Overload

1

In a twenty-fifth-floor suite of the Christopher Columbus Hotel, Leah looked up from an exercise book in which she was writing.

"Daddy," she said, "can I ask you something personal?"

Nim answered, "Yes, of course."

"Are things all right between you and Mommy now?"

It took Nim a second or two to grasp the import of his daughter's question.

Then he answered quietly, "Yes, they are."

"And you're not Leah's voice faltered. "You're not going to break up after all?"

"If you've been worrying about that," he told her, "you can stop worrying. That won't happen, I hope, ever."

"Oh, Daddy!” Leah ran toward him, her arms flung out. She embraced him tightly. "Oh, Daddy, I'm so glad." He felt her young face soft against his own and the wetness of her tears.

He held her, and gently stroked her hair.

The two of them were together because Ruth and Benjy had gone down to the lobby floor a few minutes ago-to sample the wares of an ice cream parlor for which the hotel was noted. Leah had chosen to stay with Nim, claiming she wanted to finish some schoolwork she had brought. Or was it, he wondered now, because she saw an opportunity to ask that crucial question?

What parent, Nim reflected, ever knew what went on in children's minds, or the hurts they suffered through parental selfishness or lack of thought? He remembered bow Leah had carefully avoided the subject of Ruth's absence while she and Benjy were staying with the Neubergers and they had talked on the telephone. What agony was Leah a sensitive and aware fourteen-year-old-going through then? the memory left him ashamed.

It also raised the question: When should both children be told the truth about Ruth's condition? Probably soon. True, it would create anxiety, just as it had-and continued to-with Nim. But better Leah and Benjy should know than have it sprung upon them suddenly in a crisis, as might happen. Nim decided he would discuss the subject with Ruth within the next few days.

As if Leah sensed part of his thinking, she said, "It's all right, Daddy. It's all right." then, with the adaptability of the young, she wriggled free and went back to what she had been doing.

He walked to the window of the suite living room, observing the panoramic, picture-postcard view; the historic city, its busy ship-filled harbor and the two world-famed bridges, all touched with gold by the late afternoon sun. "Hey," he said over his shoulder, "that's some fantastic scene."

Leah looked up, smiling. "Yeah. Sure is."

One thing was already clear: Bringing his family to the National Electric Institute convention, now in its first day, had been a great idea. Both children were excited when they all checked into the hotel this morning.

Leah and Benjy, while excused from school for four days, had been given class assignments, including one to write an essay on the convention itself; Benjy, planning his, expressed a wish to bear his father's speech tomorrow. It was unusual to admit a child to an NEI business session, but Nim managed to arrange it. There were other activities for families-a harbor cruise, museum visits, private movies-in which Ruth and the children would join.

After a while Ruth and Benjy returned to the suite, laughing happily, and reporting that it had been necessary to test two cones each before awarding the ice cream parlor a three-star rating.

* * *

The convention's second day.

It dawned bright and cloudless, sun streaming into the suite while Nim, Ruth and the children enjoyed the luxury of a room service breakfast.

Following breakfast, and for the last time before he would deliver it, Nim skimmed through his speech. It was on the program for 10 am A few minutes after nine he left the others and took an elevator to the lobby floor. He had a reason for going there first. From a window of the suite he had seen some kind of a demonstration taking place outside and was curious to know who was demonstrating, and why. As Nim emerged from the hotel's main doorway, he realized it was the same old crowd-power & light for people. About a hundred persons of varying ages were parading, chanting slogans. Didn't they ever get tired, he wondered, or see anything but their own narrow viewpoint?

The usual type placards were being waved.

2GSP & L

Cheats

Consumers

Let the People,

Not Fat Cat

Capitalists,

Own GSP & L

p & lfp Urges

Public Takeover of

The People's Utilities

Public Ownership

Would Ensure

Lower Electric Rates

What influence, Nim mused, did p & lfp expect to have on the National Electric Institute? He could tell them it would be nil. But of course, it was local attention they expected and, as usual, were receiving. He could see the ubiquitous TV cameras. Oh yes, and there was Davey Birdsong, looking cheerful and directing it all.

There appeared to be an attempt by the demonstrators to stop vehicular traffic from reaching the hotel. The front driveway was being blocked by a line of p & lfp-ers who had linked arms, preventing several waiting cars and taxis from moving in. Also cordoned off by a second contingent was an adjoining service entrance. Two trucks were held up there. One, Nim saw, was a milk delivery van, the other an open pickup with a load of fire extinguishers. The drivers of both trucks had got out of their vehicles and were protesting the delay.

Several city policemen now appeared. They moved among the demonstrators, cautioning them. A brief argument followed between police and demonstrators, in which Birdsong joined. Then the big, bearded man shrugged and motioned his supporters away from both entrances while the police, hastening the process, escorted the two trucks in, then the cars and taxis.

"Can you beat that for irresponsibility?" the speaker was another convention delegate, standing beside Nim and identifiable by his NEI lapel badge. "That dumb bunch would like to cut off the hotel's fire protection and milk. In God's name, why?"

Nim nodded. "Doesn't make a lot of sense."

Perhaps it didn't to the demonstrators either for they were now dispersing.

Nim returned inside the hotel and took an elevator to the mezzanine floor, the convention's headquarters.

Like any convention-that unique tribal ritual-the NEI gathering 2brought together several hundred businessmen, engineers and scientists, their purpose to chew over mutual problems, exchange news of developments, and mingle socially. The theory was that each delegate, afterward, would do his or her job better. It was hard to put a cash value on such occasions, though one existed.

In an anteroom outside the main convention ball, delegates were assembling for the informal coffee klatsch which preceded each day's business session.

Nim joined the earlier arrivals, meeting officials of other power companies, some of whom he knew, and some he didn't.

A good deal of the talk was about oil. An overnight news report revealed that the OPEC nations were standing firm in their demand that future payments for oil be in gold, not paper currencies whose value-particularly that of the dollar-diminished almost daily. Negotiations between the United States and OPEC were stalled, with the prospect of a new oil embargo becoming alarmingly real.

If it happened, the impact on public utilities producing electricity could be disastrous.

After a few minutes of sharing in the discussion, Nim felt a pressure on his arm. Turning, he saw 'Thurston Jones, his friend from Dewer. They shook hands warmly.

Thurston asked, "What news of Tunipah?"

Nim grimaced. "Building the Pyramids went faster."

"And the Pharaohs didn't need permits. Right?"

"Rightl How's Ursula?"

"Great." Thurston beamed. "We're having a baby."

"That's wonderful. Congratulations! When will the big day be?" Nim was using words to fill in time while marshaling his startled thoughts. He remembered vividly the weekend at Dewer and Ursula's arrival in his bed.

Ursula, who confided that she and her husband wanted children but couldn't have them, a statement Thurston confirmed. "We both had medical tests . .. my pistol will cock and fire, but I feed it only blanks. And I'll never have live bullets .

“The doctor says around the end of June."

Christi Nim didn't need a calculator to know it was his child. His emotions were whirling, as if in a blender, and what the bell was he supposed to say?

His friend supplied the answer by clapping an arm around Nim's shoulders

“There's just one thing Ursula and I would like. When the time comes, we want you to be godfather."

Nim started to say yes, he would, then found he could not get the words out. Instead he clasped Thurston's hand again, tightly, and nodded his agreement. The Jones kid, Nim vowed silently, would have-the best, most conscientious godfather there ever was.

They arranged to meet again before the convention ended.

Nim moved on, talking with more power people: from New York's Con Edison-in Nim's view one of the best-run utilities in North America, despite its enforced role as a New York City tax collector and the abuse heaped on it by opportunistic politicians-Florida Power & Light, Chicago's Commonwealth Edison, Houston Lighting & Power, Southern California Edison, Arizona Public Service, others.

There was also a contingent of a dozen delegates from Golden State Power & Light, actively mingling with out-of-towners since theirs was the host company. among the GSP & L group was Ray Paulsen; he and Nim greeted each other with their usual lack of cordiality. J. Eric Humphrey had not yet appeared at the convention but would do so later.

As he concluded a conversation, Nim observed a familiar face, moving nearer through the growing, increasingly noisy throng of delegates. It was the California Examiner reporter, Nancy Molineaux. To his surprise, she came directly to him.

"Hi!” Her manner was friendly and she was smiling, but Nim's memories were too close and sour for him to respond in kind. He had to admit though, the woman was damned attractive; those high cheekbones and the haughty manner were a part of it. She knew how to dress well; expensively, too, by the look of her clothes.

He answered coolly, "Good morning."

"Just picked up your speech in the pressroom," Ms. Molineaux said; she had a news release and a full-text copy in her hand. "Pretty dull stuff. You planning to say anything extra that isn't printed here?"

"Even if I am, I'll be damned if I'd help you by telling you in advance."

The reply seemed to please her and she laughed.

"Dad," a voice broke in, "we're going up to that place now."

It was Benjy, who had dodged through delegates on his way to a small convention hall gallery where a few visitors could be seated. Over by a stairway Nim could see Ruth and Leah. Both waved and he waved back.

"Okay," he told Benjy, "you'd better go get your seats."

Nancy Molineaux had listened with apparent amusement. She asked, "You brought your family to the convention?"

"Yes," he answered curtly, then added, "My wife and our children are staying with me in the hotel. In case you consider making something of it, I'll tell you that I'm paying their expenses personally."

"My, my," she teased, "what a terrible reputation I have."

"I'm wary of you," Nim told her, "the way I would be of a cobra."

* * *

That Goldman, Nancy thought as she moved away; he was strictly a no-horseshit man.

Coming here today was an assignment she had neither expected nor wanted. But the city editor, spotting Goldman's name on the program, had sent Nancy, hoping she would find some vulnerability, and thus continue what he saw as a newsworthy vendetta. Well, old I'm-the coach was wrong. She would report Goldman's speech straight, even give it a buildup if the material were worth it. (the printed version wasn't, which was why she had asked her question.) Apart from that, Nancy wanted to get the hell out of here as quickly as she could. Today was the day she had arranged to meet the girl, Yvette, in the bar where they had talked briefly a week ago. Nancy could make it-she had left her car in the hotel's underground parking garage-though time would be tight. She hoped the girl would show, and would answer some of those puzzling questions.

Meanwhile there was Goldman. She went into the convention hall and took a seat at the press table.

* * *

Even while addressing the convention, Nim found himself agreeing with the Molineaux woman: A speech, as heavy with technical material as this one had to be, was unexciting from a press reporter's viewpoint. But as he described the load and capacity problems-present and future-of Golden State Power & Light, the rapt attention of his audience showed that many of those listening shared the problems, frustrations and fears which Nim presented under his title, "Overload." they, too, were charged with providing reliable power in their communities. They, too, realized that time was running out, with a major electrical famine a mere few years away. Yet almost daily their honesty was questioned, their warnings disbelieved, their grim statistics scoffed at.

Near the end of his prepared text, Nim reached into a pocket for a page of notes he had made only yesterday. He would use them to conclude.

"Most of us here-probably all of us," he said, "share two important beliefs. One belief concerns environment.

“The environment we live in should be cleaner than it is. Therefore those who work responsibly toward that objective deserve our support.

“The second belief concerns the democratic process. I believe in democracy, always have, though lately with some reservations. Which brings me back to the environment.

"Some of those who call themselves environmentalists have ceased to be reasonable believers in a reasonable cause and have become fanatics. They are a minority. But by noisy, rigid, uncompromising, often uninformed fanaticism, they are managing to impose their will on the majority.

"In doing so, such people have prostituted the democratic process, have used it ruthlessly-as it was never intended to be used-to thwart everything but their own narrow aims. What they cannot defeat by reason and argument they obstruct by delay and legalistic guile. Such people do not even pretend to accept majority rule because they are convinced they know better than the majority. Furthermore, they recognize only those aspects of democracy which can be subverted to their own advantage."

The last words produced a burst of handclapping. Nim put up a hand for silence, and went on.

"This breed of environmentalist opposes everything. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, we of the power industry can propose which does not arouse their ire, their condemnation, their fervent and self-righteous opposition.

"But the fanatics among environmentalists are not alone. They have allies."

Nim paused, having sudden second thoughts about his notes, aware that what came next could get him into the same kind of trouble as five months ago, after the Energy Commission hearing on Tunipah. It would also run counter to J. Eric Humphrey's "stay away from controversy" instruction. Well, either way, the worst they could do was hang him. He plunged on.

"The allies I spoke of," he declared, "are the growing number of appointees on regulatory boards, put there for political reasons only."

Nim sensed, among his audience, rapt and immediate interest.

"There was a time, in this state and elsewhere, when the boards and commissions regulating our industry were few in number and could be relied on for reasonably fair, impartial judgments. But not anymore. Not only have such boards proliferated to a point where their functions overlap so they now compete brazenly with each other in establishing power bases, but a majority of board members receive their appointments as blatant political rewards. Seldom, if ever, do they get where they are through merit or experience. As a result, such commissioners and board members have little or no business knowledge-indeed, some openly display an anti-business prejudice-and all have political ambitions which govern their every action and decision.

"That is precisely why and how our extremist critics and opponents find themselves with allies. For it is the militant, so-called populist points of view, the anti-power-company stances, which nowadays make news and gain attention. The quiet, balanced, thoughtfully-arrived-at decisions do not, and the commissioners and board members whom I speak of know that lesson very well indeed.

"Expressed another way: What ought to be positions of impartial public trust are being abused and turned against the public interest.

"I have no easy remedy to suggest for these two formidable problems nor, I suspect, have any of you. The best we can do is to let the public know, whenever possible, that their reasonable interests are being undermined-by a minority -and insidious alliance -of fanatics and self-serving politicians."

Nim decided to leave it there.

While he was wondering what, after all, would be the reaction to his remarks by Eric Humphrey and other GSP & L colleagues, Nim found to his amazement he was receiving an enthusiastic standing ovation.

* * *

"Congratulations! .. . . . .. took guts to say it, but all so true"..."hope what you said gets widest circulation" . . . "would like a transcript to pass around" . . . "the industry needs straight shooters like you" . . . "if you get tired of working for Golden State Power, be sure to let us know."

As delegates crowded around him, unexpectedly, incredibly, Nim found he was a hero. The president of a giant Midwest utility assured him, "I hope your company appreciates you. I intend to tell Eric Humphrey how good you were."

Amid more handshaking and congratulations, and with a sudden weariness, Nim eased himself away.

Only one thing marred the aftermath: the sight of Ray Paulsen's scowling, hostile face. But the executive vice president said nothing and simply left the convention hall alone.

Nim had reached a doorway to the outer mezzanine when a quiet voice behind him said, "I came especially to hear you. It was worth it."

Nim turned. To his amazement he saw the speaker was Wally Talbot Jr. Part of Wally's head was bandaged and he was walking with the aid of canes, but managed a cheerful grin.

"Wally!" Nim said. "How great to see you! I didn't know you were out of the hospital."

"Got out a couple of weeks ago, though not for good. I still have a lot of repair work ahead. Can we talk?"

"Sure. Let's find someplace quiet." He had intended to look for Ruth and the children but could meet them later in the suite.

They went down by elevator to the main floor. In a comer near a stairway two chairs were unoccupied and Nim and Wally went toward them, Wally using his canes a trifle awkwardly, but obviously preferring to manage by himself.

"Watch it, please!” A figure in smart blue-gray coveralls moved past, maneuvering a two-wheel trolley on which were balanced three red fire extinguishers. "Won't be a moment, gentlemen. Just have to put one of these in place." the man, who was young, lifted aside one of the chairs they were beaded for, set down a fire extinguisher behind it, then returned the chair to its original position. He smiled at Nim. "That's all, sir. Sorry to have held you up."

"You didn't." Nim remembered having seen the man earlier this morning, driving one of the trucks which police escorted in during the p & lfp demonstration.

It occurred to Nim that putting a fire extinguisher out of sight behind a chair was a strange arrangement. But it was none of his business and presumably the man knew what he was doing. His coveralls were lettered "Fire Protection Service, Inc."

Nim and Wally sat down.

"Did you see that guy's hands?" Wally asked.

"Yes." Nim had noticed that the young man's bands were badly stained, probably from careless use of chemicals.

"He could fix that with a skin graft." Wally grinned again, this time ruefully. "I'm getting to be an expert on that subject."

"Never mind anybody else," Nim said. "Tell me about you."

"Well, just as I said, the skin grafts I'm having will take a long time. A little at a time is how it works."

Nim nodded sympathetically. "Yes, I know."

"But I got some good news. I thought you'd like to share it. I'm getting a new dong."

"You're what?"

"You heard me right. You remember my old one was burned off?"

"Of course I remember." Nim would never forget the doctor's words the day after Wally's electrocution. ". . . The electricity passed over the upper surface of his body and exited . . . by the route of his penis . . . It was destroyed. By burning. Totally . . ."

"But I still have sexual feeling there," Wally said, "and it can be used as a base. That's why I was sent to Houston last week-to Texas Medical Center. They're doing wonderful things there, especially for people like me. There's a doctor named Brantley Scott who's been the mastermind; he's going to build me a new penis, and he promises it will work.,,

"Wally," Nim said, "I'm happy for you, but how the hell can anyone do that?"

"It's done partly by special skin grafts, partly by something called a penile prosthesis. That's a little pump, some tubes and a tiny reservoir, all connected, and implanted in the body surgically. The whole thing is made of silicone rubber, the same stuff that's used for heart pacemakers.

Actually, it's a substitute for what nature gave us in the first place."

Nim asked curiously, "Does it really work?"

"Damn right it works!” Wally's enthusiasm bubbled on. "I've seen it. I also found out there are hundreds of people who've been fitted, who've had the surgery, successfully. And, Nim, I'll tell you something else."

"What?"

"That penile prosthesis isn't only for people like me, people who got injured. It's for others-older men usually, who are normal except they've run out of steam and can't make it with a woman anymore. What it does is give them a whole new lease on life. How about you, Nim? Do you need help?"

"Not that kind. Not yet, thank God!"

"But you might someday. Just think of it No sexual hangup-ever. You could go to your grave with an erection."

Nim grinned. "And what would I do with it there?"

"Hey, there's Mary!" Wally exclaimed. "She came to pick me up. Can't drive a car myself yet."

Across the lobby Nim could see Mary Talbot, Wally's wife. She had spotted them and was coming over. Beside her, Nim saw with some concern, was Ardythe Talbot. He had neither seen nor heard from Ardythe since their encounter at the hospital when she hysterically blamed her own and Nim's "sin" for Wally's troubles. Nim wondered if she had modified her religious fervor.

The signs of strain were on both women. It was, after all, only seven months since Walter Talbot's tragic death during the bombing at La Mission plant, and Wally Jr.'s accident had happened just a few weeks later. Mary, who had been slim for as long as Nim remembered her, had noticeably put on weight; worry and unhappiness could account for that, of course. And her gamine look had modified, making her seem older. Nim found himself hoping that what Wally had just told him worked. It if did, it should help them both.

Ardythe appeared to be a little better than when he had last seen her, but not much. In contrast to the way she had been immediately before Walter's death-handsome, stylish, athletic-she was now just another elderly woman. But she smiled at Nim, and greeted him with friendliness, which relieved him. They chatted. Nim expressed pleasure once more at seeing Wally mobile. Mary said someone had told her, on her way in, about Nim's speech and she congratulated him. Ardythe reported that she had found some more of Walter's old files and wanted GSP & L to have them. Nim offered to collect them if she wished.

“There's no need for that," Ardythe said bastily. "I can send them to you. There aren't as many as last time and ..."

She stopped. "Nim, what's wrong?"

He was staring at her, startled, his mouth agape.

"Last time. . ." Walter Talbot's files!

"Nim," Ardythe repeated, "is anything the matter?" Mary and Wally were looking at him curiously too.

"No," be managed to say, "No, it's just that I remembered something."

Now he knew. Knew what that missing piece of information was which had nagged at his mind, yet eluded him, since that day in Eric Humphrey's office with the chairman, Harry London, and Mr. Justice Yale. It was in Walter Talbot's old files, the files Ardythe had given Nim, in several cardboard cartons, shortly after Walter's death. At the time Nim had gone through them briefly; now they were stored at GSP & L.

"I guess we'd better go," Wally said. "It was nice seeing you, Nim."

