, because she made a habit of covering all bases, Nancy had put out feelers. So far, no results.

The most intriguing question of all came up one day in January when Nancy was driving her Mercedes 450SL and happened to see Davey Birdsong walking on a downtown street. Without stopping to reason why, she decided to follow him. She whisked her car into a handy self-serve parking lot and went after him on foot, keeping a discreet distance behind. What came next was like something out of an espionage novel.

Although Nancy was positive Birdsong had not seen her, be behaved as if be expected to be followed and was determined to shake off pursuit.

First, he walked into the busy main lobby of a hotel. After glancing around, he ducked into a men's room and a few minutes later came out wearing dark glasses and a soft felt hat, whereas before he had been bareheaded. The change did not fool Nancy. However, his appearance was different and she realized that, if Birdsong had been dressed that way to begin with, she probably would not have noticed him. He left the hotel by a side door. Giving him a comfortable start, Nancy followed. She almost lost him then because, further along the street from the hotel, be was boarding a bus which promptly closed its doors and moved away.

There was no time to return to her car, but luckily a taxi was approaching. Nancy bailed it. She flashed a twenty-dollar bill and told the driver, a young black, "Keep that bus in sight but don't make it obvious we're following it. Every time it stops, though, I want to see who gets off."

The driver was instantly with it. "Will do, lady! Just sit back. Leave the action to me."

He was smart and resourceful. He passed the bus twice, then each time eased into right lane traffic so the bus, in an outside lane, would pass him. While both vehicles were close, Nancy kept her bead averted. But whenever the bus stopped to take on or disembark passengers, the taxi was positioned so she could see clearly. For what seemed a long time, Birdsong did not appear and Nancy wondered if she had missed him after all. Then, about four miles from his point of boarding, he got off.

She could see him looking around.

"That's the one-with the beard," she told her driver.

"I see him!" the cabby accelerated past, without glancing in Birdsong's direction, then eased into the curb. "Don't turn around, lady. I got him in the mirror. Now be's crossing the street." After a minute or two: "Be damned if he ain't getting on another bus."

They followed the second bus too. It was going in an opposite direction from the first and retraced some of the original route. This time Birdsong got off after a few blocks, again looking around him. Close by were several parked taxis. Birdsong took the first and, as it pulled away, Nancy could see his face peering through the rear window.

She made another decision and instructed, "Let him go. Take me back downtown."

Nancy reasoned: there was no sense in pushing her luck. She hoped Birdsong had not detected her taxi trailing him, but if she persisted he undoubtedly would. Solving the mystery of where he went, and why, would have to be done some other way.

"Geez, lady, kinda bard to figure you out," the cabby complained when they had changed direction. "First you wanna tail the guy, so we do okay. Then you quit." He went on grumbling, "Didn't even get close enough to see the other hack's number."

Because he had done his best, she decided to explain why she didn't want to be that close, and possibly be seen. He listened, then nodded. "Gotcha!"

A few minutes later the young driver turned his bead. "You still wanna find out where the beard goes?"

"Yes," Nancy said. The more she thought about Birdsong's elaborate precautions, the more convinced she became that something important was happening. Something she had to know.

The driver asked, "Know where the guy hangs out mostly?"

"His home address? No, but it wouldn't be hard to find."

"Maybe we could work a deal," the driver said. "Me and two buddies. They ain't working, and they got cars with CB radios. I got a CB too. Three of us could take turns following the beard, pulling a switcheroo so he don't keep seeing the same heap. We'd use the radios. That way, when one guy eased off, he'd call another in."

"But to do that," Nancy pointed out, "you'd have to keep watch on him all the time."

"Can do. Like I said, my friends ain't working."

The idea had possibilities. She asked, "How much would it cost?"

"Have to figure that out, lady. But not as much as you'd think."

"When you've done your figuring," Nancy said, "call me." She scribbled her apartment phone number on the back of a business card.

He called late that night. By then she had looked up Birdsong's home address which was in the phone book.

"Two hundred and fifty a week," the cabby said. "That's for me and the other two."

She hesitated. Was it important enough to go to all that trouble and expense? Again her instincts told her yes.

So should she ask the Examiner for the money? Nancy was doubtful. If she did, she would have to disclose everything she had uncovered so far, and she was certain the paper would want to publish immediately the material on Davey Birdsong and his p&lfp. In Nancy's opinion that would be premature; she believed strongly there was more to come and it was worth waiting for. Another thing: the newspaper's penny pinching management bated to spend money unless it had to.

She decided to go ahead on her own. She would pay the money herself and hope to get it back later. If she didn't it would be no great disaster, though it would violate one of the rules she lived by. By most standards, Nancy Molineaux was wealthy. Several years ago her father established a trust fund which provided her with a regular, comfortable income. But, as a matter of pride, she kept her private finances and professional earnings separate. For once, pride would have to be humbled. The cabby said he would like something in advance, which was reasonable, and Nancy told him to drop by and pick it up.

After he did, she heard nothing for six days. At the end of that time, the young cabdriver, whose name was Vickery, brought her a report. To Nancy's surprise it was detailed and neatly written. All of Birdsong's movements were described; they were routine and innocuous. At no point had be shown awareness of being followed. More significant: He made no attempt to throw any follower off.

"Goesta show one week ain't enough," Vickery said. "Wanna try another?"

Nancy thought: What the hell, why not?

In another seven days Vickery was back. He had the same kind of detailed report, with similarly negative results. Disappointed, she told him, "Okay, that's all. Forget it."

The young man regarded her with unconcealed contempt. "You gonna give up now? Look whatcha got invested" When he sensed her wavering, he urged, "Go for broke! Try one more week."

"You should be a frigging salesman," Nancy said, "not driving a back."

She thought about it. She had proof that Birdsong was a fraud; did she still believe he was a crook? And would finding where he went so mysteriously help the story she intended to write? Finally, should she cut her losses or-as the smartass kid put it-go for broke?

Her instincts again. They told her all three answers should be yes.

"Okay, hotshot," she told Vickery. "One extra week. But no more."

They hit pay dirt on the fourth day.