”The same here," Nim responded, "and, Wally-good luck in everything]"

When all three had gone, Nim stood rooted, thinking. He knew what was there now, in those files. He knew, too, what had to be done. But he must verify, authenticate his memory, first.

In another three days. Immediately after the convention.

2

Rush, rush, rush! That was always the way it was, Nancy Molineaux thought as she pushed her Mercedes well past the speed limit, taking chances in the traffic, keeping a wary eye on the rear view mirror for any cruising cops.

The pressures of life never seemed to let up for a single goddam day.

She had hurriedly phoned in her story on Goldman, which would appear in this afternoon's edition, and now-already ten minutes late was on the way to meet Yvette. Nancy hoped the girl would have sense enough to wait.

This afternoon Nancy had some loose ends of other work to clear up, for which she would need to return to the Examiner office. Ob yes, and somehow she had to sandwich in time to get to the bank because she needed money. She had a dentist appointment at four. Then, this evening she had promised to go to two parties, one a "drop in," early, and another which would groove on for sure until well past midnight.

But she liked a fast tempo, at work and play, though there were days like this one-when a bit too much happened.

While she drove, Nancy smiled as she thought of her report of Goldman's speech. It would probably surprise him because it was a straightforward, no-slant job, as she had intended.

Several hundred leaders of America's electric power industry today gave a standing ovation to Nimrod Goldman, a Golden State Power & Light vice president, who declared that politically dominated regulatory agencies are abusing public trust and "compete brazenly with each other in establishing power bases."

He was addressing the National Electric Institute convention, meeting in this city.

Earlier, Goldman criticized some environmentalists who, he said, oppose everything. "There is nothing, absolutely nothing, we of the power industry can propose ...

Etcetera, et cetera.

She had quoted some of his statements, also, about that electric power famine he claimed was coming, so if Goldman had any beef this time it would have to do with what he had said himself, not the reporting.

Jesus! How did some of those slow-thinking freaks who had cars ever get drivers' licenses? She was second in line at a traffic light which had gone to green, but the guy in front hadn't moved yet. Was be asleep? She sounded her horn impatiently. Shit! the traffic light winked to amber, then red as Nancy reached it. But the cross street seemed clear so she took a chance and ran the red. After a few more minutes she could see that crummy bar ahead, where she had been last week. How late was she? As she came level with the bar, Nancy glanced at her Piaget watch. Eighteen minutes. And wouldn't you know!-there was no parking space today. She found a spot two blocks away and, after locking the Mercedes, hurried back.

Inside the bar it was dark and mildewy, as before. As Nancy paused, letting her eyes adjust, she had the impression that nothing had changed in seven days, not even the customers.

Yvette had waited, Nancy saw. She was seated alone, a beer in front of her, at the same corner table they had occupied previously. She glanced up as Nancy approached, but gave no sign of interest or recognition.

"Hi!” Nancy greeted her. "Sorry I'm late."

Yvette shrugged slightly, but said nothing.

Nancy signaled a waiter. "Another beer." She waited until it came, in the meantime covertly inspecting the girl, who had still said nothing. She appeared to be in even worse shape than a week ago-her skin blotchy, hair a mess. The same clothes were dirty and looked as if they had been slept in for a month. On her right band was the improvised glove, presumably shielding a deformity, which Nancy had noticed at their first encounter.

Nancy took a swig of her beer, which tasted good, then decided to come to the point. "You said you'd tell me today what goes on in that house on Crocker Street, and what Davey Birdsong does there."

Yvette looked up. "No, I didn't. You just hoped I would."

"Okay, well I'm still hoping. Why don't you start by telling me what it is you're afraid of?"

“I'm not afraid anymore." the girl made the statement in a flat, dull voice, her face expressionless. Nancy thought: She wasn't getting anywhere and maybe it had been a waste of time coming. Trying again, she asked, "So what happened between last week and this to make the difference?"

Yvette didn't answer. Instead she seemed to be considering, weighing something in her mind. While she did, as if instinctively and unaware of what she was doing, she used her left hand to rub the right. First with the glove on, then she slipped it off.

With shock and horror Nancy stared at what was exposed.

What had been a hand was an ugly red-white mess of weals and scars. Two fingers were gone, with uneven stubs remaining and loose flesh protruding. The other fingers, while more or less complete, had jagged portions missing. One finger was grotesquely bent, a dried yellow piece of bone exposed.

Nancy said, sickened, "My God! What happened to your hand?"

Yvette glanced down, then realizing what she had done, covered the hand hastily.

Nancy persisted, "What happened?"

"It was . . . I had an accident."

"But who left it like that? A doctor?"

"I didn't go to one," Yvette said. She choked back tears. “They wouldn't let me."

"Who wouldn't?" Nancy felt her anger rising. "Birdsong?"

The girl nodded. "And Georgos."

"Who the hell is Georgos? And why wouldn't they take you to a doctor?"

Nancy reached out, gripping Yvette's good hand. "Kid, let me help you! I can. And we can still, do something about that hand. There's time."

The girl shook her head. The emotion had drained from her, leaving her face and eyes as they had been earlier-empty, dull, resigned.

"Just tell me," Nancy pleaded. "Tell me what it's all about."

Yvette let out her breath in what might or might not, have been a sigh.

Then, abruptly, she reached down beside her to the floor and lifted up a battered brown purse. Opening it, she took out two recording tape cassettes which she put on the table and slid across to Nancy.

"It's all there," Yvette said. Then, in a single movement, she drained what remained of her beer and stood up to go.

"Hey!” Nancy protested. "Don't leave yet! We only just got started. Listen, why not tell me what's on those tapes so we can talk about it?"

"It's all there," the girl repeated.

"Yes, but . . ." Nancy found she was talking to herself. A moment later the outer door opened, briefly admitting sunlight, then Yvette was gone.

There seemed nothing to be gained by going after her.

Curiously, Nancy turned the tape cassettes over in her band, recognizing them as a cheap brand which could be bought in packets for a dollar or so each. Neither cassette was labeled; there was just a penciled 1, 2, 3, 4 on the various sides. Well, she would play them on her tape deck at home tonight and hope there was something worthwhile there. She felt let down and disappointed, though, not to have got some definite information while Yvette was with her.

Nancy finished her beer and paid for it, then left. A half hour later she was in the Examiner city room, immersed in other work.

3

When Yvette told Nancy Molineaux, "I'm not afraid anymore," the statement was true. Yesterday Yvette had reached a decision which relieved her of concern about immediate affairs, freed her from all doubts, anxiety and pain, and removed the overwhelming fear-which she had lived with for months-of her arrest and life imprisonment.

The decision yesterday was simply that, as soon as she had delivered the tapes to that switched-on black woman who worked for a newspaper, and who would know what to do with them, Yvette would kill herself. When she left the Crocker Street house this morning-for the last time-she carried with her the means to do so.

And now she had delivered the tapes, those tapes she put together, carefully and patiently, and which incriminated Georgos and Davey Birdsong, revealed what they had done and what they planned, and disclosed the scenario of destruction and murder intended for tonight or rather 3 am tomorrow morning-at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. Georgos hadn't thought she knew about that but all the time she had.

Walking away from that bar, and now that it was done, Yvette felt at peace.

Peace, at last.

It had been a long time since she had known any. For sure there had been none with Georgos, though at first the excitement of being Georgos' woman, of listening to his educated talk and sharing the important things he did, had made everything else seem not to matter. It was only later, much later, and when it was too late to help herself, that she began wondering if Georgos was sick, if all of his cleverness and college learning had become in some way . . . what was that word?...perverted.

Now she truly believed it had been, believed that Georgos was sick, maybe even mad.

And yet, Yvette reminded herself, she still cared about Georgos; even now, when she had done what she had to. And whatever happened to him, she hoped he wouldn't get hurt too badly, or be made to suffer much, though she knew both things could happen after the black woman played those tapes today and told whoever she decided to-the police most likely-what was on them.

About Davey Birdson, though, Yvette didn't give a damn. She didn't like him, never had. He was mean and hard, never showing any of the little kindnesses Georgos did, despite Georgos being a revolutionary and not being supposed to. Birdsong could be killed before today was out or rot in jail forever, and she wouldn't care; in fact, she hoped one of the two would happen. Yvette blamed Birdsong for a lot of the bad scenes that had happened to her and Georgos. 'ne Christopher Columbus Hotel thing had been Birdsong's idea; that was in the tapes too.

Then she realized she would never know what happened to Birdsong, or Georgos, because she would be dead herself.

Oh God-she was only twenty-two! She had hardly started her life and didn't want to die. But she didn't want to spend the rest of it in prison either. Even dying was better than that.

Yvette kept on walking. She knew where she was going and it would take roughly half an hour. That was something else she had decided yesterday.

It was less than four months ago-a week after that night on the hill above Millfield when Georgos killed the two guards-that she realized just how much trouble she was in. Murder. She was guilty of it, equally with Georgos.

At first she hadn't believed him when he told her. He was merely trying to frighten her, she thought, when, on the way back to the city from Millfield, be had warned, "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."

But a few days later she read in a newspaper about the California trial of three men charged with first-degree murder. The trio had broken into a building together and their leader shot and killed a night watchman.

Though the other two were unarmed and did not participate actively in the killing, all three were found guilty and given the same sentence-life imprisonment without possibility of parole. It was then Yvette realized that Georgos had been telling the truth and, from that moment, her desperation grew.

It grew, based on the knowledge that there was no going back, no escaping what she had become. That had been the hardest thing to accept, even while knowing there was no alternative.

Some nights, lying awake beside Georgos in the darkness of that dreary Crocker Street house, she had fantasized that she could go back, back to the farm in Kansas where she had been born and lived as a child. Compared with here and now, those days seemed bright and carefree.

Which was bullshit, of course.

The farm was a rocky twenty acres from which Yvette's father, a sour, cantankerous, quarrelsome man, barely scratched enough of a living to feed the family of six, let alone meet mortgage payments. It was never a home of warmth or love. Fierce fights between the parents were a norm which their children learned to emulate. Yvette's mother, a chronic complainer, frequently let Yvette-the youngest-know she hadn't been wanted and an abortion would have been preferable.

Yvette, following the example of her two older brothers and a sister, left home for good as soon as she was able, and never went back. She had no idea where any of the family were now, or if her parents were dead, and told herself she didn't care. She wondered, though, if her parents, or brothers and sister, would hear or read about her death, and if it would matter to them in any way.

Of course, Yvette thought, it would be easy to blame those earlier years for what had happened to her since, but it would be neither true nor fair. After coming west, and despite her legal minimum of schooling, she had gotten a job as a department store salesclerk-in the infants' wear department, which she liked. She enjoyed helping choose clothes for little kids and, about that time, had the feeling she would like to have children herself someday, though she would not treat them the way she had been treated at home.

The thing that happened, which put her on the road she finally walked with Georgos, was being taken, by another girl Yvette worked with, to some left-wing political meetings. One thing led to another, later she met Georgos and . . . Oh God, what was the use of going over it all again!

Yvette was well aware that in some ways she was not bright. She always had difficulty in figuring things out and, at the small country school she attended until age sixteen, her teachers let her know she was a dunderhead. Which was probably why, when Georgos persuaded her to give up her job and go underground with him to form Friends of Freedom, Yvette hadn't any real idea of what she was getting into. At the time it sounded like fun and adyenture, not-as it turned out to be -the worst mistake of her life.

The realization that she-like Georgos, Wayde, Ute and Felix-bad become a hunted criminal came to Yvette gradually. When it was implanted fully, she was terrified. What would they do to her if she was caught? Yvette thought of Patty Hearst, and what Hearst had been made to suffer, and she was a victim for Chrissakes. How much worse would it be for Yvette, who was not?

(Yvette remembered how Georgos and the other three revolutionaries had laughed and laughed over the Patty Hearst trial, laughed about the way the establishment was falling over itself in a self-righteous effort to crucify one of its own, just to prove it could. Of course, as Georgos said afterward, if Hearst-in that particular case-had been poor, or black like Angela Davis, she would have gotten sympathy and a fairer shake. It was Hearst's misfortune that her old man had money.

Hilarious, though! Yvette could still see their small group watching TV and breaking up each time the trial reports came on.) But now, the fear from having committed crimes herself hovered over Yvette, a fear which expanded like cancer until, in the end, it filled her every waking hour.

More recently, she realized that Georgos no longer trusted her.

She caught him looking at her in strange ways. He didn't talk as much as before. He became secretive about the new work he was doing. Yvette sensed that, whatever else happened, her days as Georgos' woman were almost over.

It was then, without really knowing why, Yvette started to eavesdrop by making tape recordings. It was not difficult. here was equipment available and Georgos had shown her how to use it. Using a concealed mike, and operating the recorder in another room, she taped conversations between Georgos and Birdsong. That was how, playing the tape back later, she learned about those fire extinguisher bombs at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. The Georgos-Birdsong conversations were on the cassettes she had given the black woman. So was a long, rambling account of it all, from the beginning, by Yvette herself.

Why had she done it?

Even now she was unsure. It wasn't conscience; no point in kidding herself about that. Nor was it because of any of those people at the hotel; Yvette was too far removed, too far gone, to care. Perhaps it was to save Georgos, to save his soul (if he had one; if any of them did) from the terrible thing be intended to do.

Yvette's mind was getting tired. It always did when she thought too much.

She still didn't want to die!

But she knew she had to.

Yvette looked about her. She had kept on walking, not noticing where she was, and now realized she had come faster and further than she thought.

Her destination, which she could already see, was only a short distance ahead.

It was a small, grassy knoll, high above the city, and preserved as a public space. The unofficial name was Lonely Hill, which was appropriate since few people went there, a reason Yvette had chosen it. The final two hundred yards, beyond the last streets and houses, was up a step, narrow path and she took it slowly. The top, which she dreaded reaching, came all too soon.

Earlier, the day had been bright; now it was overcast with a strong, cool wind knifing across the exposed small peak. Yvette shivered. In the distance, beyond the city, she could see the ocean, gray and bleak.

Yvette sat down on the grass and opened her purse for the second 3time. The first time had been when she produced the tape cassettes in the bar.

From the purse, where it had weighed heavily, she lifted out a device she had removed several days ago from Georgos' workshop and had hidden until this morning. It was a bangalore torpedo-simple but deadly, a stick of dynamite inside a section of pipe. The pipe was sealed at both ends, but at one end a small hole had been left to allow for entry of a blasting cap. Yvette had inserted the cap carefully herself-something else Georgos taught her-baving attached to the cap a short fuse, which now protruded through the end of the pipe. It was a five-second fuse. Long enough.

Reaching into the purse again, Yvette found a small cigarette lighter. As she fumbled with it, her hands were trembling.

The lighter was hard to get going in the wind. She put the pipe bomb down and cupped the lighter with her hand. It sputtered, then flamed.

Now she picked up the pipe bomb again, having difficulty because she was trembling even more, but managed to bring the end of the fuse to the lighter. The fuse ignited at once. In a single, swift movement Yvette dropped the lighter and held the bomb against her chest. Closing her eyes, she hoped it would not be .

4

The second day of the National Electric Institute convention was winding down.

All of the day's official business was concluded. The Christopher Columbus Hotel meeting balls were deserted. A majority of delegates and wives, a few with families, were in their rooms and suites. among them, some hardy spirits were still partying. Many others were already asleep.

Some of the younger delegates and a handful of older roisterers remained spread around the city-in bars, restaurants, discotheques, strip joints. But even they were beginning to drift back to the Christopher Columbus and, when late-night places closed at 2 am, the remainder would join them.

* * *

"Good night you characters." Nim kissed Leah and Benjy, then turned out the lights in the hotel suite's second bedroom, which the children were sharing.

Leah, almost asleep, murmured something inaudible. Benjy, who was more chirpy, even though it was well past midnight said, "Dad, living in a hotel is real neat."

"Gets kind of expensive after a while," Nim said. "Especially when someone called Benjamin Goldman keeps signing room service checks."

Benjy giggled. "I like doing that."

Nim had let Benjy sign the breakfast bill this morning, and the same thing happened tonight when Benjy and Leah had steak dinners in the suite while Nim and Ruth attended an NEI reception and buffet. Later, the whole family left the hotel to take in a movie, from which they had just returned.

"Go to sleep now," Nim said, "or your signing arm won't be any good tomorrow."

In the living room, Ruth, who had heard the conversation through the open bedroom door, smiled as Nim returned.

"I may have mentioned it before," she said, "but I suppose you know your children adore you?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Well . . ." Ruth considered. "Since you mention it, there could be one or two exceptions. Like Ray Paulsen."

Nim laughed aloud. "By golly! You should have seen Ray's face when he came back to the convention with Eric Humphrey, thinking the chairman was going to chew my balls off because of what I said this morning, and instead Eric did the opposite."

"What did he actually say?"

"Something about having received so many complimentary remarks about my speech, how could he be in a minority and take exception? So he congratulated me instead."

"If Eric has come around that much, do you think there could be a change in policy now-to more outspokenness, the way you've wanted?"

Nim shook his head. "I'm not sure. The don't-rock-the-boat faction, led by Ray, is still strong. Besides which, only a few people in our organization understand that a future electric power crisis is almost a certainty." He stretched, yawning. "But no more worrying tonight!"

"It's early morning," Ruth corrected him. "Nearly one o'clock. Anyway, yesterday was a good day for you, and I'm pleased you got a fair press."

She motioned to a late afternoon edition of the California Examiner beside her.

"That was a fat surprise." Nim had read the Examiner's report of his speech several hours ago. "Can't figure out that Molineaux dame. I was certain she'd stick in the knife again, and twist it."

"Don't you know by now that we women are unpredictable?" Ruth said, then added mischievously, "I should have thought all your research would have shown you that."

"Maybe I'd forgotten. Perhaps you noticed I've restricted my research lately." He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the neck, then sat down in a facing chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Normal most of the time. I tire easily, though, compared with the energy I used to have."

“There's something I want to ask you about." Nim described his conversation with Leah, and his conviction that the children ought to be told about Ruth's health in case a sudden change for the worse should find them unprepared. "I hope it won't happen, just as much as you do, but it's something we should consider."

"I've been thinking much the same thing," she told him. "You can leave it to me. In the next few days I'll pick a time and tell them."

He supposed he should have known. Ruth, with her good judgment, her ability to cope, would always do what was best for the family.

"Thank you," he said.

They went on talking-quietly, easily, enjoying each other's company -until Nim reached out and took Ruth's hands. "You're tired and so am I. Let's go to bed."

They went, band in hand, into the bedroom where, just before turning out the lights, he noticed the time: 1:30 am.

They fell asleep, almost at once, in each other's arms.

* * *

A quarter mile from the hotel, Georgos Winslow Archambault was seated alone in the red "Fire Protection Service, Inc." truck. He could hardly wait for 3 am and the explosions to begin. Georgos' excitement simmered like a cauldron, arousing him sexually, so that a few minutes ago he had had to masturbate.

It was almost unbelievable how well and smoothly everything had gone. From the moment when the police cleared a way for the Friends of Freedom truck to reach the hotel's service entrance-and, oh, what a priceless joke that was only twice had the freedom fighters been stopped as they moved around the hotel. Ute was queried briefly by a plainclothes security man, Georgos by an assistant manager whom be encountered in a service elevator. Both incidents gave Ute and Georgos some nervous moments, but the work orders they promptly showed were glanced at and passed back without further questioning. In neither case was the letter on hotel stationery needed or produced.

The general-and predictable-thinking seemed to be: Who would want to stop a fire extinguisher being put in place? The few who might think about it at all would assume that someone else had ordered or approved the extra fire precautions.

Now there was merely the waiting-the hardest part of all. He had deliberately parked some distance from the hotel, partly to avoid the possibility of being noticed, partly to get away quickly when be needed to. He would go closer, on foot, for a better view just before the fun began.

As soon as the hotel was well ablaze, with people trapped inside, Georgos intended to phone a radio station with the communiqué he had already drafted. It contained his new demands-the old ones, plus some more. His orders would be obeyed instantly, of course, when the fascist power structure at last grasped the strength and resourcefulness of Friends of Freedom. In his mind, Georgos could see those in authority groveling before him . . .

Only one small matter bothered him. That was the sudden disappearance of Yvette; he felt uneasy about it, conscious that where his woman was concerned be had been guilty of weakness. He ought to have eliminated her weeks ago. When she returned, as he was sure she would, he would do it immediately. He was glad, though, that he had kept from Yvette his plans for this latest valiant battle.