Vickery phoned, then came to her apartment, that night. "Figured you'd wanna know right away. This aft the beard tried to shake anybody off, the way he did that day with you and me." He added smugly, "We beat the sonovabitch."

"For what it's cost me," Nancy said, "I should goddam hope so."

The young man grinned as he presented the usual written report. It showed that Davey Birdsong had driven his own car from his apartment garage and parked it on the opposite side of the city. Before leaving the car, he had put on dark glasses and a bat. Then he had taken a taxi back across town, followed by two bus rides in differing directions, and finally a walk-a roundabout route to a small house on the city's east side.

He went into the house. The address was given.

“The beard stayed inside two hours," Vickery said.

After that, the report continued, Birdsong took a taxi to a point a few blocks from where his car was parked. From there he walked to the car and drove home.

Vickery asked hopefully, "Warm us to watch the beard some more?" He added, “Them buddies of mine still ain't working."

"With you for a friend," Nancy said, "they shouldn't worry." She shook her head. "No more."

Now, two days later, Nancy was seated in her car, observing the house which Davey Birdsong had visited so secretively. She had been there nearly two hours. It was approaching noon.

Yesterday, the day after Vickery's final report, she spent completing an Examiner feature assignment, though she had not yet turned in her copy to the city desk. She would do so tomorrow. Meanwhile her time was her own.

The house she was watching was number 117 Crocker Street. It was one of a dozen old identical row houses and, a decade ago, refurbished by a speculative builder who believed the district was destined for revival and upgrading. The builder was wrong. Crocker Street remained what it had been-an unimpressive, drab thoroughfare where people lived because they could not afford something better. And the refurbished houses were slipping back into their former state, attested to by chipped masonry, cracked windows and peeling paint. To Nancy's eyes, number 117 seemed no different from the rest.

Cagily, she had parked her Mercedes a block and a half away, where she had a clear view of the house but believed she would not be observed herself. The presence of several other parked cars helped. She had brought binoculars but had not used them for fear of arousing the curiosity of some passer-by.

So far there had been little activity on the street, none whatever at number 3. Nancy had no idea what to expect, if anything, nor had she any plan. As the morning passed she wished she might see something of the occupants of the house, but the wish went unfulfilled. She wondered if she had stayed long enough. Perhaps she should leave now and return another day.

A vehicle passed her parked car, as had several others during the preceding two hours. She noticed casually that it was a beat-up Volkswagen van, painted brown and with a broken side window. The window was roughly patched with cardboard and masking tape.

Abruptly Nancy became alert. The VW had swung across the street and was stopping in front of 117-A man got out. Nancy risked using her binoculars. She saw that he was lean, with close-cropped hair and a bushy moustache: she judged him to be in his late twenties. In contrast to the van, be was neatly dressed in a dark blue suit and wore a tie. He went to the rear of the vehicle and opened its door. The binoculars were powerful-she used them in her apartment to watch shipping in the harbor-and she caught a glimpse of the man's hands. They appeared to be badly stained in some way.

Now he was reaching inside the van and he lifted out a substantial red-colored cylinder. It seemed to be heavy. Setting the object down on the sidewalk, he reached inside again and produced another, then carried the two toward the house. As he did, Nancy realized they were fire extinguishers.

The man made two more journeys between the VW and the house, each time carrying in two more red fire extinguishers. Six altogether. After the final pair he stayed in the house for about five minutes, then re-emerged and drove away.

Nancy wavered about following, then decided not to. Afterward she sat wondering: Why would so small a house need so much fire protec-2tion? Suddenly she exclaimed, "Shiti" She had not thought to note the VW's license number, which she could have done easily. Now it was too late. She chided herself for being a lousy detective and thought maybe she should have followed the van after all.

Time to go, anyway? She supposed so. Her hand went to the ignition switch, then stopped. Something else was happening at 117- Once more she reached for the binoculars.

A woman had come out of the house; she was young, slight in build, and carelessly dressed in faded jeans and a pea coat. She glanced around her momentarily, then began walking briskly-in the opposite direction from the parked Mercedes.

This time Nancy did not hesitate. She started the car and eased out from her parking space. Keeping the woman in sight, she followed slowly, warily, pulling into the curb occasionally so as not to overtake her quarry.

The woman did not look back. When she turned a comer, Nancy waited as long as she dared before doing the same. She was in time to see the woman enter a small supermarket. It had a parking lot and Nancy drove onto it. She locked the car and followed inside.

The supermarket was averagely busy, with perhaps twenty people shopping.

Nancy caught sight of the woman she had followed-at the far end of an aisle, putting cans into a shopping cart. Nancy got a cart herself, dropped in a few items at random from nearby shelves, then moved casually toward the other woman.

She appeared even younger now than she had at a distance-little more than a girl. She was pale, her fair hair untidy, and she wore no makeup. On her right hand she had what looked like an improvised glove. Clearly it covered some kind of deformity or injury for she was using only her left hand.

Reaching out, she selected a jar of Mazola Oil and read the label.

Nancy Molineaux maneuvered her cart past, then abruptly turned, as if she had forgotten something. Her eyes met the other woman's. Nancy smiled and said brightly, "Hi! Don't we know each other?" She added, "I think we have a mutual acquaintance, Davey Birdsong."

The response was immediate and startling. The young woman's face went ashen white, she visibly trembled, and the Mazola Oil fell from her hand, shattering on the floor.

There was a silence lasting several seconds in which nothing happened except that a pool of oil spread rapidly across the shopping aisle. Then the store manager hurried forward, clucking like a worried hen. "My goodness! What a mess! Whatever happened here?"

"It was my fault," Nancy said quickly. "I'm sorry and I'll pay for what was broken."

The manager objected, "It won't pay for the cleaning up, will it?"

"No," Nancy told him, "but think of the exercise you'll get." She took the arm of the other woman, who was still standing transfixed, as if in shock.

"Let's get out of here," Nancy said. Unresisting, abandoning her shopping cart, the girl in the pea coat and jeans went with her.

On the parking lot, Nancy steered the girl toward the Mercedes. But as the passenger door was unlocked and opened she seemed to come alert.

"I can’t Oh, I can't! I have to get back to the house." Her voice was nervously high-pitched, the trembling, which had stopped as they emerged from the supermarket, began again. She looked at Nancy wildly. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend. Look, there's a bar around the block; I saw it on the way.