Oh, what a day for history to remember!

For what must be the twentieth time since coming here, Georgos checked his watch: 1:40 am Another hour and twenty minutes to go.

* * *

Just as a precaution, though he didn't really believe it necessary, Davey Birdsong was giving himself an alibi.

He was outside the city, twenty-odd miles from the Christopher Columbus Hotel, and he intended to keep that distance until the action was over.

Several hours ago he had delivered (for a fee) an hour-long lecture to an adult study group on “The Socialist Ideal." Discussion afterward consumed another ninety minutes. Now he was with a dozen or so tedious, boring people from the group who had adjourned to the house of one of their number to go on gabbing about international politics, of which their knowledge was marginal. As well as talking, there was much drinking of beer and coffee and clearly, Birdsong thought, the whole deal could go on until dawn. Fine, let it! He contributed something himself occasionally, making sure everyone noticed he had stayed.

Davey Birdsong, too, had a typewritten statement he would issue to the press. A copy was in his pocket and it began:

The popular consumer’s organization, power & light for people, reaffirms its stand against all violence.

"We deplore violence at all times, and especially the bombing at the Christopher Columbus Hotel last night," Davey Birdsong, the p & lfp leader, stated.

p & lfp will continue its peaceful efforts on behalf of. Birdsong smiled as he thought about it and surreptitiously checked his watch: 1:45 am

* * *

Nancy Molineaux was still at her late night party, which had been a good one, but she was ready to leave. For one thing, she was tired; it had been one of those crammed-full days when she scarcely had a minute to herself. For another, her jaw was aching. The goddam dentist had probed a cavity like he was excavating for a new subway, and when she told him be only laughed.

Despite the ache, Nancy was sure she would sleep well tonight and looked forward to climbing in between her silky Porthault sheets.

After saying good night to her host and hostess, who lived in a penthouse not far from the city center, she took the elevator down to where the doorman already had her car waiting. After she tipped him, Nancy checked the time: 1:50 am Her own apartment block was less than ten minutes' drive. With luck, she could be in bed a few minutes after two.

She remembered, out of nowhere, that she was going to listen tonight to those cassette tapes the girl, Yvette, had given her. Well, she had been working on that story a long time and one more day wouldn't make any difference. Maybe she would get up early, before going to the Examiner, and listen to them then.

5

Nancy Molineaux enjoyed life's luxuries and her apartment, in an exclusive, modern high-rise, reflected it.

The beige burrie living room rug by Stark matched vertical linen window blinds. A Pace coffee table of smoked glass, chrome and bleached oak fronted a deep-cushioned sofa in Clarence House suede. The Calder acrylic was an original. So was a Roy Lichstenstein oil on canvas in Nancy's bedroom.

Sliding, full-length windows in the dining room opened onto an outdoor patio with its own small garden and a harbor view.

If Nancy had had to, she could have lived elsewhere and managed adequately on her own earnings; but she came to terms long ago with acceptance of money her father made available. It was there, had been honestly earned, so what was wrong with using it? Nothing.

She was careful, though, not to be ostentatious around her fellow workers, which was why she never brought any of them here.

As she padded around the apartment, getting ready for bed, Nancy located those tape cassettes she had remembered, and put them near her stereo tape deck for playing in the morning.

On coming into the apartment a few minutes ago, she had flipped on an FM radio which she kept tuned to a twenty-four-hour mostly-music station, and was only subconsciously aware, while in the bathroom cleaning her teeth, that the music had been interrupted for a newscast.

". . in Washington, deepening gloom about an impending oil crisis Secretary of State has arrived in Saudi Arabia to resume negotiations. . . Senate late yesterday approved raising the national debt ceiling. . . Kremlin again alleged spying by Western newsmen . . . Locally, new charges of city hall corruption . . . bus and rapid transit fares are certain to rise following wage settlements . . . police appealing for help in identifying the body of a young woman, apparently a suicide, discovered this afternoon on Lonely Hill . . . bomb fragments at the scene . . . although the body was badly dismembered, one of the woman's hands had two fingers missing and was further disfigured, apparently from an earlier wound ..."

Nancy dropped the toothbrush.

Had she heard what she thought she heard?

She considered phoning the radio station to ask for a repeat of the last news item, then realized it wasn't necessary. She had absorbed enough, even while half-listening, to know the young woman's body they were talking about had to be Yvette's. Oh Christ, Nancy thought, she had let the kid walk away and hadn't followed! Could she have helped? And what was it Yvette had said? "I'm not afraid anymore." Now it became clear why.

And she still hadn't played the tapes.

Suddenly, Nancy was alert, her earlier tiredness gone.

She slipped on a kimono, turned up the lights in her living room, and inserted the first cassette into her tape deck. There was a pause before the recording began, during which Nancy settled herself in a chair, a notebook on her knees and pencil poised. Then the voice of Yvette, speaking uncertainly, came through Nancy's hi-fi system.

At the first words Nancy sat upright, her attention riveted.

'This is about the Friends of Freedom, all those bombings and the murders. Where the Friends of Freedom are is 117 Crocker Street. The leader is Georgos Archambault, be has a middle name, Winslow, he likes to use it. I'm Georgos' woman. I've been in it, too. So is Davey Birdsong, be brings the money to buy explosives and the other stuff."

Nancy's mouth was agape. She felt shivers passing through her. Her pencil raced.

There was more of Yvette on the tape, then a conversation between two male voices-one presumably the Georgos whom Yvette had spoken of, the other unmistakably Davey Birdsong.

The first side of the first tape ended. Nancy's tape deck had an automatic-reverse feature. The second side began at once.

Still more Yvette. She described the night on the hill above Millfield. The substation bombing. The killing of the two guards.

Nancy's excitement mounted. She could scarcely credit what she had -the biggest news scoop of her career and, at this moment, it was all her own. She continued listening, adding to her notes.

Back to Georgos and Birdsong. They were discussing something... making arrangements . . . Christopher Columbus Hotel . . . bombs disguised as fire extinguishers . . . a red pickup truck: Fire Protection Service . . . second night of the National Electric Institute convention. . . 3 am. . .

Nancy's skin prickled. She did a swift mental calculation, glanced at her watch, then hurled herself at the telephone.

The news story had ceased to have priority.

Her hand was shaking as she dialed 911 for police emergency.

6

The watch lieutenant presiding at the police department operations center knew he had to make a fast decision.

A few moments earlier, the male police operator taking Nancy Molineaux's gil call, and writing down the information, had signaled the lieutenant to cut in on the line. He did so. After listening briefly, he questioned the caller who identified herself by name and as a reporter for the California Examiner. She explained about the tapes, how she had acquired them, how they had revealed the information she was now passing on urgently.

"I know of you, Miss Molineaux," the lieutenant said. "Are you calling from the newspaper?"

"No. From my apartment."

“The address, please."

She gave it.

"Are you listed in the phone book there?"

"Yes. Under 'Molineaux, N."'

"Please hang up your phone," the lieutenant said. "You'll be called back immediately."

The police operator-one of twenty such operators handling emergency calls-had already found the number in a city phone directory. He scribbled it on a piece of paper which he passed to the lieutenant, who tapped the number out, then listened.

Nancy answered on the first ring.

"Miss Molineaux, did you just call police emergency?"

'Yes."

"Thank you. We had to verify the call. Where will you be if you are required later?"

"At the Christopher Columbus Hotel," Nancy said. "Where the hell else?"

She hung up.

The police lieutenant debated briefly with himself. He had established that the call was genuine and not from a crank. But was the information strong enough to justify emptying the city's biggest hotel, with resultant chaos, in the middle of the night?

Normally, in the case of a bomb warning-the police received hundreds every year-the procedure was to send an advance squad, consisting of a sergeant and two or three patrolmen, to iwestigate. If they were suspicious or found merit in the tip, they would phone the operations center and emergency procedures would begin. (Radio communication was never used at that stage for two reasons. One, if a bomb existed, a radio signal might set it off. Two, since police radios were monitored by all and sundry, the police sought to delay having press and spectators clog the scene.)

But, if the report just received was genuine, the danger real, there was insufficient time for normal methods.

In daytime, with emergency forces from the police and fire departments working together, a big hotel like the Christopher Columbus could be evacuated in half an hour. At night, however, it would take longer-an hour if they were fast and lucky. Night time evacuation posed special problems; there were always some heavy sleepers, drunks, skeptics, illicit lovers unwilling to be discovered, all requiring room-byroom checks and the use of passkeys.

But there wasn't an hour. The watch lieutenant glanced at the big digital clock above him: 2:21 am The newspaperwoman had said a bomb or bombs might go off at 3 am True? False? He wished to hell a more senior officer could be briefed and make the judgment. No time for that either.

The lieutenant made the only decision be could, and ordered, "Start bomb evacuation procedures-the Christopher Columbus Hotel."

A balf-dozen phones in the operations center went into use immediately. Alarm calls were placed to central district police and fire units first; fire trucks and all available police cars would roll at once. Next, calls went directly to the police department's night commander and deputy fire chief who, together, would direct the hotel evacuation. Simultaneously, the police tactical unit, which included the bomb squad, was being alerted; they would follow other forces quickly. After that: a call to a nearby Army depot where an explosives ordnance squad would contribute experts in bomb disarming. Police departments in neighboring municipalities were asked to aid by rushing their bomb squads too. ambulances-almost certain to be needed-were summoned. Continuing to work down a list, major law enforcement, fire, and city functionaries were notified, most aroused from sleep at home.

The watch lieutenant was speaking by telephone with the night manager of the Christopher Columbus. "We have a tip, which we believe to be authentic, that bombs have been placed in your hotel. We recommend you evacuate immediately. Police and fire units are on the way."

The word "recommend" was used advisedly. Technically, the lieutenant had no authority to order evacuation; any such decision must be the hotel management's. Fortunately, the night manager was neither a hair splitter nor a fool. "I'll sound the house alarms," he said, "and our staff will do whatever you say."

Like a war machine set in motion, the command effect spread rapidly, each component gathering momentum, each utilizing specialized techniques to become part of a total effort. The action had already moved away from the operations center, which would now become a conduit for reports. Meanwhile, answers remained unknown to two vital questions. First: Would bomb explosions occur at 3 am? Second: Assuming they did, could the hotel be effectively cleared in the remaining time-an all-too-inadequate thirty-six minutes?

The suspense would be short-lived. The answers to both questions would be known soon.

* * *

She had done her bit for humanity, Nancy Molineaux decided. Now she could go back to being a newspaperwoman.

She was still in her apartment though getting ready to leave. In between throwing on outdoor clothes hurriedly, Nancy phoned the Examiner's night editor and gave him a fast rundown of what she had. As be asked quick questions, she sensed his excitement at the prospect of a big, breaking story.

"I'm going to the hotel," Nancy told him. “Then I'll come in to write." She knew, without asking, that every available photographer would be dispatched to the scene at once.

"Oh, one other thing," she told the night man. "I have two tape cassettes.

I had to tell the police about them, and they're sure to be wanted as evidence, which means they'll be impounded. Before that happens, we should make copies."

They arranged that a messenger would meet Nancy at the hotel and collect the tapes. From there he would rush them to the residence of the paper's entertainment editor, a hi-fi nut who had his own sound lab.

The entertainment writer was known to be at home and would be warned that the tapes were on the way. The copies and a portable playback machine would be in the newsroom, waiting, when Nancy got there.

Nancy had reached the outer door of her apartment, on the run, when she remembered one more thing. Racing back to the phone, she dialed the number of the Christopher Columbus Hotel, which she knew from memory. When the operator answered, she instructed, "Give me Nimrod Goldman's room."

* * *

In Nim's dream, the GSP & L electric system was in desperate crisis. One by one, the system's generating stations had failed until only one remained-La Mission No- 5, Big Lil. Then, exactly as happened last summer on the day Walter Talbot died, the La Mission No- 5 panel at Energy Control began emitting warning signals-flashing lights and a high-pitched ringing. The lights diminished but the ringing persisted, filling all of Nim's consciousness until he awoke and found the bedside telephone shrilling. Sleepily, he reached out and picked it up.

"Goldman! Is that you, Goldman?"

Still only partially awake, he answered, "Yeah."

"This is Nancy Molineaux. Listen to me!”

"Nancy Molineaux, you idiot!" Anger fought its way through sleep. "Molineaux, don't you know it's the middle of the night . . . “,

"Shut up and listen! Goldman, get hold of yourself and come awake. You and your family are in danger. Trust me . . ."

Raising himself on an elbow, Nim said, "I wouldn't trust you then he remembered what she had written yesterday, and stopped.

"Goldman, get your family out of that hotel! Now! Don't stop for anything! Bombs are going off."

Now he was wide-awake. "Is this some sick joke? Because if it is.

"It's no joke." there was pleading in Nancy's voice. "Ob, for Chrissakes, believe me! Those Friends of Freedom bastards have planted bombs disguised as fire extinguishers. Get your wife and kids . . ."

The words "Friends of Freedom" convinced him. Then he remembered the hotel, jammed with conventioneers.

"What about other people?"

“The alarm's gone out. You get moving!"

"Right!"

"I'll see you outside the hotel," Nancy said, but Nim hadn't beard. Instead he had slammed down the phone and was fiercely shaking Ruth.

Only minutes later, with the children crying, sleepily bewildered, and still in nightclothes, Nim rushed them from the suite. Ruth was right behind. Nim headed for the emergency stairs, knowing enough to stay away from elevators in a crisis in case they failed and occupants were trapped. As they began the long journey down twenty-six flights, he could hear the sound of sirens from outside, faint at first, then growing louder.

They were three floors down when fire alarm bells throughout the hotel began ringing stridently.

* * *

There were acts of gallantry and heroism that night. Some passed unnoticed, others were conspicuous.

Evacuation of the hotel proceeded swiftly and, for the most part, calmly. Police and firemen moved promptly onto every floor; they thumped on doors, shouted, brushed aside questions with commands, hurried people toward stairwells, cautioning them not to use elevators. Others from the emergency force, assisted by hotel staff, used passkeys to check rooms from which there had been no response. Through it all, the fire alarm bells continued ringing.

A few guests protested and argued, a handful was belligerent but, when threatened with arrest, even they joined the outward exodus. Few, if any, of the hotel guests knew exactly what was happening; they accepted the imminence of danger and moved fast, pulling on a minimum of clothing, abandoning belongings in their rooms. One man, obeying orders sleepily, got as far as the stairway door on his floor before realizing he was naked. A grinning fireman let him go back to put on pants and a shirt.

The evacuation was already in progress when the police bomb squad arrived in three trucks, tires and sirens screaming. The bomb men poured into the hotel and, working swiftly but carefully, checked every fire extinguisher in sight. Those which were suspect had ropes looped over them, after which-paying out rope as they went-the bomb men retreated around corners, getting as far away as was practical. When someone had made sure the immediate area was clear of people, the ropes were tugged. This jogged the extinguishers and toppled themnormally enough movement to set off any booby traps. However, there were no explosions and, after each extinguisher was dealt with, a bomb man lifted it and carried it outside. That represented the greatest risk of all, but was accepted because of the special circumstances.

From the street in front of the hotel, the extinguisher bombs were rushed, by a hastily assembled fleet of trucks, to a disused waterfront pier where they were dumped into the bay.

Soon after deployment of the police bomb squad, they were joined by an Army ordnance unit of a half-dozen officers and NCOs-bomb experts who helped speed the removal process.

Twenty minutes after the alarm was given, it became evident to those in charge that evacuation was going well, and faster than expected. The chances of having most guests out of the hotel before 3 am looked good.

By now, every street leading to the Christopher Columbus was jam-packed with vehicles-fire equipment, police cars and wagons, ambulances, all with dome lights flashing. A huge van, operated by the city's Office of Emergency Services, had just moved in and was setting up an on-site command post. Two GSP&L heavy-duty service trucks were among recent arrivals, one crew standing by in case of power problems, the other disconnecting gas service at the street main.

Representatives of press, TV and radio were arriving in growing numbers, eagerly asking questions of anyone who might answer. Two local radio stations were broadcasting live from the scene. The news was already international; AP and UPI had flashed bulletins nationwide and overseas.

Among the press corps, Nancy Molineaux was the center of attention by a group composed of several police detectives, an FBI special agent, and a young Assistant District Attorney. (tle Assistant D.A. had been on the police operations center list.) Nancy answered as many questions as she could, but was evasive about the two cassette tapes which had already been collected from her as arranged. Under a stern near threat from the Assistant D.A., she promised they would be handed to him within the next two hours. One detective, following discussions between his superiors and the Assistant D.A., left the group to telephone two instructions: Raid the house at 117 Crocker Street. Arrest Georgos Archambault and Davey Birdsong.

Through it all, police and firemen continued to hasten evacuation of the hotel.

Inevitably, as the hotel emptied, there were casualties. An elderly woman tripped on the concrete emergency stairs and fell heavily, breaking her hip and wrist. An ambulance crew carried her away, moaning, on a stretcher. A New England power company official had a heart attack after descending twenty flights and died on the way to the hospital. Another woman fell and suffered a concussion. Several more had minor cuts and bruises resulting from haste and congestion on the stairs.

There appeared to be no panic. Strangers helped each other. Boorishness or had manners were almost nil. Some hardy spirits made jokes, helping others overcome their fear.

Once outside the hotel, evacuees were herded to a side street, two blocks away, where police cars had been parked to form a barricade. Fortunately, the night was mild and no one seemed to be suffering because of scanty clothing. After a while, a Red Cross van appeared and volunteer workers passed out coffee, doing what else they could to console people while they waited.

Nim Goldman and his family were among the early groups to reach the cordoned-off area. By then, Leah and Benjy were thoroughly awake, and now excited by what was happening. When he was satisfied that Ruth and the children were safe, and despite Ruth's protests, Nim returned to the hotel. Afterward he realized he was foolhardy in the extreme, but at the time was prompted by the general heady excitement and the remembrance of two things. One was Nancy Molineaux's hasty reference on the phone to "bombs disguised as fire extinguishers," the other, the young man who, only yesterday, had placed a fire extinguisher behind a lobby chair while Nim and Wally Talbot watched. Nim wanted to make sure, with many people still in the hotel: Had that particular extinguisher been found?

By now it was close to 3 am.

Despite a stream of agitated guests emerging from the hotel's main entrance, Nim managed to force his way back in. Once inside the lobby, he tried to get the attention of a passing fireman, but the man brushed him aside with a "not now, buddy," and raced upstairs toward the mezzanine.

There seemed no one else in authority who was unoccupied, and Nim beaded to where he had seen the fire extinguisher placed.

"Mr. Goldman! Mr. Goldman!" the call came from his right and a small man in civilian clothes, with a metal badge pinned to his breast pocket, hurried forward. Nim recognized Art Romeo, the shifty-appearing little deputy to Harry London in the Property Protection Department. The shield Nim realized, was that of a GSP & L security officer, but it appeared to be giving Romeo authority.

Much later, Nim would discover that Art Romeo had been visiting the hotel, and was sharing a nocturnal poker game with out-of-town cronies from another utility, when the alarm was given. He had promptly pinned on his security badge and helped with the evacuation.

"Mr. Goldman, you must go outside!"

"Forget that! I need help." Nim hurriedly explained about the fire extinguisher which he suspected was a bomb.

"Where is it, sir?"

"Over here." Nim strode to where he had been seated yesterday and pulled a chair aside. The red extinguisher was where the young man in coveralls had left it.

Art Romeo's voice took on authority. "Move away! Get out! Go!"

"No, it has to be . . ."

What happened next occurred so quickly that Nim had trouble afterward recalling the sequence of events.

He heard Romeo shout, "Officers! Over here!" Suddenly two brawny policemen were beside Nim, and Romeo was telling them, "This man refuses to leave. Take him outside!"

Without questioning the order, the policemen seized Nim and roughly frog-marched him toward the main front door. As Nim was thrust through it he managed to glance back. The little figure of Art Romeo had lifted the fire extinguisher and, with it clasped in his arms, was following.

Ignoring Nim's protests, the policemen continued shoving him toward the evacuation area two blocks distant. When he was within a few yards of it, they released him. One said, "If you come back, mister, we'll arrest you and you'll be taken downtown and charged. We're doing this for your own good."

At that same instant there was the mighty roar of an explosion, followed by a cacophony of shattering glass.