Why don't we go there, have a drink? You look as if you need one."I tell you I can't!"

"Yes you can, and you will," Nancy said. "Because if you don't, I'm going to phone your friend Davey Birdsong this afternoon and tell him . . ."

She had no idea how she would have finished the sentence but its effect was electric. The girl got into the car without further protest. Nancy shut the door alongside her, then went around to the driver's side.

It took only a few minutes to drive to the bar and there was parking space outside. They left the car and went in. The interior was dark and smelled of mildew.

"Christ!" Nancy said. "We need a seeing-eye dog." She groped her way to a corner table, away from the few other people already drinking. Ile girl followed.

As they sat down, Nancy said, "I have to call you something. What?"

"Yvette."

A waiter appeared and Yvette ordered a beer, Nancy a daiquiri. They were silent until the drinks came.

This time the girl spoke first. "You still haven't told me who you are.,, there seemed no reason to conceal the truth. "My name is Nancy Molineaux. I'm a newspaper reporter."

Twice before, Yvette had exhibited shock, but this time the effect was even greater. Her mouth fell open, the drink slipped in her hand and, if Nancy had not grabbed it, would have gone the way of the Mazola.

"Take it easy," Nancy urged. "Reporters only eat people when they're hungry. I'm not."

The girl whispered, having trouble with the words, "What do you want from me?"

"Some information."

Yvette moistened her lips. "Like what?"

"Like, who else lives in that house you came out of? What goes on there? Why does Davey Birdsong visit? That's for starters."

"It's none of your business."

Nancy's eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom and she could see, despite the flash of spirit, that the other woman was still frightened.

She tried a random shot. "Okay, I guess I should have gone to the police in the first place and . . ."

"No!" Yvette half rose, then fell back. Suddenly she put her face in her hands and began to sob.

Nancy reached across the table. "I know you're in some kind of trouble. If you'll let me, I'll help."

Through the sobbing: "Nobody can help." A moment later, with an obvious effort of will, Yvette stood up. "I'm going now." Even in her acute distress, she possessed a certain dignity.

"Listen," Nancy said. "I'll make a deal. If you'll agree to meet me again, I won't say or do anything in the meantime."

The girl hesitated. "When?"

"Three days from now. Right here."

"Not three days." Again the mix of doubt and fear. "Maybe a week."

It would have to do. "All right. A week from today, next Wednesday -same time, same place."

With a nod of agreement, Yvette left.

Driving away, Nancy was unsure whether she had handled the situation well or badly. And what the hell was it all about? Where did Davey Birdsong and Yvette fit in? Nancy's reference to the police during her conversation with Yvette had been an offhand, impulsive remark. Yet the girl's near-hysterical reaction suggested that something illegal was going on. If so, what kind of illegality? It was all frustrating, with too many questions, too few answers-like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle without the slightest notion of what the end result might be.

14

For Nancy Molineaux, another piece of the jigsaw fell into place next day. It concerned the vague, overheard rumor-which Nancy hadn't believed-that Birdsong's p&lfp was seeking financial help from the Sequoia Club.

Despite her skepticism, she had put out feelers. One produced results.

A mailroom employee of the Sequoia Club, an elderly black woman named Grace, had once asked Nancy Molineaux's help in obtaining city-subsidized housing. At the time, all it had taken was a single telephone call and use of the California Examiner's influence to get her near the top of an official waiting list. But Grace had been grateful and insisted that if she could ever return the favor, she would.

Several weeks ago Nancy called her at home and mentioned the p & lfp-Sequoia Club rumor. Would she try to discover, Nancy asked, whether there was any substance to it and, if so, whether anything had come of p & lfp's request?

A few days later she received a report: As far as Grace could learn, the rumor was untrue. She added, though, "Something like that could be secret, with not more than two or three at the top, like Prissy Pritchy (which was what the Sequoia Club staff called Roderick Pritchett) knowing about it."

Today, Grace had used her lunch hour to go to the Examiner Building and make her way to the newsroom. Nancy happened to be in. They went into a soundproof glass cubicle where they could talk. Grace, who was heavily built, overflowed a tight, brightly colored print dress and wore a floppy hat. She was carrying a string bag and reached into it.

"Found out something, Miss Molineaux. Don't know if it has to do with what you wanted, but here it is."

"It" was a copy of a Sequoia Club memo.

Grace explained: Three outward-bound envelopes, all marked Private and Confidential, had come through the mailroom. That was not unusual. What was unusual was that one of the envelopes had arrived unsealed, probably through a secretary's carelessness. Grace slipped it aside and later, when she was unobserved, read the contents. Nancy smiled, wondering bow much other mail got perused the same way.

Grace had used one of the Sequoia Club's Xerox machines to make the copy.

Nancy read the confidential memo carefully.

From: Executive Director

To: Members of Special Executive Committee

For your information, the, second donation to B's organization from the contingency fund, and agreed to at our August 22nd meeting, has now been paid.

It was initialed "R.P."

Nancy asked, "Who was the envelope addressed to?"

"Mr. Saunders. He's a board member and . . ."

"Yes, I know." Irwin Saunders, the well-known lawyer-about-town, was a Sequoia Club wheel. "How about the other two envelopes?"

"One was to Mrs. Carmichael, our chairman. The other was addressed to Mrs. Quinn."

That would be Priscilla Quinn. Nancy knew her slightly. A snob and socialite, Grace asked anxiously, "Is it what you wanted?"

"I'm not sure." Nancy read the memo again. Of course, "B" could mean Birdsong, but it might also mean other things. For example, the mayor, whose last name began with "B," beaded an organization called "Save Old Buildings," which the Sequoia Club supported actively. But in that case would a memo be "private and confidential?" Perhaps. The Sequoia Club had always been closemouthed about its money.

"Whatever you do," Grace said, "you won't let on where that came from?"

"I don't even know you," Nancy assured her. "And you've never been here."

The older woman smiled and nodded. "I need that job. Even though it don't pay much." She stood up. "Well, I'll be getting back."

"Thanks," Nancy said. "I appreciate what you did. Let me know when you need anything."