In the days which followed, based on eyewitness accounts and official reports, it was possible to piece the various happenings together.

Using the information Nancy Molineaux: had given the police operations center, obtained from the tape recordings and her notes, the bomb squad knew they had to look for high explosive bombs on the hotel's main floor and mezzanine, incendiary bombs on the floors above. They had located-or so they thought-all the high explosive bombs and, with Army aid, removed them.

A bomb squad spokesman said next day, "In the circumstances, we and the Army boys took chances we wouldn't have normally. We gambled that we'd have time to do what we did, and the gamble paid off. If we'd been wrong about the timing, God help us all!"

The bomb squad had been wrong, however, in believing they had located all the high explosive bombs. The one they missed was the one Nim remembered.

By the time Art Romeo had bravely picked up the bomb, staggered with it from the hotel, and taken it to the area from where the disposal trucks had been shuttling, all the bomb squad members were on upper floors of the hotel, working frantically to clear the fire bombs.

Consequently, after Art Romeo set the high explosive bomb down, no one else was close when, seconds later, it exploded. Romeo was blown to pieces instantly. Almost every window in adjoining blocks was shattered, as was the glass in nearby vehicles. But miraculously, incredibly, no one else was hurt.

As the roar of the explosion died, several women screamed and men cursed.

The explosion also marked a psychological turning point. No one, anymore, questioned the need for the emergency exodus. Talking, among the displaced hotel guests, was noticeably more subdued. Some, abandoning any idea of returning to the Christopher Columbus, began to leave the scene quietly, making their own arrangements for the remainder of the night.

But within the hotel, although no guests remained, the action was not yet over.

Out of the nearly twenty fire bombs which Georgos Archambault and his fellow terrorists placed on upper floors, eight were not located and removed in time; they detonated shortly after 3 am fierce fires resulted.

It was more than an hour before all were brought under control; by then the floors where they occurred were a sodden, burned-out shambles. It was clear to all concerned that, without the advance warning and evacuation, the death toll would have been enormous.

As it was, two policemen and three firemen died. Two more firemen were badly injured. All were close to the fire bombs which exploded.

As dawn succeeded darkness, mopping up continued.

Most former guests of the Christoper Columbus were provided with makeshift accommodations elsewhere. Later in the day, those who could would return to collect their belongings and begin a dispirited trek home.

By unanimous agreement which no one even bothered discussing, the NEI convention was abandoned.

Nim took Ruth, Leah and Benjy home in a taxi. He had wished to thank Nancy Molineaux for her phone call, but observing her still a center of attention for some reason, he decided to do it later.

As Nim and his family left, morgue wagons were joining the other vehicles at the scene.

* * *

Soon after the explosion which killed Art Romeo, Georgos Archambault was sobbing as be ran toward where his "Fire Protection Service" truck was parked.

It had all gone wrong! Everything!

Georgos couldn't understand it.

Some thirty-five minutes earlier, just after 2:25 am, be had been puzzled to hear many sirens approaching the area where he was waiting in the pickup. Moments later, fire engines and police cars sped past, obviously headed for the Christopher Columbus. As minutes went by, the activity increased and more vehicles followed. Georgos was now thoroughly alarmed.

At twenty to three be could wait no longer. He got out of the truck, locked it, and walked toward the hotel, getting as close as he could before a barrier of police cars stopped him.

He was near enough to see-to his great dismay-people streaming from the hotel, many in nightclothes, and being urged by police and firemen to move faster.

Those people were supposed to stay inside until the bombs went off and the hotel was burning! then it would be too late to leave.

Georgos wanted to wave his arms and shout, "Go back! Go back!" But, despairingly, he knew it would have no effect and only draw attention to himself. Then, while he watched, some of his carefully planted fire extinguisher bombs were carried from the hotel by people who had no right to interfere with them, and then were rushed away in trucks, preventing what Georgos had so painstakingly planned. He thought: If he had only booby-trapped the bombs, as he could have done with extra work, they could never have been moved. But he had been so confident that nothing would go wrong. Now it had, robbing Friends of Freedom of their glorious victory.

That was when Georgos began to cry.

Even when he heard the high explosive bomb go off in the street, it did not console him and he turned away.

How had it happened? Why had he failed? In what devious way had the enemy found out? He watched the firemen and police-blind, ignorant slaves of fascist capitalism-with bitterness and anger. At that point, Georgos realized that his own identity might now be known, that perhaps he was in personal peril, and he began to run. The pickup truck was just as he had left it. No one seemed to notice him as he unlocked the truck and drove away, though lights were going on in nearby buildings and sightseers were hurrying toward the hotel, attracted by the sound and activity. Instinctively Georgos beaded for Crocker Street, then wondered: Was it safe?

The question was quickly answered. As he turned into Crocker at the far end from number 117, be saw that the street further on was blocked by police cars. A moment later he heard the sound of gunfire-a fusillade of shots, a pause, then a second fusillade as if fire was being returned.

Georgos knew that Wayde, Ute and Felix, who had elected to stay in the house tonight, were trapped; be wished desperately be was with them, if necessary to die nobly. But there was no way now that he could fight his way in-or out.

As quickly as he could, hoping not to attract attention, be turned the truck around and returned the way be had come. There was only one place left to go: the apartment in North Castle, intended for a crisis such as this.

While he drove, Georgos' mind worked quickly. If his identity was known, the police would be searching for him. Even at this moment they might be spreading a dragnet, so he must hurry to get underground. Something else: In all probability, the pigs knew about the "Fire Protection Service" truck and would be on the lookout for it; therefore the truck must be abandoned. But not until he was nearer the North Castle hideaway. Taking a chance, Georgos increased his speed.

One chance must not be taken, he reasoned. The truck could not be left too close to the apartment; otherwise it would betray his whereabouts, He, was approaching- North Castle. How near to- his destination dare be drive? He decided: Within one mile. When Georgos estimated he was that distance away, he pulled to the curb, switched off the engine and got out, not bothering to lock the truck or take the ignition key. He reasoned further: the police might well assume be had had a parked car waiting and changed vehicles, or he had boarded a late night bus or taxi, any of which assumptions would leave his general whereabouts in doubt.

What Georges did not know was that a drunk, recovering from a quart of cheap wine consumed earlier, was propped up in a doorway opposite where the "Fire Protection Service" truck had stopped. The drunk was sufficiently lucid to observe the truck's arrival and Georgos' departure on foot.

For his part, Georgos began walking briskly. The streets were silent, almost deserted, and he was aware of being conspicuous. But no one accosted or appeared to notice him and, in a quarter of an hour, he was unlocking the apartment door. With relief he went inside.

At about the same time, a cruising police patrol spotted the red pickup for which an alert had gone out a short time earlier. The patrolman who transmitted a radio report noted that the radiator was still warm.

Moments later, the same officer noticed the drunk in the doorway opposite and elicited the information that the driver of the truck had left on foot, and in which direction. The police car sped away, but failed to locate Georgos.

The police patrol did return, however, and-with base ingratitude took their informant into custody, charging him with being drunk in public.

* * *

Davey Birdsong was arrested, shortly after 5:30 am, outside the apartment building where he lived.

He had just returned there by car after the lecture and study group session which kept him outside the city through the night.

Birdsong was shocked. He protested heatedly to the two plainclothes detectives who made the arrest, one of whom promptly informed him of his legal right to remain silent. Despite the warning, Birdsong declared, "Listen, you guys, whatever this is about, I want to tell you I've been away since yesterday. I left my apartment at six o'clock last night and haven't been back since. I have plenty of witnesses to that."

The detective who had cautioned Birdsong wrote the statement down, and-ironically-the "alibi" proved Birdsong's undoing.

When Birdsong was searched at police headquarters, the p & lfp press statement deploring "the bombing at the Christopher Columbus Hotel last night" was found in a jacket pocket. The statement was later proved to have been typed on a machine kept in Birdsong's apartment -the apartment he claimed he had not entered since six o'clock the previous evening, nearly nine hours before the bombing became public knowledge. As if this were not enough, two torn-up, earlier drafts of the statement, in Birdsong's handwriting, were also discovered in the apartment.

Other evidence proved equally damning. The cassette tape recordings of conversations between Georgos Archambault and Davey Birdsong matched a voiceprint of Birdsong, made after his arrest. The young black taxi driver, Vickery, whom Nancy Molineaux employed, made a statement confirming Birdsong's devious journey to the house at 117 Crocker Street. Birdsong's purchase of fire extinguishers, which had been converted to bombs, was also attested to.

He was charged with six counts of first-degree murder, conspiracy to commit a felony, and a "shopping list" of other charges. Bail was set at one million dollars, a sum which Birdsong could not raise and no one else seemed inclined to. Hence, he remained in custody, pending his trial.

* * *

Of the remaining Friends of Freedom, Wayde, the young Marxist intellectual, and Felix, from Detroit's inner city, were killed in the gun battle with police at 117 Crocker Street. Ute, the embittered Indian, turned a gun on himself and died as police stormed the house.

The evidence of revolutionary activity at number 117 was captured intact, including the journal of Georgos Winslow Archambault.

7

Around the California Examiner newsroom and the Press Club bar, they were already saying that Nancy Molineaux was a shoo-in for a Pulitzer.

She had it all.

As the managing editor was heard to tell the publisher: "That classy broad has come through with the whole goddam, zipped-up, total Erector set of the hottest story this side of the second coming."

After leaving the Christopher Columbus Hotel, and going to the paper, Nancy wrote continuously right up to the Examiner's 6:30 am first deadline. Through the remainder of the morning and early afternoon, she updated and amplified the earlier material for the later three editions. And, as reports of new developments came in, they were funneled through her.

In case of any query about Friends of Freedom, Georgos Archambault, Davey Birdsong, p&lfp, the Sequoia Club's money, the hotel bombing, the life and death of Yvette, the password was, "Ask Nancy."

Just as in a reporter's dream, almost the entire front page under a banner headline, was Nancy Molineaux's.

The newspaper put a copyright slug over her story, which meant that any TV or radio station or other newspaper using her exclusive coverage was obliged to quote the Examiner as its source.

Because Nancy was an integral part of the story herself-her discovery of 117 Crocker Street, the meetings with Yvette, and her possession of the only copy of the tapes established that-she achieved personal celebrity status.

The day the story broke she was interviewed, at her newsroom desk, for TV. That night the film appeared on the national network news of NBC, ABC and CBS.

Even so, the Examiner management made the TV crews wait, fuming, until Nancy had finished her own reporting and was good and ready.

Newsweek and Time, following the TV crowd, got the same treatment.

Over at the Chronicle-West, the city's morning, competitive paper, there was unconcealed ewy and much scurrying to catch up. The Chronicle's editor, however, was big enough to send Nancy a half dozen roses next day (a dozen, be thought, would be overdoing it) with a congratulatory note, delivered to her Examiner desk.

The effects of the news story spread outward, not in ripples, but in waves.

To many who read Nancy Molineaux's report, the most shocking revelation was that the Sequoia Club, even if indirectly, had financed the Christopher Columbus bombing.

Indignant Sequoia Club members across the nation telegraphed, phoned or mailed their resignations.

"Never again," thundered California's senior senator in an interview with the Washington Post, "will I trust that despicable organization or listen to anything it advocates." the statement found a thousand echoes elsewhere.

It was generally conceded that the Sequoia Club, its name disgraced and influence diminished, could never be the same again.

Laura Bo Carmichael resigned immediately as the club's chairman. After doing so, she went into seclusion, refusing to take telephone calls from the press or anyone else. Instead, a private secretary read to callers a short statement which concluded, "Mrs. Carmichael considers her public life to be at an end."

The only Sequoia Club figure to emerge with honor was Mrs. Priscilla Quinn, who, Nancy accurately reported, had been the sole opponent of paying fifty thousand dollars to Birdsong's p &lfp. Nancy took satisfaction in recording that the big-league lawyer, Irwin Saunders, was one of those who voted "yes."

If the Sequoia Club attempted to rehabilitate itself, it was predicted that Priscilla Quinn would be the new chairman, with the club's emphasis directed toward social work rather than environmental matters.

Following Nancy's expos6 of Georgos Archambault, and later reports of his disappearance, a small army of police detectives and FBI special agents fanned out through the North Castle district in search of the Friends of Freedom leader. They had no success.

A thorough police search of 117 Crocker Street produced large amounts of evidence, further incriminating Georgos and Davey Birdsong. among the clothes left by Georgos was a denim jumpsuit; lab tests showed that, where the garment was torn, a missing portion matched a small piece of material found at the Millfield substation, snagged on a cut wire, the night the two security guards were killed. Also in the house were voluminous written records, including Georgos' journal; all were turned over to the District Attorney. The existence of the journal was revealed to the press, though its contents were not disclosed.

After Davey Birdsong's part in the whole affair was described in print, Birdsong, in jail, was segregated from other prisoners for his own safety.

Before some of that happened, however, Nancy Molineaux went through a personal crisis of her own. It occurred shortly before noon the day during which her major story broke.

She had been working under deadline pressure since before dawn and, having had no sleep the night before and being sustained only by coffee and orange juice since, was tiring. It showed.

Several times since 7:30 am, when the city editor came on duty in time for the second edition, old "I'm-the-coach" had stopped by Nancy's desk with quiet words of encouragement. Apart from that, there was little need for editorial discussion. Nancy was assembling the facts capably-her own, and others fed to her. She also had a reputation for writing "clean" copy which required little, if any, rewrite.

Occasionally, when she stopped typing and glanced up, Nancy caught the city editor looking over at her. Though his expression was inscrutable, she had a notion they were both thinking the same thing something which, through most of the past few hours, she had pushed determinedly from her mind.

The last thing Nancy had observed before leaving the Christopher Columbus was the shrouded bodies of the dead policemen and firemen being wheeled from the hotel on gurneys to waiting morgue wagons. There were also two men, outside the hotel, putting pieces of something into a plastic bag; it took her a minute to realize they were collecting the remains of the sixth dead man, the one blown to pieces by a bomb.

It was then Nancy faced the stark, grim truth which, until now, she had evaded: That for an entire week she had been in possession of information which, if shared, could have prevented all six deaths and much else.

The same thought bored into her consciousness each time she caught the city editor looking at her. That, and his words of a week ago: "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."

At the time she had dismissed the advice with a mental, Screw you, Mr. Charlie! Now, she wished vainly, desperately, she hadn't.

At 11:55 am, with two hours and twenty minutes still to go before the final edition deadline, the thought of the six dead bodies could no longer be thrust away, and Nancy was ready to crack.

"Take a break and come with me," a voice said quietly. When she looked up, old I'm-the-coach was again beside her.

She hesitated and he added, "That's an order."

With unusual docility, Nancy stood up and followed him as he left the newsroom.

A short way down the corridor was a small room, normally kept locked, and sometimes used for management meetings. The city editor used a key to open it and held the door for Nancy to precede him.

Inside, the furnishings were comfortable but simple: A boardroom type table and upholstered chairs, a pair of matching walnut cabinets, soft brown draperies.

With another key the city editor opened one of the cabinets. He motioned Nancy to sit down.

“There's a choice of brandy or scotch. Not the best brands; we don't compete with the Ritz here. I suggest the brandy."

Nancy nodded, suddenly unable to find words.

Her superior poured California brandy into two glasses and sat down facing her. When they had sipped he said, "I've been watching you."

"Yes, I know."

"And we've both been thinking the same thing. Right?"

Again she nodded without speaking.

"Nancy," the city editor said, "as I see it, by the end of today you'll go one of two ways. Either right over the edge, which means a mental breakdown and ending up on some shrink's couch twice a week, ad infinitum, or you'll get a grip on yourself and let what's in the past stay there. I'll say this about the first route: It will louse up your life and benefit nobody except the shrink. As to the second, you've got spunk and intelligence, and you can handle it. But you'll have to make a positive decision, not just let things slide."

Relieved, at last, to say it aloud, she told him, "I'm responsible for last night. If I'd told someone what I knew, the police could have been warned and they'd have iwestigated that Crocker Street house."

“The first statement is false," he told her, "the second true. I'm not saying you won't live with last night for the rest of your life. I think you will. But you're not the first to make an error in judgment which harmed others; you won't be the last either. Also in your defense: You didn't know what would happen; if you bad, you'd have acted differently.

So my advice is this, Nancy: Face up to it accept what you did and didn't do, and remember it-for experience and learning. But otherwise put it behind you."

When she remained silent, he went on, "Now I'll tell you something else. I've been a lot of years in this business-some days I think too many. But in my opinion, Nancy, you're the best damn reporter I've ever worked with."

It was then that Nancy Molineaux did something which had happened only rarely in the past and even then she had never let others see. She put her head in her arms, broke down, and cried.

Old I'm-the-coach went to the window and decently turned his back. Looking down at the street outside, be said, "I locked the door when we came in, Nancy. It's still locked and will stay that way until you're ready, so take your time. And, oh yes-something else. I promise that no one but you and me will ever know what went on in here today."

In a half-hour Nancy was back at her desk, with her face washed and makeup repaired, writing once more, and totally in control.

* * *

Nim Goldman telephoned Nancy Molineaux the next morning, baving tried to reach her, unsuccessfully, the day before.

"I wanted to say thank you," he said, "for that call you made to the hotel."

She told him, "Maybe I owed you that."

"Whether you did or didn't, I'm still grateful." He added, a trifle awkwardly, "You pulled off a big story. Congratulations."

Nancy asked curiously, "What did you think of it all? the things that went into the story, I mean."

"For Birdsong," Nim answered, "I'm not in the least sorry, and I hope he gets everything be deserves. I also hope that phony p&lfp never surfaces again."

"How about the Sequoia Club? Do you feel the same way?"

"No," Nim said, I don't."

"Why?"

"The Sequoia Club has been something we all needed-part of our societal system of checks and balances. Oh, I've had disputes with the Sequoia people; so have others, and I believe the club went too far in opposing everything in sight. But the Sequoia Club was a community conscience; it made us think, and care about the environment, and sometimes stopped our side from going to excesses."

Nim paused, then went on, "I know the Sequoia Club is down right now, and I'm genuinely distressed for Laura Bo Carmichael who, despite our disagreements, was a friend. But I hope the Sequoia Club isn't out. It would be a loss to everyone if that happened."

"Well," Nancy said, "sometimes a day is full of surprises." She had been scribbling while Nim talked. "May I quote all that?"

He hesitated only briefly, then said, "Why not?"

In the Examiner's next edition, she did.

8

Harry London sat brooding, looking at the papers Nim had shown him.

At length he said glumly, "Do you know the way I feel about all this?"

Nim told him, "I can guess."

As if he had not heard, the Property Protection chief went on, "Last week was the worst in a long time. Art Romeo was a good guy; I know you didn't know him well, Nim, but he was loyal, honest, and a friend. When I heard what happened, I was sick. I'd figured when I left Korea and the Marines I was through with hearing about guys I know being blown to bits."

"Harry," Nim said, "I'm desperately sorry about Art Romeo too, What he did that night was something I'll never forget."

London waved the interruption away. "Just let me finish."

Nim was silent, waiting.

It was Wednesday morning, in the first week of March, six days after the trauma at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. Both men were in Nim's office, with the door closed for privacy.

"Well," London said, "so now you show me this, and to tell the truth, I wish you hadn't. Because the way I see it, what else is there left to believe in anymore?"

"Plenty," Nim answered. "A lot to care about and plenty to believe in.

Not anymore, though, the integrity of Mr. Justice Yale."

"Here, take these." Harry London handed the papers back.

They comprised a batch of correspondence-eight letters, some with copies of enclosures attached, and all were from the files of the late Walter Talbot, until his death last July, chief engineer of GSP & L. The three cardboard cartons from which the letters had been taken were open in Nim's office, their other contents spread around.

Locating the letters, which Nim suddenly recalled to mind at the NEI convention, had been delayed because of last week's tragedy and aftermath. Earlier today, Nim had had the files brought up from a basement storage vault. Even then it had taken him more than an hour to find the particular papers he sought-those he remembered glancing at seven months ago, the day at Ardythe's house when she gave him the cartons for safekeeping.

But he had found them. His memory had been right.

And now the letters must inevitably be used as the corpus delicti at a confrontation.

Exactly two weeks earlier, at the meeting between J. Eric Humphrey, Nim, Harry London and justice Paul Sherman Yale on the subject of power stealing, the former Supreme Court justice had stated unequivocally, ".. . 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."

The correspondence Nim had found showed all four statements to be deceitful and untrue.

It was, in the oft-used phrase of Watergate, "the smoking gun."

"Of course," London said abruptly, "we'll never know for sure whether the old man gave his approval to the power thievery by the Yale Trust, or even if he knew about it and did nothing. All we can prove is that he's a liar."

"And was worried as hell," Nim said. "Otherwise he would never have trapped himself by those statements."

The facts of the matter were simple.

Walter Talbot had been a pioneer in drawing attention to huge financial losses incurred by electric and gas utilities as a result of theft. He had written articles on the subject, made speeches, been interviewed by news media, and had appeared as an expert witness in a New York State criminal trial which wended its way, via appeals, through higher courts. The case had generated wide interest. Also correspondence.

Some of the correspondence had been with a member of the United States Supreme Court.

Justice Paul Sherman Yale.

It was clear from the exchange that Walter Talbot and Paul Yale had known each other well during earlier years in California.

The first letter was on a distinguished letterhead.

Supreme Court of the United States

Washington, D.C. 20543

It began: My dear Walter.

The writer expressed his interest, as a legal scholar, in a burgeoning new field of law enforcement, namely, that related to the stealing of electricity and gas. He asked for more details of the types of offenses intervened and methods being used to combat them. Also requested were any known facts about prosecutions, and their outcomes, in various parts of the country. The letter inquired after the health of Ardythe and was signed "Paul."

Walter Talbot, with a sense of decorum, had replied more formally: My dear justice Yale.

His letter was four pages long. Accompanying it was a photocopy of one of Walter's published articles.

Several weeks later Paul Yale wrote again. He acknowledged the letter and article and posed several pertinent questions which demonstrated he had read the material carefully.

The correspondence continued through five more letters, spaced over eight months. In one of them Walter Talbot described the function of the Property Protection Department in a typical public utility, and the duties of an individual heading it-such as Harry London.

Not surprisingly, the letters pointed up the sharp, inquiring mind, the lively interest in everything, of Paul Sherman Yale.

And the entire correspondence had taken place only two years before Mr. Justice Yale's retirement from the bench. Could Paul Yale possibly have forgotten? Nim had already asked himself that question and decided the answer was an emphatic "no". Tbe old man had demonstrated, too many times, his remarkable memory-both for large issues and for detail-to make that believable.

It was Harry London who raised the key issue Nim had been debating. "Why did the old boy do it? Why did he lie to us the way he did?"

"Probably," Nim said thoughtfully, "because he knew Walter was dead, and because the chance of any of the three of us-the chairman, you, me-knowing about that correspondence was remote. In fact, it must have been obvious that we didn't. Also, the odds on those letters ever surfacing were a million to one against."

London nodded his agreement, then said, “The next question, I reckon, is: How many other times has the Honorable Paul done the same thing and gotten away with it?"

"We'll never know, will we?"

The Property Protection chief motioned to the letters. "Of course, you'll show these to the chairman."

"Yes, this afternoon. I happen to know Mr. Yale is coming in later today."

"Which brings up something else." Harry London's voice was bitter. "Will we go on trying as hard as we have to keep that precious Yale name out of those court proceedings which are coming up? Or, in view of this new information, will 'Mr. Integrity' take his chances like anybody else?"

"I don't know." Nim sighed. "I simply don't know. And, in any case, it won't be my decision."

* * *

The showdown with Mr. Justice Yale occurred shortly after 4 pm in the chairman's office suite.

When Nim arrived, having been summoned by J. Eric Humphrey's secretary, it was obvious that tension already existed. The chairman's expression could best be described, Nim thought, as "wounded old Bostonian." Humphrey's eyes were cold, his mouth tightly set. Paul Yale, while unaware of precisely what was afoot, clearly shared the knowledge that it was something disagreeable and his normal cheerfulness had been replaced by a frown. The two were seated at a table in the conference area and neither man was speaking when Nim joined them.

Nim took the chair on Eric Humphrey's left, facing Mr. Justice Yale. He placed on the table before him the file containing the Talbot-Yale correspondence.

Earlier, Eric Humphrey and Nim, after some debate, had agreed on the sequence of procedure. They also decided that Harry London need not, this time, be included.

"Paul," Humphrey began, "on the previous occasion when the three of us were together, we had a discussion about certain problems of power stealing. In part, they intervened the Yale Family Trust. I'm sure that you remember."

Mr. Justice Yale nodded. "Yes, of course."

"At that time you made a number of statements. All were to the effect that you had no idea, prior to that moment, that such a thing as power theft existed."

"Now stop this!" Paul Yale's face flushed angrily. "I do not like your tone or attitude, Eric. Nor am I here to be questioned about what I may, or may not, have said .

Humphrey's voice cut acidly across the protest. “There is no 'may' about it. What you told us was precise and unambiguous. Moreover, it was repeated several times. I remember it that way. So does Nim."

It was plain to Nim that Paul Yale's mind was working at high speed. The old man said sternly, "Whatever was said, it does not follow from it . . ."

"Nim," the chairman ordered, "show Mr. Yale the contents of our file."

Opening the folder, Nim slid the small pile of letters and attachments across the table. The earliest dated letter-on Supreme Court stationery-was on top.

Paul Yale picked it up, glanced at it, then dropped it hastily. He did not bother with the others. His face, which had been flushed before, suffused an even deeper red.

Afterward, replaying the scene in his mind, Nim guessed that while Yale expected some kind of unfavorable revelation, the possibility of being confronted with his old correspondence had not occurred to him. If Nim's conjecture was true, it would explain the old man's abject, total shock.

His tongue moistened his lips. He seemed unable to find the words he wanted.

Then be said awkwardly, defensively, "Sometimes, especially in Washington. . . with so much happening, so many papers, the unending correspondence. . . one forgets . . ." the statement trailed off. Obviously it sounded as false and unconvincing to Mr. Justice Yale as it did to the other two. Strike that," he said abruptly, and stood up. Pushing back his chair, he walked away from the table and, without looking at Nim or Humphrey, asked, "Please give me a moment to collect my thoughts."

Briefly the old man paced the chairman's broadloom. Then he turned, though continuing to stand.

"It is plain, gentlemen, as only documentary evidence can make it, that I have been guilty of deception and-no doubt deservedly-been caught."

Paul Yale's voice was lower than normal-, his face reflected pain as he continued. "I will not compound my error by explanations or excuses, either by describing my considerable anxiety at the time of our earlier talk, or my urgent and natural desire to protect my good name."

Just the same, Nim thought, you've managed to do both while sayin- that you wouldn't.

I will, however," Yale went on, "swear to you that I neither participated in power theft by the Yale Family Trust, nor had any knowledge of it prior to our first discussion here."

Eric Humphrey, who, Nim remembered, had been eager to accept Paul Yale's word before, remained silent. Probably the chairman was thinking, as was Nim, that anyone who would lie once to protect his reputation would lie again for the same reason.

Inevitably, Nim was reminded of Harry London's question: "How many other times has the Honorable Paul done the same thing and gotten away with it?"

As the silence hung, the pain in the old man's eyes deepened.

"Nim," Eric Humphrey said quietly, "I don't believe it's necessary for you to stay any longer."

With relieif, Nim gathered up the papers on the table and returned them to the file while the other two watched. Taking the file with him, and with no further word spoken, Nim left.

He did not know it then, but it was the last time he would ever meet Mr. Justice Yale.

* * *

Nim never learned what else transpired in the chairman's office that day.

He didn't ask, nor did Eric Humphrey volunteer the information. But the end result was revealed the next morning.

At 11 am Humphrey sent for Nim and Teresa Van Buren. Seated at his desk, and holding a letter, he informed them, "I have received the resignation of justice Paul Sherman Yale as our public spokesman and a director of this company. The resignation has been accepted with regret. I would like an announcement made immediately to that effect."

Van Buren told him, "We should state some reason, Eric."

"Ill health." Humphrey referred to the letter in his band. "Mr. Yale's doctors have advised him that, at his age, the strain of his new duties at GSP & L has proven too -arduous. They have advised him to discontinue them."

"No problem," the PR director said. "I'll have it on the wires this afternoon. I have another question, though."

"Yes?"

"That leaves us without a spokesman for the company. Who takes over?"

For the first time the chairman smiled. "I'm too busy to search for someone else, Tess, so I suppose there's no alternative. Put the saddle back on Nim."

"Hallelujah!" Van Buren said. "You know the way I feel. It should never have been taken off."

* * *

Outside the chairman's office Teresa Van Buren lowered her voice, "Nim, give me the straight dope behind this Yale thing. What went wrong? You know I'll find out sooner or later."

Nim shook his bead. "You heard the chairman, Tess. Failing health."

"You bastard!" she shot at him. "For that, I may not put you on TV until next week."

* * *

Harry London read the published report of Paul Yale's departure and came to Nim the next day.

"If I had any guts," he declared, "I'd resign in disgust at that fiction about ill health and acceptance with regret. It makes all of us liars, just the way he is."

Nim, who had not slept well, said irritably, "So go ahead-resign."

"I can't afford to."

“Then knock off the holier-than-thou crap, Harry. You said yourself there's no way we could prove Mr. Yale was into power theft personally."

London said dourly, "He was, though. The more I think about it, the more I believe it."

"Don't forget," Nim pointed out, "that Ian Norris, who ran the Yale Family Trust, swore he wasn't."

"Yes, and the whole thing smells like a deal. Norris will get his payoff in some way later-maybe by staying on as trustee. Besides, Norris wouldn't have gained anything himself by involving the great man."

"Whatever we think, or don't," Nim said. "it's over and finished. So get back to work and catch more power thieves."

"I already have. There's a bunch of new cases, as well as others developing from the Quayle inquiry. But Nim, I'll tell you one thing for the future."

Nim sighed. "Go ahead."

"We've been part of a cover-up, you and me; a cover-up to protect that high-and-mighty Yale name. It goes to show there are still special rules and laws for those with pull and power."

"Look, Harry . . ."

"No, hear me out! What I'm doing, Nim, is serving notice that if I have clear evidence in any case in the future, no matter who it is, no one is going to stop me from bringing it out in the open and doing what has to be done."

"Okay, okay," Nim said. "If there's clear evidence, I'll fight it with you. And now we've settled that, please go, and let me get some work done."

When he was alone, Nim regretted having vented his had humor on Harry London. Most of what London had said, about the resignation statement being a lie and part of a cover-up, had already occurred to Nim, and troubled him last night, when he slept only fitfully. Were there degrees of lying? Nim didn't believe so. As he saw it, a lie was a lie. Period. In which case, wasn't GSP & L-in the persons of Eric Humphrey, who authorized a public falsehood, and Nim, who endorsed it by his silence-equally culpable as Paul Sherman Yale?

There could be only one answer: Yes.

He was still thinking about it when his secretary, Vicki Davis, buzzed and told him, “The chairman would like to see you immediately."

* * *

J. Eric Humphrey, Nim could tell at once, was unusually perturbed.

When Nim came in, the chairman was moving restlessly around his office, something he rarely did. He continued standing as he talked and Nim listened,

"There is something I wish to say to you, Nim, and shortly I will explain why," the chairman said. "Recently I have been ashamed and disgusted at certain events which have happened in this company. I do not like to feel ashamed of the organization which pays me a salary and which I head."

Humphrey paused, and Nim remained silent, wondering what was coming next.

"One matter for shame," the chairman continued, "has been dealt with within the past twenty-four hours. But there is another, larger issue which persists-the outrageous attacks upon the lives and property of this company."

“The FBI and police . Nim began.

"Have accomplished nothing," Humphrey snapped. "Absolutely nothing!"

"They have Birdsong in jail," Nim pointed out.

"Yes-and why? Because one intelligent, determined woman reporter was more resourceful than a veritable army of professional law enforcers. Remember also that it was information from the same young woman which resulted in those other blackguards at that Crocker Street house being shot and killed-their just deserts."

Only J. Eric Humphrey, Nim thought, would use words like "blackguards" and "just deserts." All the same, Nim had seldom seen Humphrey so openly emotional. He suspected that what was being said now had been bottled up inside the chairman for a long time.

"Consider this," Humphrey resumed. "For more than a year we have suffered the indignity of having our installations, even this headquarters, bombed by a ragtag, small-time band of terrorists. Worse still, it has cost the lives of nine of our own good people, not including Mr. Romeo Abo died at the Christopher Columbus Hotel. And that is something else! I am deeply ashamed that while we were the host city, the host company, to the NEI convention, that terrible episode was allowed to happen."

"I really don't believe, Eric," Nim said, "that anyone could, or does, blame GSP & L for what occurred at the Columbus."

"I blame us, and I blame myself, for not having been more insistent, earlier, that the law enforcement agencies do something. Even now, that vile man, the leader, Archambault, is still at large." Humphrey's voice had risen in pitch. "An entire week has gone by. Where is he? Why have the law enforcement agencies failed to find him?"

"I understand," Nim said, "that they're still searching, and they believe he's somewhere in the North Casle area."

"Where he is doubtless plotting to kill or maim more of our people, and do our company more injury! Nim, I want that villain found. If necessary I want us-GSP & L -to find him." Nim was about to point out that a public utility was not equipped to perform police work, then had second thoughts. He asked instead, "Eric, what do you have in mind?"

"I have in mind that we are an organization employing many high caliber people with an abundance of brainpower. Judging by results, the law enforcement agencies lack both. Therefore, Nim, these are my instructions to you: Bring your own brain and those of others to bear on this problem.

Call on whoever you require to help you; you have my authority. But I want results. For the sake of our people who were killed, for their families, and for the rest of us who take pride in GSP & L, I want that despicable person, Archambault, caught and brought to justice."

The chairman stopped, his face flushed, then said tersely, "That's all."

* * *

It was a coincidence in timing, Nim thought, after his encounter with Eric Humphrey, that he, too, had been thinking about brainpower.

Four months ago, largely because of skepticism by Mr. Justice Yale, Nim had abandoned the "think group" approach to the problem of terrorist attacks by the so-called "Friends of Freedom."

Following Paul Yale's criticism that they had "pushed supposition pure conjecture, unsubstantiated-to the limits and beyond," Nim had summoned no further "think meetings" between himself, Oscar O'Brien, Teresa Van Buren and Harry London. And yet, reviewing what was now known, the quartet's ideas and guesswork had been uncannily close to the truth.

In fairness, Nim reasoned, he could only blame himself. If he had persisted, instead of becoming overawed by Yale, they might have anticipated, possibly even prevented, some of the tragic events which had since occurred.

Now, armed with Eric Humphrey's instructions, there might still be something they could do.

Originally, in discussing the then-unknown leader of Friends of Freedom, the "think group" labeled him 'X" the identity of "X" was now known, and the man-Georgos Archambault-dangerous, an overhanging threat to GSP & L and others, was believed to be biding somewhere in the city.

Could intensive thought and probing discussion somehow penetrate that biding?

Today was Friday. Nim decided that sometime during the weekend, using the chairman's authority if needed, he would bring the four "thinkers" together once again.

9

"As it turned out," Nim said, consulting notes, "we were remarkably accurate. Let me remind you of just how accurate."

He paused to sip the scotch and soda which Oscar O'Brien had poured for him a few minutes ago, before they started.

It was Sunday afternoon. At the general counsel's invitation, the "think group" had assembled in his home and was sprawled around an informal comfortable garden room. The other three had been co-operative when approached by Nim, even more so when informed of J. Eric Humphrey's wishes.

The O'Brien house, high above the shoreline and with a beach below, afforded a magnificent waterfront view which, at the moment, included a multitude of sailboats, their weekend sailors endlessly beating, reaching or running, and miraculously avoiding each other, amid a flurry of whitecaps raised by a stiff westerly breeze.

As on previous occasions when the group had met, a tape recorder was running.

"On the basis of the then-available information," Nim continued, "information which was sketchy at best, we hypothesized that one man -"X"-was the leader and brains of Friends of Freedom, that he was strongly masculine and vain, and that he had a woman confidante who worked closely with him. We also believed that X personally murdered those two guards at Millfield, and that the woman was present at the time. Furthermore, we concluded the woman might be a source of weakness and prove the undoing of 'X',"

"I'd forgotten some of that," Teresa Van Buren injected. "By God, we were right on target!"

The PR director, appearing as if she had come unchanged from a lazy weekend at home, was wearing a rumpled green caftan over her ample figure. Her hair, as usual, was untidy, probably because she ran her fingers through it whenever she was thinking. Her feet were bare; the pair of dilapidated sandals she had slipped off were beside her chair.

"Yes," Nim acknowledged, "I know. And I'll admit to you all, it was my fault we failed to continue. I guess I lost faith, and I was wrong." He decided to say nothing about the influence of Mr. Justice Yale, who, after all, had done no more than express an opinion.

Nim proceeded, "Now that we know the identity of 'X,' and a good deal more about him, perhaps we can use the same mental process in helping track him down."

He stopped, conscious that three pairs of eyes were focused on him intently, then added, "Perhaps not. But the chairman believes we should try."

Oscar O'Brien grunted and removed from between his thick lips the cigar be had been smoking. The air was already thick with smoke, a condition distasteful to Nim, but it was O'Brien's home and objecting seemed unreasonable.

"I'm willing to give it a whirl," the lawyer said. "Where do we start?"

He was wearing old gray slacks, loosely belted below his bulging belly, a baggy sweater, and loafers without socks.

"I've prepared a memo," Nim said. Opening a briefcase, be produced copies and passed them around. The memo contained a summary of all information, published since the NEI convention, about Friends of Freedom and Georgos Archambault. The bulk of it was from Nancy Molineaux's reports. Nim waited until the others had finished reading, then asked, "Is there anything additional, which any of you know, that isn't in there?"

"I might have an item or two," Harry London volunteered.

The Property Protection chief had been cool today when meeting Nim, probably remembering their sharp words two days ago. But his tone was normal as he said, "I have friends in the law enforcement agencies. As Nim knows, they sometimes tell me things."

In contrast to the others-including Nim, who was also dressed casually-London was impeccable in beige slacks with a knife-edge crease, and a starched bush jacket. He wore socks which matched the ensemble. His leather shoes were gleaming.

“The newspapers mentioned that Archambault kept a journal," London said, "and it was found among his other papers. That's in here." He tapped Nim's memo with a fingernail. "What isn't here, and wasn't let out because the D.A. hopes to use it in evidence at Archambault's trial, is what was in the journal."

Van Buren asked, "Have you seen the journal?"

"No. But I was shown a Xerox copy."

As usual, Nim thought, Harry London was moving at his own pedantic pace.

O'Brien asked impatiently, "Okay, what was in the damn thing?"

"I don't remember."

There was obvious disappointment, then revived interest as London added, "At least, not all of it." He paused, then continued, “There are two things, though, you can tell from reading what the guy put down. First, he's every bit as vain and conceited as we figured, maybe more so. Also-and you get this right away from reading all the garage that's in there-he has what you'd call a compulsion to write things."

"So have thousands of others," Van Buren said. "Is that all?"

"Yep."

London seemed deflated and Nim put in quickly, "Tess, don't knock that kind of information. Every detail helps."

"Tell us something, Harry," Oscar O'Brien said. "Do you remember anything about the handwriting in that journal?"

"What kind of thing?"

"Well, was it distinctive?"

The Property Protection chief considered. "I'd say, yes."

"What I'm getting at," the general counsel said, "is this: If you took a sample of the journal handwriting, and then another turned up from someplace else, would it be easy to match the two and know they were both from the same person?"

"I see what you mean," London said. "No doubt of it. Very easy."

"Um." O'Brien was stroking his chin, drifting off into a reverie of his own. He motioned to the others. "Carry on. I only have a half-baked idea that isn't ready yet."

"All right," Nim said, "let's go on to talk about North Castle, the part of town where that 'Fire Protection Service' truck was found abandoned."

"With the radiator still warm," Van Buren reminded them. "And he was seen to go on foot from there, which makes it likely he couldn't have gone far."

"Maybe not," Harry London said, "but that whole North Castle area is a rabbit warren. The police have combed it and got nothing. If anybody wanted to choose a place in this city where they could disappear, that's the district."

"And from what I've read or heard," Nim added, "it's a reasonable guess that Archambault had a second hideaway prepared, to fall back on, and is now in it. We know he wasn't short of money, so lie could have arranged everything well ahead of time."