Favors for favors, she had discovered early, were part of journalism's commerce.

Returning to her desk, still wondering if the memo referred to Birdsong and p & lfp, or not, she met the city editor.

"Who was the old lady, Nancy?"

"A friend."

"You hatching a story?"

'Maybe."

"Tell me about it."

She shook her head. "Not yet."

The city editor regarded her quizzically. He was a graying veteran of newspaperdom, good at his job but, like many of his kind, he had reached the outer limits of promotion. "You're supposed to be part of a team, Nancy, and I'm the coach. I know you prefer being a loner, and you've gotten away with it because you get results. But you can push that game too far."

She shrugged. "So fire me."

He wouldn't, of course, and they both knew it. Leaving him frustrated, as she did so many men, she returned to her desk and began telephoning.

She tried Irwin Saunders first.

A secretary declared he was not available, but when Nancy mentioned the Examiner, he came cheerfully on the line.

"What can I do for you, Miss Molineaux?"

'I'd like to discuss the Sequoia Club's donation to Mr. Birdsong's power & light for people."

There was a second's silence. "What donation?"

"It's our understanding . . ."

Saunders laughed aloud. "Bullshit! Nancy, may I call you that?"

"Sure."

"Nancy, that kind of I-already-know-but-would like-some-confirmation statement is the oldest reporter's ploy in the book. You're talking to a wily old fish who doesn't take those baits."

She laughed with him. "I'd always heard you were sharp, Mr. Saunders."

"Damn right, kiddo."

She persisted, "But bow about a linkup between the Sequoia Club and p & lfp?"

"That's a subject, Nancy, about which I'm unlikely to know anything."

Score one for me, she thought. He had not said I don't know. Only I'm unlikely to know. Later, if he had to, he could claim he hadn't lied. He probably had a recorder going at this moment.

"My information," she said, "is that a Sequoia Club committee decided . .."

"Tell me about that alleged committee, Nancy. Who was on it? Name names."

She thought quickly. If she mentioned the other names she knew Carmichael, Quinn-he would be on the phone immediately to caution them. Nancy wanted to get there first. She lied, "I don't have any names."

"In other words, you don't have a damn thing." His voice was suddenly less friendly. "I'm a busy lawyer, Miss Molineaux, with a heavy case load. Clients pay me for my time and you're wasting it."

“Then I won't waste anymore."

Without replying, he hung up.

Even while talking, Nancy had been leafing through a phone directory in search of "Quinn." Now she found it: Quinn, Dempster W. R. Trust Priscilla Quinn's old man to have one more name than most other people. Nancy dialed and after the second ring was informed by a male voice, "This is the Dempster Quinn residence." It sounded like the sound track of Upstairs, Downstairs.

"Mrs. Quinn, please."

"I'm sorry. Madam is at lunch and may not be disturbed."

"Disturb her," Nancy said, "by telling her the California Examiner intends to mention her name, and does she want to help us get the facts straight?"

"One moment, please."

Not only moments passed, but several minutes. Eventually a cool female voice inquired, "Yes?"

Nancy identified herself.

"What is it you want?"

"Mrs. Quinn, when the Sequoia Club executive committee, of which you are a member, met last August and decided to team up with Davey Birdsong's power & light for people, what was . . . ?"

Priscilla Quinn said sharply, "That committee meeting, and the entire arrangement, are supposed to be confidential."

Bingo! Unlike lawyer Saunders, Quinn was not a wily fish. Nancy now had the confirmation she had sought, a confirmation she would never have obtained by asking direct questions.

"Well," Nancy said, "word seems to be around. Maybe Birdsong talked."

She heard what sounded like a sniff. "Very likely. I would never trust that man in the slightest degree."

“Then may I ask why you agreed to support his .

"I did not agree. I was the one who voted against the whole idea. I was defeated by the others." A note of alarm entered Priscilla Quinn's voice.

"Are you planning to print any of this?"

"Naturally."

"Oh dear, I don't want to be quoted."

"Mrs. Quinn," Nancy pointed out, "when you came on the line I identified myself, but you said nothing about any of our conversation being off the record."

"Well, I do now."

'It's too late."

The other woman said indignantly, "I shall telephone your publisher."

"Who won't do a thing," Nancy shot back, "except tell me to go ahead and write the story." She paused, considering. "What I will do is make a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"I have to use your name as a member of the Sequoia Club executive committee. There's no way I can avoid that. But I won't mention that I spoke to you if you'll tell me how much money was paid by the Sequoia Club to p & lfp."

"But that's blackmail!"

"Call it a trade-fair exchange."

There was a brief silence followed by, "How do I know I can trust you?"

"You can. Go on-take a chance."

A pause again. Then, very quietly: "Fifty thousand dollars."

Nancy's lips pursed in a silent whistle.

As she hung up, instinct told her she had spoiled Mrs. Dempster W. R. Quinn's lunch.

An hour or two later, having handled some other, routine news chores, Nancy sat at her desk thinking, calculating. So how much did she know?

Fact one: Davey Birdsong had cheated students and collected considerably more money than was needed to run p & Ifl.

Fact two: the Sequoia Club was backing Birdsong with money-a lot of it. That alone was a news scoop which would raise many eyebrows and almost certainly damage the club's reputation as a high-level, prestigious body.

Fact three: Birdsong was intervened in something he didn't want found out, hence his elaborate precautions when he visited that eastside house. Question one: What did he do there; did it relate to the large amounts of money he had accumulated; and what went on in the house? Nancy still hadn't the faintest idea.

Fact four: The girl from the house, Yvette, was scared shitless about something. Question two: What? Same answer as to question one.

Fact five: Number 117 Crocker Street was owned by the Redwood Realty Corporation. Nancy had found that out earlier today from the tax assessor's office. Later, posing as a credit bureau investigator, she had telephoned Redwood and learned the property had been rented for the past year to a Mr. G. Archambault, about whom nothing was known except that he paid the rent promptly. Question three: Who and what was Archambault? Go back to question one.

Conclusion: the jigsaw was incomplete, the story not ready to break. Nancy mused: She would have to wait and be patient until her meeting with Yvette six days from now. At this moment she was sorry she had agreed to delay that long, but having made the promise she would keep it.

Briefly Nancy wondered: Would she be in any danger, having tipped off Yvette about her interest, and then going back? She didn't think so. Anyway, fear of consequences seldom bothered her.

And yet . . . Nancy had an uncomfortable feeling she ought to share her knowledge with someone else, talk over what she had, and ask a second opinion about what to do next. Logically, she should go to the city editor. She might have done it, too, if the son-of-a-bitch hadn't handed her that coach-and-team crap earlier today. Now it would look as if she was sucking around him because of it. Screw you, Mr. Charlie!

For the time being, Nancy decided, she would continue to keep the whole ball of wax to herself.

It was a decision which later, looking back, she would bitterly regret.

15

In his office, Nim was going through the morning mail. His secretary, Victoria Davis, had already opened and sorted most of the letters and memos, putting them into two folders, one green, the other red-the latter reserved for urgent or important subjects. Today the red file was full to overflowing. There were also, placed separately, a few unopened letters marked "Personal." among these Nim recognized a familiar, pale blue envelope with a typewritten address. Karen Sloan's stationery.

Lately, Nim's conscience had troubled him about Karen-in two ways. On the one hand he cared about her very much indeed, and felt guilty because he had not visited her since the night they made love, even though they had talked by telephone. And on the other hand, there was Ruth. How did his love affair with Karen fit in with his reconciliation and new rapport with Ruth? the truth was: it didn't. Yet he could not suddenly toss Karen aside like a used Kleenex. If it had been some other woman he could, and would, have done it instantly. But Karen was different.

He had considered telling Ruth about Karen, then decided nothing would be gained by it. Besides, Ruth had enough problems without adding to them; also, he would be the one who would have to decide about Karen. He was ashamed to admit it, even to himself, but for the time being he had put Karen on a mental shelf and, for that reason, delayed opening her letter now.

The thought of Ruth, though, reminded him of something else.

"Vicki," he called through the open office door, "did you get those hotel reservations?"

"Yesterday." She came in, pointing to the green folder. "I wrote you a note; it's in there. The Columbus had a cancellation, so you have a two-bedroom suite. They promised me it will be high and with a view."

"Good! How's that last revision of my speech coming?"

"If you'll stop asking questions to which I've already given you answers," Vicki told him, "I'll have it ready this afternoon."

He grinned. "Get out of here!"

In a week's time Nim was due to address the annual convention of the National Electric Institute. His paper, which had already gone through several drafts, would be about future power demands and was entitled "Overload."

The big national NEI convention, important to the public utility industry and its suppliers, was being held locally this year-in the Christopher Columbus Hotel. It would last four days. Because there were numerous social events, it occurred to Nim it would be an interesting change for his family if they moved with him into the hotel for the duration of the convention. He had put the suggestion to Ruth, Leah, and Benjy, who reacted enthusiastically.

The idea of getting a high room with a view was Nim's. He thought the children would enjoy it.

His promise to speak at the NEI convention had been made nearly a year ago, long before his removal from the role of company spokesman. When Nim mentioned the commitment recently to Eric Humphrey, the chairman told him, "Go ahead, but stay away from controversy." In fact, Nim's paper would be heavily technical, intended mainly for other power company planners like himself. Whether or not he would season it-despite the chairman's warning-with a soupcon of controversy, he had not yet decided.

As Vicki closed the office door behind her, Nim went back to his red file, then decided he would open Karen's letter after all.

He was sure the envelope contained verses-the verses Karen so painstakingly typed with a stick held in her mouth. And, as always, be was moved by the thought of her laboring long and patiently on his behalf.

He was right.

TOP SECRET (as the military say);

For your eyes only, darling Nimrod,

(Such dear, kind eyes).

No others should alight

On this communiqué

Un-military,

Very private, intimate, adoring.

My sensual delectation lingers:

A swirling, heady, Cyprian mixture,

At once

So sweetly light, robustly carnal.

My mind, my flesh

My nerve ends, toes, lips, fingers,

Tingling with joyous residues,

Remember-Oh my precious lover! -

The rich fulfillment of your loving.

Such ecstasy!

From this day forth

I'll vote for hedonism!

You are indeed a noble knight

In burnished armor,

Whose shining sword

(Especially that sword)

Brings golden happiness.

I thrill to it,

And you,

Forever.

Karen, he thought, when he had finished, you turn me on! Oh, how you turn me on!

His best intentions seemed to melt. He would see Karen again, no matter what. And soon. First, though, he reminded himself, he had a heavy work schedule, including his convention speech. He settled down again to the official mail. Moments later the telephone buzzed. When Nim answered impatiently, Vicki informed him, "Mr. London is on the line and would like to talk to you."

Conscious of the bulging red folder, Nim told her, "Ask if it's important."

"I already did. He says it is."

"Put him on, then." A click and the Property Protection chief's voice said, "Nim?"

"Harry, this is a full week for me. Is it anything that will keep?"

"I don't think so. Something tricky has come up, something I think you ought to know about."

"Okay, go ahead."

"Not on the phone. I need to see you."

Nim sighed. At times Harry London acted as if everything in his department rated top priority compared with the rest of GSP & L. "All right. Come up now."

Nim resumed work until London arrived some five minutes later.

Pushing his chair back from the desk, Nim. said, "I'm listening, Harry. But make it brief."

"I'll try." the short, craggy Property Protection chief settled down in a facing chair. In dress and demeanor he still looked the smart, sharp ex-Marine, but there were more lines on his face than a few months ago, Nim thought.

"You'll remember," London began, "that soon after we caught those Quayle guys stealing power at the Zaco Building, I told you we'd uncovered a rat's nest. I predicted there was a lot more to come, and that some big names might be intervened."

Nim nodded.

"Try this big name on: Mr. Justice Paul Sherman Yale."

Nim shot upright. "You have to be kidding!"

"I wish I were," London said dolefully. "Unfortunately, I'm not."

All of Nim's impatience had vanished. He instructed, "Tell me everything you know. Everything."

"That day you and I had lunch," Harry London said, "something else I told you was that my department would check the records of Quayle Electrical & Gas Contracting-working with the D.A.'s officeto review all the work Quayle did in the past year. After that we'd do more investigating to discover how much of it, if any, was illegal."