"Using a pbony name, of course," Van Buren said. “The same way he did to buy the truck."

Nim smiled. "I doubt if the phone company has him listed in 'Directory Assistance."'

"About that truck registration," London said. "It's been checked on, and it's a dead end."

"Harry," O'Brien queried, "has anyone estimated the size of the area in which Archambault has apparently been swallowed up? In other words, if you drew a circle on a map, and stated 'the man is probably hiding somewhere in there, “how big would the circle be?"

"I believe the police have made an estimate," London said. "But of course it's only a guess."

"Tell us," Nim prompted.

"Well, the thinking goes something like this: When Archambault abandoned that truck, he was in one belluva burry. So, assuming be was heading for a hideaway, while he wouldn't have left the truck close to it, it would not have been too far either. Say a mile and a half at the most. So if you take the truck as the center, that means a circle with a one-and-a-half-mile radius."

"If I remember my high school geometry," O'Brien mused, "the area of a circle is pi times the radius squared." He crossed to a small desk and picked up an electronic calculator. After a moment he announced, "That's a bit over seven square miles."

Nim said, "Which means you're talking about roughly twelve thousand homes and small businesses, with probably thirty thousand people living within that circle."

"I know that's a lot of territory," O'Brien said, "and looking for Archambault in there would be like searching for the proverbial needle. Just the same, we might smoke him out, and here's a thought for the rest of you to kick around."

Nim, London and Van Buren were listening carefully. As all of them knew, it was the lawyer's ideas which had led to most of the conclusions at their earlier sessions.

O'Brien continued, "Harry says Archambault has a compulsion to write things. Taken with the other information we have about the man, it adds up to him being an exhibitionist with a need to 'sound off' constantly, even in small ways. So my thought is this: If we could get some kind of public questionnaire circulating in that seven -square-m ile areaI mean the kind of thing with a string of questions to which people write in answers-our man might not be able to resist answering too."

There was a puzzled silence, then Van Buren asked, "What would the actual questions be about?"

"Oh, electric power, of course-something to arouse Archambault's interest, if possible, to make him angry. Like: How do you rate the service which GSP & L gives the public? Do you agree that continued good service will require higher rates soon? Do you favor a public utility remaining under private enterprise? That sort of thing. Of course, those are rough. The real questions would have to be thought out carefully."

Nim said thoughtfully, "I suppose your idea, Oscar, is that as the questionnaires came back, you'd look for some handwriting matching the sample in that journal."

"Right."

"But supposing Archambault used a typewriter?"

“Then we couldn't identify," the lawyer said. "Look, this isn't a foolproof scheme. If you're looking for that, you won't find one."

"If you did get a returned questionnaire where the handwriting matched,"

Teresa Van Buren objected, "I don't see what good it would do you. How would you know where it came from? Even if Archam-3bault was dumb enough to answer, you can be sure he wouldn't give his address."

O'Brien shrugged. "I already admitted it was a half-baked notion, Tess."

"Wait a minute," London said. “There is one way a thing like that could be traceable. Invisible ink."

Nim told him, "Explain that."

"Invisible ink isn't just a trick for kids; it's used more often than you'd think," the Property Protection chief said. "Here's the way it works: On every questionnaire would be a number, but it wouldn't be visible. You print it with a luminescent powder dissolved in glycol; the liquid's absorbed into the paper so there's no trace of it in view. But when you find the questionnaire you want, you hold it under a black light scanner and the number shows up clearly. Take it away from the scanner, the number disappears."

Van Buren exclaimed, "I'll be damned!"

Harry London told her, "It's done often. On lottery tickets is one example; it proves a lottery ticket is genuine and not a fake which some crook printed. Also, half the so-called anonymous questionnaires floating around are done that way. Never trust any piece of paper which says you can't be identified."

"This begins to get interesting," O'Brien said.

“The big problem, though," Nim cautioned, "is how to distribute those questionnaires widely, yet keep a record of where each one went. I don't see how you'd do it."

Van Buren sat up straight. "I do. The answer is under our noses. Our own Billing Department."

The others stared at her.

"Look at it this way," the PR director said. "Every house, every building, in that seven-square-mile area is a customer of GSP & L, and all that information is stored in our billing computers."

"I get it," Nim said; he was thinking aloud. "You'd program the computer to print out the addresses in that area, and no more."

"We could do even better," O'Brien put in; he sounded excited. “The computer could produce the questionnaires ready for mailing the portion with a customer's name and address could be detached so only the non-identifiable part would be sent back."

"Apparently non-identifiable," Harry London reminded him. "But while the regular printing was being done, that invisible ink number would be added. Don't forget that."

O'Brien slapped a thigh enthusiastically. "By Jupiter, we're onto something!"

"It's a good idea," Nim said, "and worth trying, But let's be realistic about two things. First, even if the questionnaire reaches Archambault, he might be smart and throw it away, so what we're backing is a long shot."

O'Brien nodded. "I agree."

“The other thing," Nim continued, "is that Archambault-under whatever name he's using in his hideaway-may not be on our direct billing system. He could be renting a room. In that case someone else would get the electricity and gas bills-and the questionnaire."

"That's a possibility," Van Buren conceded, "though I don't believe it's likely. Think of it from Archambault's point of view. For any hideaway to be effective, it has to be self-contained and private. A rented room wouldn't be. Therefore chances are, he has a house or apartment, the way he did before. Which means separate metering with separate billing. So he would get the questionnaire."

O'Brien nodded again. "Makes sense."

They continued talking for another hour, refining their idea, their interest and eagerness growing.

10

GSP & L's Computer Center, Nim thought, bore a striking resemblance to a movie set of Star Wars.

Everything on the three floors of the company's headquarters building which the center occupied was futuristic, ciinic and functional.

Aesthetic frills which appeared in other departments-decorative furniture, carpets, paintings, draperies-were forbidden here. There were no windows; all light was artificial. Even the air was special, with hilmid1tv controlled and temperature at an even seventy degrees. All who worked in the Computer Center were subject to closed-circuit TV surveillance and no one knew when lie or she was being watched by the utility's equivalent of Big Brother.

Movement of individuals in and out of the center was rigidly controlled. Security guards, operating inside bulletproof glass cubicles, and speaking through microphones, scrutinized every arrival and departure. Their orders allowed them to assume nothing. Not even a known, friendly face which they saw each working day was permitted to pass without an inspection of credentials.

Each person moving through the security area (always singly; more than one at a time was not allowed) was enclosed in an "air lock"-in effect, a small prison, also of bulletproof glass. After entry, a heavy door at the rear clanged shut and was bolted electronically. Another door in front, equally formidable, was opened when a guard was satisfied that all was well. If suspicions were aroused, as sometimes happened, both doors remained closed and locked until reinforcements, or proof of identity, arrived.

No exceptions were made. Even the company's chairman, J. Eric Humphrey, never got in without a temporary visitor's badge and careful scrutiny.

The reason for ultra-precautions was simple. The center housed a priceless treasure trove: A computerized record of eight and a half million GSP&L customers, with their meter readings, billings, and payments-all going back years-plus details of shareholders, employees, company equipment, inventories, technical data, and a multitude of other intelligence. One strategically placed hand grenade in the Computer Center could have wreaked more havoc to the giant utility's system than a wheelbarrow load of high explosive employed against high voltage lines or substations. The center's information was stored on hundreds of magnetic disc packs. There were twenty discs to a pack, and each disc-twice the size of a normal LP recording-contained the records of one hundred thousand customers.

Value of the computers was about thirty million dollars. Value of the recorded information was incalculable.

Nim had come to the Computer Center with Oscar O'Brien, their purpose to observe the dispatch of what was officially a "Consumer Survey" mailing but what, in fact, was the baited trap in which it was hoped to snare the Friends of Freedom leader, Georgos Archambault.

It was Thursday, four days after the Sunday "think group" session in the general counsel's home.

Many hours had been spent since then, working on the questionnaire scheme. Nim and O'Brien had decided eight questions would be posed. The first few were simple. For example:

Does Golden State Power & Light provide you with satisfactory service? Please answer yes or no.

Further on, there was room for more expansive answers.

In what ways do you believe that Golden State Power & Light service could be improved?

And:

Do you have trouble understanding the details on your Golden State Power & Light bills? If so, please tell us your problem.

Finally:

Golden State Power & Light apologizes to its customers for inconeniences as a result of cowardly attacks on company installations by small-time, would-be terrorists who act in ignorance. If there are ways in which you think such attacks could be ended, please give us your views.

As Oscar O'Brien observed, "If that doesn't make Archambault hopping mad, and tempt him into replying, nothing will."

Law enforcement authorities-the city police, FBI, and the District Attorney's office-when informed of GSP&L's idea, had reacted favorably. The D.A.'s office offered help in examining the thousands of questionnaires when they began coming back.

Sharlett Underhill, executive vice president of finance, whose responsibilities included the Computer Center, met Nim and O'Brien after they were checked through Security. Mrs. Underhill, dressed smartly in a light blue tailored suit, told them, "We are running your Consumer Survey now.

All twelve thousand copies should be out of here and in the mail tonight."

"Eleven thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine of the damn things," O'Brien said, "we don't care about. There's just one we're hoping to get back."

"It would cost us a lot less money," the finance chief said tartly, "if you knew which it was."

"If we knew that, my dear Sharlett, we wouldn't be here."

The trio walked deeper into computer country, past rows of softly bumming metal and glass cabinets, stopping beside an IBM 3800 laser printer which was spitting out questionnaires, ready for mailing in window envelopes.

The top of the single page read:

Golden State Power& Light

CONSUMER SURVEY

We would appreciate your answers,

in confidence, to some important questions.

Our objective is to serve you better.

The name and address followed, then a perforation across the entire page. Below the perforation was the instruction:

TO PRESERVE YOUR ANONYMITY

TEAR OFF AND DISCARD THE TOP

PORTION OF THIS FORM.

NO SIGNATURE OR ANY OTHER

IDENTIFICATION IS REQUIRED.

THANK YOU!

A return business-reply envelope, requiring no stamp, would accompany each questionnaire.

Nim asked, "Where is the invisible ink?"

O'Brien chuckled. "You can't see it, meathead. It's invisible."

Sharlett Underhill went closer to the printer and opened the top. Leaning forward, she pointed to a bottle containing a clear, apparently oily liquid; the bottle was inverted and from it a plastic tube ran downward.

"This is a special assembly put on for this job. TI-ie tube feeds a numbering device linked with the computer. The bottom half of each page is being imprinted with the invisible number. At the same time, the computer is recording which number goes to what address."

Mrs. Underhill closed the cover. At the back of the machine she removed one of the completed questionnaires and carried it to a metal desk nearby.

There she switched on a portable light on a small stand. "This is a 'black' light." As she placed the paper under it, the number 3702 leaped out.

"Damned ingenious," O'Brien said. "Okay, so now we have a number. Then what?"

"When you give me the number which requires identifying," Mrs. Underhill informed him, "it will be entered into the computer along with a secret code, known only to two people-one of our trusted senior programmers and me. The computer will immediately tell us the address to which that particular questionnaire was mailed."

Nim pointed out, "We're gambling, of course, that we'll have a number to give you."

Sharlett Underhill fixed the two men with a steely glare. "Whether you do or not, I want you both to understand two things. I was not in favor of what is being done here because I do not like my department's equipment and records used for what is essentially a deceitful purpose. I protested to the chairman, but be seems to feel strongly about what is being done and I was overruled."

"Yes, we know that," O'Brien said. "But for God's sake, Sharlett, this is a special case!"

Mrs. Underhill remained unsmiling. "Please bear me out. When you have given me the number you hope to get-and I will accept one number only-the information you want will be drawn from the computer, using the secret code I mentioned. But, the moment that has happened, the computer will be instructed to forget all the other numbers and related addresses. I want that clearly understood."

"It's understood," the lawyer acknowledged. "And fair enough."

Nim said, "Changing the subject, Sharlett, did your people have trouble defining and separating that seven-square-mile area we specified?"

"None whatever. Our programming method makes it possible to divide and subdivide our customers into many categories and any geographic area." the executive vice president relaxed as she warmed to a subject she clearly enjoyed. "When properly used, a modern computer is a sensitive and flexible tool. It's also totally reliable." She hesitated. "Well, almost totally."

As she spoke the last words, Mrs. Underhill glanced toward another IBM printer, flanked by a table at which two men were seated. They appeared to be checking computer printouts, one by one, by hand.

O'Brien was curious. "What's happening over there?"

For the first time since they had come in, Sharlett Underhill smiled.

"That's our 'VIP anti-goof squad.' Many public utilities have one."

Nim shook his head. "I work here and I've never heard of it."

They strolled to where the work was being done.

"Those are bills," Mrs. Underhill said, "based on latest meter readings, and due to go out tomorrow. What the billing computer does is separate the bills of several hundred people who are on a special list the mayor, supervisors, councilmen in the various cities we serve, senior state officials, Congressmen, newspaper editors and columnists, broadcasters, judges, prominent lawyers-others like that. Then each bill is inspected, as you're seeing now, to make sure there's nothing unusual about it. If there is, it’s sent to another department and double-checked before mailing. That way, we avoid fuss and embarrassment if a computer, or a person who programmed it, does slip up."

They watched the inspection continue, an occasional bill being extracted and put aside, while Sharlett Underhill reminisced.

"We once had a computer print a monthly bill for a city councilman. The computer tripped and added a string of extra zeros. His bill should have been forty-five dollars. Instead, it went to him as four million, five hundred thousand dollars."

They all laughed. Nim asked, "What happened?"

"That's the point. If he'd brought the bill in, or phoned, everyone would have had a good laugh, after which we'd have torn it up and probably given him a credit for his trouble. Instead, he called a press conference. He showed the bill around to prove how incompetent we are at GSP & L, and said it proved we ought to be taken over by the city."

O'Brien shook his head. "I can hardly believe it."

"I assure you it happened," Mrs. Underhill said. "Politicians are the worst people to magnify a simple mistake, even though they make more than most of us. But there are others. Anyway, it was about then we started our own 'VIP anti-goof squad.' I'd heard about it from Con Edison in New York. They have one. Now, whenever we come across anyone important or pompous or both, we add his-or her-name. We even have a few people in this company on the list."

O'Brien conceded, "I can be pompous at times. It's one of my weaknesses."

He pointed to the pile of bills. "Am I in there?"

"Oscar," Sharlett Underhill told him as she led the way out, "that is something you will never know."

11

Ruth Goldman was in New York.

She had gone to begin treatments at the Sloan-Kettering Institute and would be away two weeks. Other trips would be necessary later.

The decision had been taken by Dr. Levin after studying the test results from Ruth's previous visit and discussing them by telephone with the New York doctors. He told Nim and Ruth together, I can't make promises; no one can, and nothing is definite. But I'll go so far as to say that I, and the Sloan-Kettering people, are cautiously optimistic." That was as much as they could get from him.

Nim had taken Ruth to the airport early yesterday morning for an American Airlines non-stop flight. They had said an emotional goodbye.

"I love you," he declared just before Ruth boarded. "I'll miss you, and I'll be doing whatever's the equivalent of praying."

She had laughed then, and kissed him once more. "It's a strange thing," She had said, "but even with all this, I've never been happier."

In New York, Ruth was staying with friends and would attend the Institute several days a week as an outpatient.

Leah and Benjy had again gone to stay with their grandparents. This time, because relationships between Nim and the Neubergers were now cordial, Nim had promised to go over for dinner occasionally, to be with the children.

Nim had also-in fulfillment of an earlier promise-arranged to take Karen Sloan to the symphony.

He had received, several days ago, one of Karen's notes which read:

Days come, days go.

On some you are in the news

With Begin, Sadat, Schmidt, Brezhnev, Carter,

Giscard d'Estaing and Bishop Muzorewa.

But of them all, one Nimrod Goldman

Merits my front page.

It is good to read of you,

But better still

To see, and hear, be touched, and share,

And personally love.

He had sighed on reading it because he genuinely wanted to see Karen, then had thought guiltily: Any complications in his personal life were of his own making. Since the memorable evening when he and Karen made love, he had dropped in to see her twice during the daytime, but the visits were brief and hurried, with Nim on the way from somewhere to somewhere else. He knew that Karen craved a longer time together, with more intimacy.

Ruth's absence seemed an opportunity to be with Karen in a more satisfying way, and going to the symphony, instead of spending the evening in her home, was a compromise with his conscience.

* * *

When he arrived at Karen's apartment, she was ready, wearing a becoming dark red dress and a single strand of pearls. Her long blonde hair, brushed and gleaming, fell about her shoulders. The wide mouth and soft blue eyes smiled a warm greeting. The nails of her long fingers, which rested on a lapboard, were manicured and shining.

As they kissed, letting their closeness linger sweetly, Nim felt his desire for Karen, which had only been dormant, unmistakably revive. He felt relieved they were going out.

A minute or two later, after Josie had come in and was busy disconnecting the wheelchair from a power outlet so it could become more mobile, Karen said, "Nimrod, you've been tinder strain. It shows."

" A few things have happened," he admitted. "Some you've read about. But tonight there's only you and me and the music."

"And me," Josie said, coming around to the front of the whcelchair. The aide-housekeeper beamed at Nim, who was clearly one of her favorites. "But all I'm doing is driving you both. If you'll come down with Karen in a few minutes, Mr. Goldman, I'll go ahead and bring Huniperdinck around."

Nim laughed. "Ah, Humperdinck!" He asked Karen, "How is your van with a personality?"

"Still wonderful, but"-her face clouded-"what I worry about is my father."

"In what way?"

She shook her head. "Let's leave it now. Perhaps I'll tell you later."

As usual, Nim marveled at the dexterity with which Karen, using only her sip-blow tube, piloted her chair out of the apartment, along a corridor, and toward the elevator.

On the way he-asked, "How long does the battery last for?"

She smiled. "Tonight I'm fully charged. So, using the battery for thechair and my respirator, probably four hours. After that, I'll need to plug in again to dear old GSP & L."

It fascinated him how tenuous was Karen's hold on life, and that electricity kept her living.

"Speaking of GSP & L," she said, "how are your problems?"

"Oh, we always have a new assortment. They sprout like weeds."

"No, seriously. I want to know."

"Well, suddenly, oil is our biggest worry," be told her. "Did you hear that the latest talks between OPEC and the United States broke down today?"

"It was on the radio before you came. The oil exporting countries say they won't take anymore paper money. Only gold."

“They've threatened that several times." Nim was remembering his conversation with Eric Humphrey and Mr. Justice Yale shortly before Christmas. Then the oil situation had been worrisome; now, in March, it was gravely critical. He added, "This time it looks as if they mean it."

Karen asked, "If imported oil stops coming, how had will things be?"

"Far worse than most people believe. More than half the oil America uses is imported, and eighty-five percent of that comes from OPEC countries."

He went on, "Even now, though, an oil shortage is being thought about mainly in terms of cars and gasoline, not electricity."

Nim reflected again, as He had on the way over tonight: the most dramatic confrontation yet with the OPEC oil nations, with a potential far more devastating than the Arab embargo Of 1973-74, had happened abruptly within the past forty-eight hours. It was a possibility that everyone had known about but comparatively few took seriously. The eternal optimists, including some in high places, were still hoping a final showdown could be avoided, that one way or another the Niagara of imported oil would keep on flowing. Nim didn't share their belief.

A thought occurred to him concerning Karen. Before he could express it they came to the elevator and the doors opened.

Already inside, the only other occupants, were two small children-a boy and a girl, cheerful and fresh-faced, their ages probably nine and ten.

"Hi, Karen!" they both said as the wheelchair, followed by Nim, moved in.

"Hello, Philip and Wendy," Karen said. "Are you going out?"

The boy answered. "No. Just downstairs to play." He looked at Nim. "Who's he?"

"My date. This is Mr. Goldman." She told Nim, “These are two of my neighbors and friends."

As the elevator descended, they all said hello.

"Karen," the small boy asked, "can I touch your hand?"

"Of course."

He did so, moving his fingertips gently, then asked, "Can you feel that?"

"Yes, Philip," she told him. "You have gentle hands." He seemed interested and pleased.

Not wanting to be outdone, the girl inquired, "Karen, do you want your legs changed?"

"Well . . . all right."

Carefully, apparently knowing what to do, the girl lifted Karen's right leg until it was crossed over the left.