"I remember."

"We did all that. My people have worked like the devil and we found a bundle. You'll get the details in a report I'm writing. The gist of it is that the D.A. has many more cases to prosecute, with big dollar numbers attached."

"Get to Mr. Yale," Nim said. "How does he fit in?"

"I'm coming to that."

Among the Quayle company work orders, the Property Protection chief reported, were an unusual number initiated for the same person, an Ian Norris.

Though the name seemed familiar, Nim couldn't place it.

"Norris," London said, "is a lawyer who works as some kind of financial adviser. He has an office in town-it's in the Zaco Building, wouldn't you know W-and he looks after trusts and estates. One of them is called the Yale Family Trust."

"I know about the Yale Trust." Now Nim remembered Norris. They had met briefly at the cattle feedlot near Fresno.

"We have solid proof," London continued, "that Norris is in power theft up to his hairline. He controls a lot of property-office and industrial buildings, apartments, stores, that kind of stuff. Apparently Norris discovered some time ago that he could do a better job for his clients save them money and make some for himself-if he lowered electricity and gas bills by cheating. He figured he could get away with it-at least, that's the way it looks-so he went into stealing power on a grand scale, using Quayle Electrical & Gas Contracting."

"But it doesn't follow," Nim pointed out "that the people Norris represents had the slightest idea of what was going on." He had a sense of relief.

Even though the Yale Family Trust might be intervened, he was confident that Paul Sherman Yale would never be a party, personally, to anything dishonest.

"What you say is true enough," London said, "and even if any of Norris' clients did know, I doubt if we could ever prove it, But the D.A. is building a case against Norris and the Yale name is bound to be in it.

That's why I thought you should know. It ain't going to look good, Nim, for him or for us."

Harry was right Nim thought. The name of Yale and Golden State Power & Light were now closely linked and there would be those who despite all evidence to the contrary-would believe some kind of conspiracy existed. Never mind that it didn't make sense. It would not stop rumor mongers, and there could be resulting embarrassment all around.

"I haven't finished," Harry London said, "and maybe this is the most important bit of all."

Nim listened, wondering what was coming next.

"A lot of the illegal work the Quayle people did for Norris-or rather, for the people Norris represents-began nearly a year ago. But everything for the Yale Family Trust, which includes illegal wiring in two apartment buildings in the city, a winery in the Napa Valley, and at a cattle feedlot near Fresno, has been done within the past three months. And, in case you hadn't noticed, that's since Mr. Justice Yale left the Supreme Court, and since he came to work for Golden State Power."

"Give me a minute, Harry," Nim said. He had a sense of shock and bewilderment. "Let me think about that."

"Take your time," London told him. "Been doing plenty of thinking myself."

Nim couldn't believe it. Simply could not believe that Paul Sherman Yale would be a participant in power theft, even peripherally, even as a silent spectator. And yet . . . Nim. was reminded uneasily of their conversation at the cattle feedlot. What was it Paul Yale had said? "It's the inflated cost of everything that does us in . . . especially electricity. This operation runs on it. We use electric power for the mill . . . for forty thousand cattle . . . in the pens there are bright lights on all night . . . our power bills are astronomical." And later:

"I've told the trust manager, Ian Norris, to cut down, economize . . .We have to."

Even before then, on that day in the Napa Valley when Nim first met the Yales, Beth Yale betrayed her husband's bitterness, and her own, that their family trust was mismanaged and losing money.

Nim addressed Harry London. "One more question. Do you know if anyone-from your department, the police, or the D.A's office-bas contacted Mr. Yale about any of this?"

"I do know. No one has."

Nim paused, once more assessing all that he had heard. Then he announced, "Harry, this is too big for me. I'm going to hand it to the chairman."

The Property Protection chief nodded his agreement. "I figured you'd have to."

* * *

At 11 am next day they assembled in the chairman's office suite: Eric Humphrey, Nim, Harry London, Paul Sherman Yale.

Mr. Justice Yale, who had just been chauffeured from the Napa Valley, was especially jovial. His lined face beaming, he told the others, "Coming back to California has made me feel younger and happier. I should have done it years ago." Suddenly aware that no one else was smiling, he turned to Humphrey. "Eric, is anything wrong?"

Humphrey, while outwardly dapper and composed as usual, was inwardly uncomfortable, Nim could tell. He knew the chairman had approached this meeting with misgivings.

"Frankly, I'm not sure," Humphrey replied. "But some information has been reported to me which I believe you should be told about. Nim, please fill in the background for Mr. Yale."

In a few sentences Nim explained about the high incidence of power theft and the role in the company of Harry London, whom Mr. Justice Yale had not met previously.

While Nim talked, the old man's brow furrowed. He appeared puzzled and during a pause inquired, "How does my own work fit in with this?"

"Unfortunately," Humphrey said, "what we're discussing does not concern your work. There appear to be . . . well, some personal aspects."

Yale shook his head in a gesture of perplexity. "Now I'm even more at a loss. Will someone please explain?"

"Harry," Nim instructed, "you take over."

"Sir," London said, addressing Yale, "I believe you know an Ian Norris."

Was it imagination, Nim wondered, or had an expression of alarm for the briefest instant crossed Mr. Justice Yale's face? Probably not. Nim cautioned himself: Don't look for shadows that don't exist.

"Certainly I know Norris," Yale acknowledged. "He and I have business dealings. But I'm curious about your connection with him."

"My connection, sir, is that Norris is a thief. We have definite proof."

Harry London went on, describing what he had revealed to Nim yesterday about Norris' power stealing and the Yale Family Trust.

This time Paul Sherman Yale's reaction was unmistakable: In succession-incredulity, shock, anger.

At the end of London's recital, Eric Humphrey added, "I hope you understand, Paul, why I decided that this matter-painful as it is-had to be brought to your attention."

Yale nodded, his face flushed, still revealing the conflict of emotions.

"Yes, that part I understand. But as to the rest . . ." He spoke sternly to Harry London. "This is a serious accusation. Are you certain of your facts?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely sure." London met the old man's gaze unflinchingly.

“The D.A. is definite, too. He believes he has ample evidence to convict."

Eric Humphrey interjected, "I should explain to you, Paul, that Mr. London's record with us has been outstanding. He has put teeth into our Property Protection program and shown himself to be a responsible executive. He is not given to making accusations lightly."

Nim added, "Especially one this serious."

"It is certainly serious." Mr. Justice Yale had regained his composure and was speaking in measured tones as if, Nim thought, he were once more occupying the highest judicial bench. "For the moment I accept what you gentlemen say, though later I will insist on examining the evidence."

"Naturally," Eric Humphrey said.

"Meanwhile," Yale continued, "I assume it is clearly understood and accepted that, until this moment, I had no knowledge myself of anything you have described."

Humphrey assured him, "That goes without saying. None of us had the slightest doubt of it. Our main concern was about embarrassment to you."

"And to Golden State Power," Nim added.

Yale shot him a quick, shrewd glance. "Yes, there is that to be considered." He permitted himself a slight smile. "Well, I thank you for your confidence in me."

"It never wavered," Humphrey said.

Briefly Nim wondered: Wasn't the chairman overdoing it a bit? then he thrust the thought away.

Paul Yale seemed to want to go on talking. "Apart from this unfortunate incident, I find the entire concept of power theft interesting. Frankly, I had no idea such a thing existed. I have never heard of it before. Nor did I know there were such people in the public utility business as Mr. London." He told the Property Protection chief, "On some other occasion I would be interested to hear more about your work."

"Be glad to fill you in anytime, sir."

They went on talking, the initial strain gone. It was arranged that later in the day Harry London would disclose to Mr. Justice Yale the detailed evidence relating to Ian Norris and the Yale Family Trust properties.

Yale announced his intention to retain private legal counsel to protect his interests vis-a-vis Norris. He explained, “The question of succession of trustees for that family trust has always been something of a problem.

My grandfather made provisions which were inelastic and have not worn well with time. It will require a court order to have Norris removed. In the circumstances, I shall seek it."

Nim contributed little to the discussion. Something, somewhere in his mind, was bothering him. He wasn't sure what.

* * *

Two days later, Harry London returned to Nim.

"Got some news you'll like about that Norris case."

Nim looked up from the latest draft of his NEI convention speech. "Such as?"

"Ian Norris has made a statement. He swears your friend Paul Sherman Yale knew nothing whatever about what was going on. So the old boy's story is confirmed."

Nim asked curiously, "Why would Norris make a statement?"

"Deals within wheels. I'm not sure the scales of justice are dead level, but here's the way it is: Norris' lawyer has been talking with the D.A.

First, it's been agreed GSP & L will be paid what's owing-or rather, what we estimate is owing, which is a helluva lot of money. After that, Norris will plead 'no contest' to a charge of criminal stealing under Section 591."

“What's that?"

'Part of the California Penal Code. Covers stealing from public utilities like us and the phone companies, and allows for a fine and a prison term of up to - five- -years. - Anyway, the- D.A. will -ask for the maximum fine but will agree not to press for imprisonment. Put it all together and there'll be no evidence presented in court, so the name of the Yale Family Trust won't be in the record."

Harry London stopped.

"Getting information from you," Nim complained, "is like drawing corks.

Tell me the rest of that under-the-counter deal."

"Some of it I don't know; probably never will. One thing that comes through is that our Mr. Yale has powerful friends. The D.A. bas been under pressure to get the case settled and keep the Yale name under wraps." London shrugged. "I suppose that's best for dear old GSP & L."

"Yes," Nim agreed, "it's best."

Afterward, with London gone, Nim sat, silent, thinking. It was true: there would have been harmful publicity for the company if one of its directors and its official spokesman had been intervened in a case of power theft, however innocently. Nim supposed he should feel relieved. Yet something continued to nag at him, as it had for two whole days, a burr in his subconscious, a conviction that he knew something important if he could only remember what.

There was something else. This time not subconscious.

Why should Mr. Justice Yale have made such a heavy-handed point -as he did at the meeting with Eric Humphrey, Harry London and Nim-about never having heard of power theft? Of course, it was entirely possible be hadn't. True, there had been reports in the press and an occasional mention on TV, but no one person could be expected to know everything in the news, even a Supreme Court judge. Just the same, the insistence had seemed-to Nim-overdone.

He returned to his first thought: the nagging doubt. What in hell was it that he knew? Maybe if he didn't try so Hard it would drop quietly into his mind.

He continued working on his speech for the National Electric Institute convention, only four days away.

16

A day of glory nears!

The valiant people's army, Friends of Freedom, fighting the vile capitalists who keep amerika in chains, will strike a blow to be acclaimed in history.

All preparations are A-okay for countdown.

Georgos Winslow Archambault, writing in his journal, hesitated.

Then, using his stub of pencil (it was getting uncomfortably short and the would have to discard it soon, Gandhi's precepts or not), he crossed out the last four words. They had capitalist overtones, he realized, as he substituted:

have been brilliantly executed by the Friends of Freedom high command.

Better. Much better! He went on writing.

The people's enemies, consorting under the infamous, fascist-front banner of the National Electric Institute, begin assembling in two days' time.

They are in for a grand surprise-and a deserved punishment.

Georgos smiled as he put the pencil stub down and rested from composing, which, as usual, tired him mentally. Standing, he surveyed the basement workshop, now jammed tightly with new supplies and equipment. He stretched his lean, lithe body. Then he dropped to the floor in a space he had deliberately kept clear and did forty push-ups rapidly. It pleased Georgos that he sailed through the exercise easily and his breathing was normal at the end. Three days from now he might be glad of his physical fitness.

He would get back to the journal in a minute. With significant history in the making, it must not be neglected because some day it should find an honored place in the archives of revolution.

He reflected: Everything for the impending operation was knitting together perfectly-planning, supplies, the logistics of getting explosive and incendiary bombs into the Christopher Columbus Hotel. The first set of bombs (containing high explosive) would detonate at 3 am during the second night of the NEI convention, the fire bombs from five to ten minutes later. Both sets of bombs, disguised as fire extinguishers, would be placed in position the preceding day-roughly sixteen hours before detonation.