"Thank you, Wendy."

In the downstairs lobby the children said goodbye and ran off.

"That was beautiful," Nim said.

"I know." Karen smiled warmly. "Children are so natural. They're not afraid, or mixed up, the way adults are. When I first came here to live, the children in the building would ask me questions like, 'What's the matter with you?' or 'Why can't you walk?' and when their parents heard that, they would tell them 'Shush!' It took a while, but I got them all to understand I don't mind the questions, in fact welcome them. But there are still some adults who can never be comfortable. When they see me, they look the other way."

Outside the apartment front door, Josie was waiting with the van. It was a Ford, painted a pleasant light green; a wide sliding door on the near side was already open. Karen maneuvered her wheelchair so it was facing the door and a few feet away.

"If you watch," she told Nim, "you'll see what your Mr. Paulsen did to help me get into Humperdinck."

While Karen was speaking, Josie lifted down two lengths of steel channel from the van's interior. Attaching both pieces of channel to fittings at the base of the doorway, she lowered the other ends to the ground.

Between the van's interior and the ground there was now a double ramp, the width matching the wheels on Karen's chair.

Now Josie stepped inside the van and reached for a hook on a steel cable; the cable was attached to an electric winch on the far side. She brought the hook to the wheelchair, snapped it through a steel eye, then returned to the winch. Josie touched a switch and held it down.

"Here we go!" Karen said. With her words, the wheelchair was pulled smoothly up the ramp. Once inside, Josie swung the chair around, the wheels slipping neatly into two recesses in the floor, where bolts secured them.

Josie, grinning, told Nim, "You ride up front, Mr. Goldman. With the chauffeur."

As they eased out of the apartment house forecourt into traffic, Nim turned around in the front seat to talk with Karen. He returned to what he had been about to say when they reached the elevator.

"If we do have a serious oil shortage, almost certainly there will be rolling blackouts. You know what those are?"

Karen nodded. "I think so. It means electric power will be off in different places for hours at a time."

"Yes, most likely three hours every day to begin with, then for longer periods if things get worse. If it happens, though, I'll make sure you get warning in advance, then you'll have to go to a hospital with its own generator."

"Redwood Grove," Karen said. "That's where Josie and I went the night those Friends of Freedom people blew up the substations and we had a power failure."

"Tomorrow," Nim told her, "I'm going to find out how good their generator is at Redwood Grove. Sometimes those standbys aren't worth a damn because they're not given proper service. When New York had its big blackouts, some of them wouldn't even start."

"I'm not going to worry," Karen said. "Not with you looking out for me, Nimrod."

Josie was a careful driver and Nim relaxed during the journey to the Palace of Arts, where the city's symphony orchestra performed. At the Palace's main entrance, while Josie was unloading Karen's wheelchair, help arrived in the form of a uniformed attendant who promptly whisked Karen and Nim through a side door and into an elevator which carried them to the grand tier. There they had front row space in a box, and a movable ramp eased the way for Karen. It was obvious that the Palace of Arts was used to wheelchair users among its patrons.

When they had settled down, and looking around her, Karen said, "This is special treatment, Nimrod. How did you manage it?"

"Dear old GSP & L, as you call it, has some influence."

It was Teresa Van Buren who, at Nim's request, arranged box seats and the facilities for Karen. When he had offered to pay, Tess told him, "Forget it! There are a few executive perks left. Enjoy them while they last."

Nim held a program for Karen to see but, after a moment, she shook her head. "I'll enjoy listening, but I always think music criticism and program notes are written by people trying to prove bow clever they are."

He chuckled. "I agree."

As the house lights dimmed and the conductor ascended the podium amid applause, Karen said softly, "Nimrod, things are different between us, aren't they?"

He was taken aback by her perception but had no time to answer before the music began.

The program was heavily Brahms. Variations on a theme by Haydn first.

Immediately after: Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major: the superb soloist was Eugene Istomin. The piano concerto was among Nim's favorites and, judging by her rapt attention, Karen's too. During the third movement with its moving, haunting cello melody, he reached out, putting a hand over one of Karen's. As she turned her head, he saw her eyes were wet with tears.

At last the music finished to sustained applause in which Nim joined

"Please! For both of us," Karen urged him-and house lights went up for the intermission.

While others left their seats to promenade, Nim and Karen remained where they were. Both were briefly silent, then she said, "If you like, you can answer my question now."

He had no need to ask which question and, sighing, said, "I suppose nothing ever stays the same."

"We're foolish if we expect it to," Karen acknowledged, "and I want you to know I never did. Oh, it's nice to dream sometimes, to long for the impossible and want everything good to last, but one thing I've learned is to be a realist. Be honest with me, Nimrod. What happened? What changed between last time and now?"

It was then he told her, Told her about Ruth, the invading malignancy which threatened her life, and how-because of it-she and Nim had found their way again, which for a while they had lost.

Karen listened in silence. Then she said, "I knew the moment I saw you tonight that there was something different, something important and personal. Now that I know why, I'm glad for you in one way, and sad-of course-in another, especially for your wife."

"We may get lucky," he said.

"I hope so. Some people do."

The orchestra was filing in for the concert's second half. Others in the audience were resuming their seats.

Karen said quietly, "We mustn't be lovers aw more, you and me. It wouldn't be fair, or right. But I hope we'll go on being friends, and that sometimes I'll see you."

He touched her hand again, and managed to say, "Friends, always," before the music started.

* * *

On the homeward journey they were quieter than when they came.

Josie, too, seemed to sense the change, and said little. She had met them outside with Humperdinck, having been to visit friends while Nim and Karen were in the Palace of Arts.

After a while, again turning around in the front seat to face Karen, Nim said, "Earlier on, you told me you were worried about your father. You didn't want to talk about it. Do you now?"

"I don't mind," Karen said. "Except there isn't a lot to tell. I do know Daddy is in some kind of trouble-financial, I think; he's dropped hints, but won't tell me exactly what. It does mean, though, I won't have Humperdinck much longer."

Nim was shocked. "Why?"

“The monthly payments are too much for my parents. I think I told you Daddy's bank wouldn't lend the money, so he went to a finance company and the interest rate was higher. I suppose that, and business things, have crowded in."

"Look," Nim said, "I'd like to help .

"No! I said once before I won't ever take money from you, Nimrod, and I meant it. You have your own family to look after. Besides, much as I love Humperdinck, I managed without a van before and can do so again. It's Daddy I'm concerned about."

"I really wish," Nim told her, "there were something I could do."

"Stay my friend, Nimrod. It's all I ask."

They said good night-with a gentle kiss, not passionate anymore outside Karen's apartment building. At her suggestion, because she said she was tired, he did not go up, but walked sadly to his car, parked a block away.

12

In the last week of March, the dramatic, suddenly-erupting oil crisis overshadowed all else, dominating national and international news.

"It's like imminent war," someone observed at a GSP & L management committee meeting. "You keep thinking it won't happen, so that everything's unreal until the guns start firing."

There was nothing unreal about the OPEC nations' unanimous decision. Members of OPEC-the Arab countries and Iran, Venezuela, Indonesia, Nigeria-bad decreed a few days earlier: After tankers on the high seas and in United States ports had off-loaded their cargoes, no more oil would be dispatched to the U.S. until the dispute over payment had been resolved.

The OPEC nations claimed to have ample dollar reserves with which to sit out their embargo, reserves far greater, they pointed out, than U.S. stockpiles of oil.

"Unfortunately, too goddam true," a travel-weary Secretary of State snapped at Washington reporters in an undiplomatic, unguarded moment.

Within Golden State Power & Light, as elsewhere throughout the country, urgent policy decisions were being made. In GSP & L's bailiwick the question was no longer "if" there would be widespread temporary blackouts, but "bow soon" and to what extent.

The two previous years of drought in California and the light winter snowfall in the Sierra Nevada were compounding the problem because hydroelectric reserves were significantly less than usual. Nim, whose role as vice president, planning, placed him at the center of activity, became engaged in a hectic succession of conferences, their purpose to review emergency plans and decide priorities. Meanwhile, some national and state priorities had already been decreed. The President ordered immediate gasoline rationing, and a standby coupon scheme already "on the shelf" was to be activated within days.

Additionally, all sales of gasoline were forbidden from Friday nights to Monday mornings.

Also emanating from Washington was an edict halting all major sporting events and other attractions which produced large crowds, and closing national parks. The objective was to reduce unnecessary travel, especially by automobile. Theaters and movie houses, it was stated, might have to be closed later.

All public utilities using oil were ordered to begin around-the-clock "brownouts" by reducing their voltages five percent.

Public utilities which produced electricity by burning coal-principally in the central United States-were instructed to transmit as much power as they could spare to the East and West Coasts, which would be hardest hit by the oil embargo, and where massive umemployment was expected because of power-short plants and businesses. The scheme was labeled "Coal by Wire." However, its effect would be limited, in part because the central U.S. needed most of its electricity for local use, and also because long distance transmission lines were few in number.

Schools in many areas were being ordered to close now, and reopen in the summer when their heating and lighting needs would be far less.

Curbs on air travel were being worked out and would shortly be announced.

More drastic steps, the public was warned-including three- or even four-day weekends-were likely if the oil situation failed to improve.

Accompanying all official measures were pleas for voluntary conservation of energy in all its forms.

At Golden State Power & Light, every discussion was overshadowed by the knowledge that the utility's own stored oil was sufficient for only thirty days of normal operation.

Since some new oil, from tankers now en route, would still be coming in, it was decided that "rolling blackouts" would be delayed until the second week of May. Then, initially, the electricity cutoffs would be for three hours each day, after which more draconian measures might be needed.

But even the earliest power cuts, it was realized, would be disruptive, and damaging to the state's economy. Nim knew bow grim the situation was; so did others directly intervened. But the general public, Nim believed, had still not grasped, or perhaps didn't want to, the full significance of what was happening.

As well as Nim's planning duties, and because of his reinstatement as company spokesman, he was in demand to explain the current scene and outlook.

He found the two responsibilities a strain and told Teresa Van Buren,

"Okay, I'll handle the important occasions for you, but you'll have to use your own people for the small stuff." She said she would. Next day the PR director appeared in Nim's office. “There's a midday TV program called Lunch Break."

“You may not believe this, Tess," he said, "but I never watch it."

"Yeah, yeah; very funny. Well, don't be too quick to dismiss daytime television. There are a million housewives out there who do watch, and tomorrow the program wants the electricity crisis explained."

"By me, I suppose."

"Naturally," Van Buren said. "Who does it better?"

Nim grinned. "Okay, but do something for me. All TV stations specialize in time wasting. They ask you to be there early, then keep you waiting forever to go on. You know how busy I am so, for once, try to arrange a fast-in, fast-out."

"I'll come with you myself," Van Buren said. "And I'll work it out. I promise."

As it turned out, the promise was not fulfilled.

Lunch Break was a one-hour show which went on the air at noon. The PR director and Nim arrived at the TV studios at 11:50- In the foyer a young woman program assistant met them; like so many who worked in television, she dressed and looked as if she graduated from high school the week before. She carried the standard badge of office-a clipboard-and wore her glasses in her hair.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Goldman. You'll be on last, at ten to one."

"Hey, hold it!" Van Buren protested. "I was assured Mr. Goldman would be at the top of the show. He's one of our senior executives and his time is valuable, especially now."

"I know." the program assistant smiled sweetly. "But the producer changed his mind. Mr. Goldman's subject is rather heavy. It might depress our audience."

“They should be depressed," Nim said.

"If they are, and then switch off, our program will be over anyway," the young woman said firmly. "Perhaps you'd like to come on the set while you're waiting. Then you can watch the rest of the show."

Van Buren looked at Nim, putting up her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Resigned, knowing how much urgent work he could have accomplished in the wasted hour, he told her, "Okay."

The program assistant, who had played the same scene many times, said, "Come with me, please."

The studio set, colorful and brightly lighted, was intended to look like a living room. Its centerpiece was a bright orange sofa occupied by two regular interviewers-Jerry and jean-young, vivacious, turned-on, Beautiful People. Three TV cameras prowled in front in a semicircle. Guests would join the interviewers under the bright lights, one by one.

The show's first ten minutes was devoted to a dancing bear from a visiting circus, the second to a seventy-year-old grandmother who had traveled from Chicago on roller skates. "I wore out five pairs," she boasted, "and would have been here sooner, except the police wouldn't let me use interstate highways."

Immediately preceding Nim was Lunch Break's own "House Doctor."

"He's on every day and has a tremendous following," the program assistant confided in a whisper. "People tune in especially, which is why, when you follow him, they'll be listening to you."

The doctor, in his fifties, graying and distinguished, was a solid performer who knew every trick in television's manual, including how to smile disarmingly, when to act the fatherly physician, and at what point to use a simplistic diagram of a stomach. "My subject today," be informed his unseen audience, "is constipation."

Nim watched and listened, fascinated.

“ . . Many people worry needlessly. What not to do is take laxatives. Millions of dollars' worth are sold each year-a waste; many are damaging to your health . . . Most constipation is 'imagined.' A daily bowel movement can be a needless fetish . . . Let your natural cycle have its way. For some, five to seven days without is normal. Be patient, wait . . . A real problem: Some folks don't heed the call of nature immediately. They're busy, they postpone. That's bad. The bowel gets discouraged, tired of trying . . . Eat high roughage food, drink lots of water to stay moist . .."

Van Buren leaned across. "Oh God, Nim! I'm sorry."

He assured her softly, "Don't be. Wouldn't have missed it. I only hope I'm not an anticlimax."

The doctor was faded out, a commercial in. The program assistant took Nini's arm. "You're on, Mr. Goldman." She escorted him to the center of the set, where he was seated. While the commercial continued, Nim and the interviewers shook hands. Jerry, frowning,- cautioned him “Were running late, and don’t have much time, so keep your answers short." He accepted a sheet of notes from a stagehand, then, as if a switch had been snapped, his smile went on and he turned toward a camera.

"Our last guest today knows a great deal about electricity and oil. He is....."

After the introduction, Jean asked Nim brightly, "Are we really going to have electricity cuts, or is it just another scare, something which in the end won't happen?"

"It's no scare, and it will happen." (You want short answers, Nim thought; so, okay.)

Jerry was consulting the sheet be had been given. "About that alleged oil shortage . . ."

Nim cut in quickly. "It is not alleged."

The interviewer's smile widened. "We'll let you get away with that one." He went back to his notes. "Anyway, haven't we had a glut of oil recently in California-oil coming in from Alaska, from the pipeline?"

“There have been some temporary local surpluses," Nim agreed. "But now, with the rest of the country desperately in need of oil, any extra will disappear fast."

"It seems selfish," Jean said, "but can't we keep that Alaska oil in California?"

"No." Nim shook his head. “The federal government controls it, and already has an allocation program. Every state, every city in the country, is pressuring Washington, demanding a share. There won't be much for anyone when the available domestic oil is spread around."

"I understand," Jerry said, referring to his notes once more, "that Golden State Power has a thirty-day supply of oil. That doesn't sound too bad."

“The figure is true in one sense," Nim acknowledged, "but misleading in another. For one thing, it's impossible to use oil down to the bottom of every tank. For another, the oil isn't always where it's needed most; one generating plant may be without oil, another have enough in storage for several days, and the facilities to move big quantities of oil around are limited. For both reasons, twenty-five days is more realistic."

"Well," Jerry said, "let's hope everything is back to normal before those days run out."

Nim told him, “There's not the slightest chance of that. Even if agreement is reached with the OPEC oil nations, it will take . . ."

"Excuse me," Jean said, "but we're short of time and I have another question, Mr. Goldman. Couldn't your company have foreseen what has happened about oil and made other plans?"

The effrontery, the injustice, the incredible naivety of the question astounded Nim. Then anger rose. Subduing it, he answered, "Golden State Power & Light has been attempting to do precisely that for at least ten years. But everything our company proposed-nuclear plants, geothermal, pumped storage, coal burning-bas been opposed, delayed or thwarted by. . ."

"I'm truly sorry," Jerry interrupted, "but we just ran out of time. Thank you, Mr. Goldman, for being with us." He addressed a zooming lens. "Among the interesting guests on Lunch Break tomorrow will be an Indian swami and . . ."

On their way out of the TV station building, Teresa Van Buren said dispiritedly to Nim, "Even now, no one believes us, do they?"

“They'll believe soon enough," Nim said. "When they all keep flipping switches and nothing happens."

* * *

While preparations for widespread blackouts went ahead, and a sense of crisis peryaded GSP & L, incongruities persisted.

One was the Energy Commission hearings on Tunipah which continued, unchanged, at their original maddening pace.

"A stranger from Mars, using commonsense," Oscar O'Brien observed during lunch with Nim and Eric Humphrey, "would assume, in view of our present power emergency, that licensing procedures for projects like Tunipah, Fincastle, and Devil's Gate would move faster. Well, Mr. Commonsense Mars would be dead wrong."

The general counsel moodily ate some of his lunch, then continued, "When you're in there at those hearings, listening to testimony and the same old rehashed arguments about procedure, you'd think no one knows or cares what's going on in the real world outside. Oh, by the way, we have a new group fighting us on Tunipah. They call themselves CANED, which, if I remember it right, means Crusaders Against Needless Energy Development.

And compared with CANED's accusations about Golden State Power & Light, Davey Birdsong was a friend and ally."

"Opposition is a hydra-headed monster," Eric Humphrey mused, then added, “The Governor's support of Tunipah seems to have made little, if any, difference."

"That's because bureaucracy is stronger than governors, presidents, or any of us," O'Brien said. "Fighting bureaucracy nowadays is like wrestling a sea of mud while you're in it up to your armpits. I'll make a prediction: When the blackouts hit the Energy Commission building, the hearings on Tunipah will continue by candlelight-with nothing else changed."

As to the Fincastle geothermal, and Devil's Gate pumped storage plant proposals, the general counsel reported that dates to begin public hearings had still had not been set by the responsible state agencies.

Oscar O'Brien's general disenchantment, as well as Nim's, extended to the bogus Consumer Survey distributed in the city's North Castle district. It was almost three weeks since the carefully planned questionnaire had gone out and it now appeared as if the attempt to entrap the terrorist leader, Georgos Archambault, had been abortive, a waste of time and money.

Within a few days after the bulk mailing, hundreds of replies poured in, and continued to do so through the following weeks. A large basement room at GSP & L headquarters was set aside to deal with the influx and a staff of eight clerks installed there. Six were borrowed from various departments, the other two recruited from the District Attorney's office.

Between them, they painstakingly examined every completed questionnaire.

The D.A.'s office also sent photographic blowups of handwriting samples from Georgos Archambault's journal, and the clerks worked with these in view. To guard against error, each questionnaire was examined separately by three people. The result was definite: Nothing had come in which matched the handwriting samples. Now, the special staff was down to two, the remainder having returned to their regular duties. A few replies were still trickling in and being routinely examined. But it seemed unlikely, at this stage, that Georgos Archambault would be heard from. To Nim, in any case, the project had become a lot less important than the critical oil supply problem which occupied his working days and nights.

It was during a late evening work session about oil-a meeting in Nim's office with the company's Director of Fuel Supply, the Chief of Load Forecasting and two other department beads-that be received a telephone call having nothing to do with the subject under discussion, but which disturbed him greatly.

Victoria Davis, Nim's secretary, was also working late and buzzed from outside while the meeting was in progress.

Annoyed at the interruption, Nim picked up the telephone and answered curtly, "Yes?"

"Miss Karen Sloan is calling on line one," Vicki informed him. "I wouldn't have disturbed you, but she insisted it was important."

"Tell her . . ." Nim was about to say he would return the call later, or in the morning, then changed his mind. "Okay, I'll take it."

With an "Excuse me" to the others, he depressed a lighted button on the telephone. "Hello, Karen."

"Nimrod," Karen said without preliminaries, her voice sounding strained, "my father is in serious trouble. I'm calling to see if you can help."

"What kind of trouble?" Nim remembered that the night be and Karen went to the symphony she had said much the same thing, but without being specific.

"I made my mother tell me. Daddy wouldn't." Karen stopped; he sensed she was making an effort to regain composure, then she went on, "You know that my father has a small plumbing business."

"Yes." Nim recalled that Luther Sloan had talked about his business the day they all met in Karen's apartment. It was the day on which both parents later confided in Nim their burden of guilt about their quadriplegic daughter.