Thanks to Georgos' resourceful leadership, all was proceeding like . .. he groped for a metaphor . . . like those excellent clockwork mechanisms Davey Birdsong bought in Chicago and delivered here.

Georgos had revised his earlier opinions about Birdsong. Now he felt admiration and love for the big, bearded man.

Not only was Birdsong's original idea sheer genius, but in helping implement it he was taking active risks. In addition to the shopping trip to Chicago, Birdsong had helped to buy up fire extinguishers locally, a few at a time from different sources. In the basement workshop there were now almost three dozen-ample for the Friends of Freedom plan. Georgos had been cautious in bringing them to the house, mostly after dark. He had taken one calculated risk in delivering six extinguishers in daylight-he urgently needed the space in his VW van to pick up more -but had surveyed the street carefully first- then moved quickly, and was satisfied afterward that he had not been observed.

As well as collecting the thirty-odd extinguishers, Georgos had already done the needed work on half of them. First he had emptied the original contents, then machined the insides of the casings to weaken them. After that, in those which were to be fire bombs, be inserted plastic bottles filled with gasoline, plus explosive charges with detonators, and timing mechanisms. In the case of the high explosive bombs, which would block off exits from the hotel, he substituted four pounds of dynamite for the gasoline.

Soon, when he had finished writing his journal, he would continue with the remaining extinguishers. It would be necessary to work steadily through the next forty-eight hours-and with great care because the amount of explosive now in the workshop was sufficient to wipe out the entire block if anything went wrong. But Georgos had confidence in his own ability and that he could finish in time.

His thin, ascetic face lighted in gleeful contemplation as be recalled Birdsong's words when they first discussed their plan to block off escape from the hotel, then start fierce fires on the upper floors: "If you do it right, not one person on those upper floors will leave that building alive."

A further plus for Birdsong: He had come through with all the money Georgos asked for, even though the cost of everything had been greater than expected.

Then there was the diversion Birdsong had planned. It would help Georgos, aided by the other freedom fighters, to get the bombs safely into the hotel.

As he had done several times already, Georgos went over the details in his mind.

With some more of Birdsong's money, Georgos had bought a Dodge pickup truck-used, but in good condition and by happy coincidence painted red. He had made the purchase with cash and employed fake identity papers, so later the ownership would not be traceable.

The truck was now hidden in a locked, private garage adjoining a second Friends of Freedom hideaway-a recently rented apartment in the city's North Castle district which only Georgos; knew about. The apartment would serve as a location to fall back on if the Crocker Street house became unusable for any reason.

The red truck was already lettered neatly on both sides: FIRE PROTECTION SERVICE, INC. A masterstroke (another of Georgos' ideas) was the choice of an open pickup rather than a closed van. The vehicle's contents-seemingly innocent fire extinguishers-would be exposed for all to see.

Georgos' own regular transportation-his old VW van-was in a private parking garage not far from the Crocker Street house and would not be used in the NEI attack.

How Birdsong's diversionary scheme would work was that he, with about a hundred p & lfp supporters, would stage an anti-GSP & L demonstration at the hotel at the same time that the load of fire extinguishers-cum-bombs would be driven to the service entrance and unloaded. The demonstrators would make themselves sufficiently a nuisance so that any police or security forces on the scene would be kept busy, permitting the red Dodge pickup to pass unnoticed. As to other details, Birdsong had come through, as promised, with sketch plans of the Christopher Columbus Hotel main floor and mezzanine. After studying them, Georgos had made three trips himself to the hotel to verify details and decide on exact placement of the high explosive bombs to go off first.

Another thing Georgos learned was that behind-scenes service activity was so busy, at times frantic, that in the daytime almost anyone could walk through the hotel's service areas unquestioned, provided they appeared purposeful and on some business mission. To test this, on the third trip to the Christopher Columbus, Georgos wore one of the neat blue-gray coverall uniforms, embroidered with the words "Fire Protection Service, Inc." which he and the other freedom fighters accompanying him would wear three days from now.

No what. No problem. He had even received friendly nods from several hotel staff members who found his presence unremarkable, and, for his part, Georgos practiced the role to be played when the time came to put the bombs in place. Then, he and the others would become obsequious flunkies-the way capitalists liked their serfs to grovel. Chameleons all, the freedom fighters would smile sweetly, mouthing inanities -"Excuse me," "Yes, sir," "No, madam," "Please"-a sickening abasement to inferiors, but one to be suffered for the cause of revolution.

Results would make it all worth while!

For extra cover, in case any freedom fighter were stopped and questioned, Birdsong had had some Fire Protection Service, Inc. work orders printed.

These were now filled in. They instructed that supplementary fire extinguishers were to be delivered to the hotel and left in place for subsequent mounting. Birdsong had also typed, on hotel stationery, an authorization for Fire Protection Service personnel to enter the hotel for that purpose. He acquired the stationery during one of his sorties into the Christopher Columbus where it was available, for use by hotel guests, at desks on the mezzanine.

The two documents replaced Georgos' original idea of getting hotel purchase orders, which had proved too difficult. Neither document would stand up to close scrutiny, Georgos and Birdsong realized, but might make the needed difference in a pinch. As far as Georgos could see, they had thought of everything. Only one thing, at this moment, vaguely troubled him and that was his woman, Yvette. Since the night, four months ago, when he executed the two security pigs on the hill above Millfield and afterward Yvette protested, he had never quite trusted her. Briefly, following Millfield, be considered eliminating her. It would not be difficult, as Davey Birdsong once pointed out, but Georgos decided to postpone action. The woman was useful. She cooked well; also she was cowenient when he chose to work off his sexual excitements, which had become more frequent lately as the prospect of killing more people's enemies loomed closer.

As a precaution, Georgos had kept secret from Yvette the plan to bomb the Christopher Columbus Hotel, even though she must realize something important was pending. Perhaps her exclusion was the reason she had been silent and moody these past few weeks. Well, no matter! At this moment he had more important concerns, but soon he would almost certainly have to dispose of Yvette, even at some inconenience to himself.

Remarkable! Even thinking about killing his woman was giving him an erection.

With growing excitement-in so many agreeable ways-Georgos returned to writing in his journal.