"Well," Karen said, "Daddy has been questioned several times by people from your company, Nimrod, and now by police detectives."

"Questioned about what?"

Again Karen hesitated before answering. "According to Mother, Daddy has been doing quite a lot of subcontracting for a company called Quayle Electrical and Gas. The work was on gas lines, something to do with lines going to meters."

Nim told her, "Tell me that company's name again."

"It's Quayle.' Does that mean something to you?"

"Yes, it means something," Nim said slowly as he thought: It looked, almost certainly, as if Luther Sloan was into theft of gas. Though Karen didn't know it, her phrase "lines going to meters" was a giveaway. That and the reference to Quayle Electrical and Gas Contracting, the big-scale power thieves already exposed and still being investigated by Harry London. What was it Harry reported only recently? “There's a bunch of new cases, as well as others developing from the Quayle inquiry." It sounded to Nim as if Luther Sloan might be among the "others."

The sudden news, the realization of what it implied, depressed him.

Assuming his guess to be correct, why had Karen's father done it? Probably for the usual reason, Nim thought: Money. Then it occurred to him that he could probably guess, too, what the money had been used for.

"Karen," he said, "if this is what I think, it is serious for your father and I'm not sure there's anything I'll be able to do." He was conscious of his subordinates in the room, waiting while he talked, trying to appear as if they were not listening.

"In any event, there's nothing I can do tonight," Nim said into the telephone. "But in the morning I'll find out what I can, then call you."

Realizing he might have sounded unusually formal, he went on to explain about the meeting in his office.

Karen was contrite. "Oh, I'm sorry, Nimrod! I shouldn't have bothered you."

"No," be assured her. "You can bother me anytime. And I'll do what I can tomorrow,"

As the discussion on oil supplies resumed, Nim attempted to concentrate on what was being said, but several times his thoughts wandered. He asked himself silently: Was life, which had thrown so many foul balls at Karen, in the process of delivering still one more?

13

Again and again, sometimes while sleeping, sometimes while awake, a memory haunted Georgos Winslow Archambault.

It was a memory from a long-ago summer's day in Minnesota, soon after Georgos' tenth birthday, During school holidays he I-lad gone to stay with a farming family-he had forgotten exactly why or bow-and a young son of the house and Georgos had gone ratting in an old barn. They killed several rats cruelly, using rakes with sharp prongs to spear them, and then one large rat became cornered. Georgos remembered the creature's gleaming, beady eyes as the two boys closed in. Then, in desperation, the rat sprang, leaping, sinking its teeth into the other boy's hand. The boy screamed. But the rat survived only seconds because Georgos swung his rake, knocking the creature to the floor, then slammed the prongs through its body.

For some reason, though, Georgos always remembered that rat's defiant gesture before its inevitable end. Now, in his North Castle hideaway, be felt a kinship with the rat.

It was almost eight weeks since Georgos had gone into hiding. In retrospect, the length of time surprised him. He had not expected to survive so long, especially after the outpouring of publicity, about himself and Friends of Freedom, which followed the Christopher Columbus Hotel bombing. Descriptions of Georgos had been widely circulated, and photos of him, found in the Crocker Street house, appeared in newspapers and on TV. He knew, from news reports, that a massive manhunt with himself as the objective had been mounted in the North Castle district and elsewhere. Daily since going underground Georgos had expected to be discovered, the apartment hideaway surrounded and invaded.

It hadn't happened.

At first, as the hours and days went by, Georgos' principal emotion was relief. Then, as the days extended into weeks, he began wondering if a rebirth of Friends of Freedom might be possible. Could be recruit more followers to replace the dead Wayde, Ute and Felix? Could be obtain money, locate an outside liaison who would become another Birdsong? Could they resume, once more, Georgos' war against the hated establishment enemy?

He had considered the idea, wistfully and dreamily, for several days. Then, facing the hardness of reality, he reluctantly abandoned it. There was no way. No way a revival of Friends of Freedom could happen and no way, either, that Georgos could survive. The past seven plus weeks had been an unexpected brief reprieve, a postponement of the inevitable; that was all.

Georgos knew he was near the end of the line.

He was being hunted by every law enforcement agency and would continue to be for as long as he lived. His name and face were known; his chemically stained hands had been described; it was only a matter of time before someone, somewhere, recognized him. He was without resources or help, there was nowhere else to go, and-most critical of all -the money he had brought with him to the hideaway was almost gone. Therefore, capture was unavoidable-unless Georgos chose to anticipate it by ending his life defiantly, in his own way.

He intended to do exactly that.

Like the rat he remembered from his boyhood, he would make one last fighting gesture and, if necessary, die as he had lived, doing harm to the system he hated. Georgos had decided: He would blow up a critical part of a GSP & L generating station. There was a way it could be done to cause maximum effect and his plans were taking shape.

They were based on an attack be had intended to make-aided by other freedom fighters-before Davey Birdsong's idea of bombing the NEI convention intervened. Now Georgos was reviving the original plan, though he would have to execute it alone. He had already moved part way toward his objective by a daring risk he had taken on the same day he went into biding. The first thing Georgos realized that day, on reviewing his situation, was the need for transportation. He had to have wheels. He had abandoned the red "Fire Protection Service" truck because he could not have used it without being recognized, but a substitute was essential. To buy a vehicle of any kind was out of the question. For one thing, it was too risky. For another, he had insufficient money because the bulk of the Friends of Freedom cash reserve had been in the Crocker Street house. So the only possibility, Georgos reasoned, was to retrieve his Volkswagen van, which might, or might not, have been discovered by the pigs and be under surveillance.

He had kept the van in a privately owned parking garage not far from Crocker Street. Aware of the risk he was taking, gambling on being ahead of the police, Georgos walked to the parking garage the same morning, using side streets as much as he could. He arrived without incident, paid the garage owner what was owing, then drove the van away. No one questioned him, nor was he stopped on his way back to North Castle. By midmorning the Volkswagen was safely inside the locked garage adjoining the hideaway apartment. Emboldened by his success, Georgos ventured out again later, after dark, to buy groceries and a late edition of the California Examiner. From the newspaper he learned that a reporter named Nancy Molineaux had provided a description of his Volkswagen van and that police were searching for it. The next day's paper carried a further report on the same subject, disclosing that the parking garage had been visited by police only a half hour after Georgos left.

Knowing that a description of his van had been circulated, Georgos refrained from using it. Now he would use it only once-for what might be his final mission.

There were several other reasons why retrieving the VW had been important.

One was a secret compartment under the van's floor. In it, carefully packed in foam rubber to prevent vibration, were a dozen cylindrical bombs, each containing Tovex water-gel explosive and a timing mechanism.

Also in the van was a small, inflatable rubber dinghy, in a tight package, just as Georgos had bought it at a sporting goods store a month or so earlier, and scuba diving gear, most of it purchased at the same time.

All the items were essential to the daring attack he now proposed.

In the days which followed his recovery of the van, Georgos left the apartment occasionally, but only after dark and, when he had to buy food, was careful never to use the same store twice. He also wore light gloves to conceal his hands and, in an attempt to change his appearance slightly, had shaved off his moustache.

The newspaper reports about Friends of Freedom and the hotel bombing were important to him, not only because he liked to read about himself, but because they provided clues as to what the police and FBI were doing, the abandoned "Fire Prevention Service" truck, found in North Castle, was mentioned several times, but there was also speculation that Georgos had somehow managed to slip out of the city and was now in the East. One report claimed he had been seen in Cincinnati. Good! Anything which drewhattention away from where he actually was was welcome and helpful.

On reading the Examiner that first day, he had been surprised to discover how much was known about his own activities by the reporter Nancy Molineaux. Then, as Georgos read on, he realized it was Yvette who had somehow learned of his plans and had betrayed him. Without that betrayal, the Battle of the Christopher Columbus Hotel (as lie now thought of it) would have been a magnificent victory for Friends of Freedom instead of the inglorious rout it had become.

Georgos ought to have hated Yvette for that. Somehow, though, either then or later, be couldn't manage it. Instead, with a weakness of which he was ashamed, he pitied her and the manner of her death (as described by the newspaper) on Lonely Hill.

Incredibly, he missed Yvette more than he would have believed possible. Perhaps, Georgos thought, because his own time was running out, he was becoming maudlin and foolish. If so, he was relieved that none of his fellow revolutionaries would ever know about it. Something else the newspapers had done was dig deeply into Georgos' personal history. An enterprising reporter, who tracked down the record of Georges' birth in New York City, learned he was the illegitimate son of a onctime Greek movie goddess and a wealthy American playboy named Winslow, the grandson of an auto industry pioneer.

Piece by piece, it all came out.

The movie goddess hadn't wanted to admit having a child, fearing it would destroy her youthful image. The playboy hadn't cared about anything except avoiding entanglements and responsibility.

Georgos was therefore kept well out of sight and, during various stages of his childhood, assigned to successive sets of foster-parents, none of whom be liked. The name Archambault came from a branch of his mother's family.

By the age of nine, Georgos had met his father once, his mother a total of three times. After that be saw neither. As a child he wanted, with a fierce determination, to know his parents, but they were equally determined-for differing, selfish reasons-not to know him.

In retrospect, Georges' mother appeared to have possessed more conscience than his father. She, at least, sent substantial sums of money to Georgos through an Athens law firm, money which permitted hirn to attend Yale and obtain a Ph.D., and later finance Friends of Freedom.

The former movie actress, now far removed from a goddess in appearance, professed to be shocked when informed by news reporters of the use to which some of her money had been put. Paradoxically, though, she seemed to enjoy the attention Georgos now brought her, perhaps because she was living in obscurity, in a grubby apartment outside Athens and drinking heavily. She had also been ill, though she would not discuss the nature of her ailment.

When Georgos' activities were described to her in detail, she responded, "That is not a son, it is an evil animal."

However when asked by a woman reporter if she did not believe her own neglect of Georgos had been largely responsible for what he had become, the ex-actress spat in the questioner's face.

In Manhattan, the aging-playboy father of Georgos dodged the press for several days. Then, when discovered by a reporter in a Fifty-ninth Street bar, he at first denied any intervenement with the Greek movie star, including having sired her child. Finally, when documentary proof of his fatherhood was shown to him, he shrugged and delivered the statement: "My advice to the cops is to shoot the bastard on sight-to kill."

Georgos, in due course, read both comments by his parents. Neither surprised him, but they intensified his hatred of almost everything. So now, in the final week of April, Georgos concluded that the time was near for action. On the one hand, he reasoned, he could not hope to remain in hiding, undetected, much longer-only two nights ago, when shopping for food at a small supermarket, he caught sight of another customer, a man, looking at him with what seemed more than casual curiosity; Georgos left the place hastily. On the other hand, the initial impact of all the publicity, and circulation of his photograph, should have moderated by now, at least a little.

The plan which Georgos had worked out was to blow up the huge cooling water pumps at the La Mission generating plant, the same plant where-nearly a year ago, and disguised as a Salvation Army officer-he placed a bomb which damaged the generator the newspapers called Big Lil.

He had learned about those pumps while studying textbooks on power generation to determine where GSP & L would be most vulnerable; be also visited the Engineering School of the University of California at Berkeley, where technical drawings of La Mission, and other plants, were available for anyone to inspect.

Georgos knew-again being realistic-that there wasn't a chance of getting inside the main building at La Mission, as he had succeeded in doing before. It was now too well guarded.

But with resourcefulness, and some luck, he could get to the pump house.

The eleven massive, powerful pumps there were essential to the operation of five generating units, including Big Lil. In destroying them he would knock out the entire generating station for months.

It would be like severing a lifeline.

The best approach was from the Coyote River. La Mission was built directly on the riverbank, enabling the plant to draw water for cooling and return it to the river afterward. Getting to the river side of the plant was where the rubber dinghy would come in. After that, Georgos would make use of the scuba diving gear, at which he was expert, having learned underwater demolition during his revolutionary training in Cuba.

Georgos had studied maps and knew he could drive to within a half mile of La Mission and launch the dinghy at a deserted spot. From there the current would help him get downstream. Getting back to the van, and escaping, would be more of a problem, but that aspect he deliberately ignored.

He would enter the pump house underwater, through a metal grating and two wire mesh screens in which he would cut holes; the tools to do it were stored with his underwater equipment. The cylindrical Tovex bombs would be strapped to his waist. Once inside, he would place the bombs, which were in magnetic casings, simply and quickly on the pumps. It was a beautiful scheme!-as it had seemed right from the beginning.

The only remaining question was-when? Today was Friday.

Weighing everything, Georgos decided on the following Tuesday. He would leave North Castle as soon as it was dark, drive the Volkswagen van the fifty-odd miles to La Mission, then, on arrival, launch the dinghy immediately.

Now, the decision taken, he was restless. The apartment-small, dreary, sparsely furnished-was confining, especially during the daytime, though Georgos knew it would be foolish to take chances and go out. In fact, he intended to remain in the apartment until Sunday night, when the purchase of more food would become essential.

He missed the mental exercise of writing in his journal. A few days ago he considered starting a new one, now that the original was lost, captured by the enemy. But somehow he could summon up neither the energy nor the enthusiasm to begin writing again.

Once more, as he had done so many times already, he roamed the apartment's three cramped rooms-a living room, bedroom, and kitchen-dining area.

On the kitchen counter top an envelope caught his eye. It contained a so-called Consumer Survey which had come in the mail to the apartment several weeks ago from-all of sources-Golden State Piss & Lickspittle. It had been addressed to one Owen Grainger, which was not surprising because that was the name under which Georgos rented the apartment and paid three months rent in advance to avoid questions about credit.

(Georgos always paid rent and other bills immediately, by mailing cash. Paying bills promptly was a standard part of terrorist technique when seeking to be inconspicuous. Unpaid bills brought unwelcome inquiries and attention.)

One of the items on that stinking Consumer Survey had made Georgos so angry on first reading it that he threw a cup he happened to be holding against the nearest wall and shattered it. The item read:

Golden State Power & Light apologizes to its customers for inconveniences as a result of cowardly attacks on company installations by small-time, would-be terrorists who act in ignorance. If there are ways in which you think such attacks could be ended, please give us your views.

Then and there Georgos had sat down and written a forceful, scathing reply which began: “The terrorists you presumptuously describe as small-time, cowardly and ignorant are none of those things. They are important, wise and dedicated heroes. You are the ignoramuses, as well as criminal exploiters of the people. Justice shall overtake you! Be warned there will be blood and death, not mere 'inconvenience' when the glorious revolution . . ."

He had quickly run out of space and used an extra sheet of paper to complete a truly splendid response.

A pity not to have mailed it! He had been on the point of doing so on one of his night excursions when caution warned: Don't! It might be a trap. So he had let the completed questionnaire remain where it was, on the kitchen counter top.

The postage-paid envelope which had come with the questionnaire was still unsealed and Georgos took the enclosure out. What he had written, he realized again, was masterful. Why not send it? After all, it was anonymous; be had already torn off, and discarded, the portion of the questionnaire which had the name "Owen Grainger" and the apartment address. Even that had been printed by a computer, something Georgos recognized instantly, so it was impersonal, as mailings from computers always were.

Someone ought to read what he had written. Whoever it was would be jolted, which was good. At the same time they could not fall-even if reluctantly-to admire the writer's mind.

Making another decision, Georgos sealed the envelope. He would put it in a mailbox when he went out Sunday night.

He resumed his pacing and-though he didn't really want to start thinking again about that long-ago day and the cornered rat.

14

At approximately the same moment that Georgos Archambault made his decision to bomb La Mission for the second time, Harry London faced Nim Goldman.

"No!" London said. "Goddammit no! Not for you, Nim, or anybody else."

Nim said patiently, "All I've asked you to do is consider some special circumstances. I happen to know the Sloan family . . ."

The two men were in Nim's office. Harry London, standing, leaned across the desk between them. "You may know the family, but I know the case. It's all in here. Read it!" the Property Protection chief, his face flushed, slammed down a bulky file.

"Calm down, Harry," Nim said. "And I don't need to read the file. I'll take your word about the kind of case it is, and how messy."

A short time ago, remembering his promise to Karen the previous evening, Nim had telephoned Harry London to see if he knew of a theft of service case involving a Luther Sloan.

"You bet I do," had been the answer.

When Nim disclosed his personal interest London had stated, "I'll come up."

Now Harry London insisted, "You're damn right it's a messy case. Your friend Sloan has been bypassing meters-lots of them-for better than a year."

Nim said irritably, "He isn't my friend. His daughter is."

"One of your many women friends, no doubt."

'Knock it off, Harry!" Nim, too, was becoming angry. "Karen Sloan is a quadriplegic."

He went on to describe the Sloan family, how both parents helped Karen financially, and how Luther Sloan had gone into debt to buy a special van for Karen's use. "One thing I'm certain of. Whatever Karen's father did with any money be made, he didn't spend it on himself. "

London said contemptuously. "So does that make thievery any better? Of course it doesn't, and you know it."

"Yes, I know it. But surely, if we also know of extenuating circumstances, we could be less tough."

"Just what did you have in mind?"

Nim ignored the caustic tone. "Well, maybe we could insist on restitution, let Luther Sloan pay back whatever was stolen, giving him some time to do it, but not launch criminal proceedings."

Harry London said coldly, "So that's your suggestion?"

”Yes, it is."

“Nim," London said, "I never thought the day would come when I'd stand here and hear you say what you just did."

"Oh, for Chrissakes, Harry! Who knows what they'll say and do in certain situations?"

"I do. And I know what I'm saying now: the Sloan case will take its course, which means a criminal charge is going to be laid within the next few days. Unless, of course, you decide to fire me and do it your way."

Nim said wearily, "Harry, stop talking bilge."

There was a silence, then London said, "Nim, you're thinking of Yale, aren't you?"

“Yes."

"You're thinking that old man Yale got away with power theft, or at least intervenement in it, so why shouldn't Luther Sloan? You're figuring there was one law for the big cheese, now another law for the little guy -your friend's father. Right?"

Nim nodded. "Yes, I was thinking pretty much along those lines."

"Well, you're right. That's the way it is, and I've seen it happen at other times, in other places. The privileged, the powerful, those with money, can bend the law or get themselves a better deal. Oh, not always, but often enough to make justice unequal. But that's the way 3the system works, and while I may not like it, I didn't make it. However, I'll also tell you this: If I'd had the solid evidence against Mr. Justice Yale that I have against Luther Sloan, I'd never have backed down the way I did."

“Then there is strong evidence?"

London gave a twisted grin. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Okay, so tell me."

"Nim, in the Quayle setup, Luther Sloan was the gas man. They gave him most of the illegal gas work which came their way, probably because he was damn good at it. I've seen some of the jobs he did, and there were plenty; we have details from the Quayle records and the goods on him. Something else: You talked just now about Sloan making restitution. Well, as far as we can estimate, the illicit work he did has cost GSP & L, in gas revenue losses, about two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. And from what you tell me, Sloan might not have that kind of dough."

Nim threw up his hands. "Okay, Harry. You win."

London shook his head slowly. "No, I don't. Nobody wins. Not me, not you, not GSP & L, and certainly not Luther Sloan. I'm simply doing my job, the way I'm supposed to."

"And doing it honestly," Nim said. "Maybe more so than the rest of US."

Nim found himself regretting what had just passed between himself and Harry London. He wondered if their friendship would ever be quite the same again. He rather doubted it.

"Be seeing you, I guess," London said. He picked up the file he had brought with him, and left.

Nim supposed he would have to call Karen and deliver the bad news. He dreaded doing it. However, before he could pick up the telephone, his office door flew open and Ray Paulsen strode in.

The executive vice president of power supply asked brusquely, "Where's the chairman?"

"He had a dental appointment," Nim said. "Anything I can do for you?"

Paulsen ignored Nim's question. "When will be be back?"

Nim checked his watch. "I'd say in an hour."

Paulsen looked weary and haggard, Nim thought, his shoulders more stooped than usual, his hair and beetling eyebrows grayer than a month ago. It was not surprising. They had all been under strain-Ray Paulsen, because of his large responsibilities, as much as anyone.

"Ray," Nim said, "if you'll excuse me for saying so, you look like bell. Why not take it easy for a few minutes? Sit down, switch off, and I'll send for coffee."

Paulsen glared and appeared on the point of answering angrily. Then, abruptly, his expression changed. Dropping heavily into a soft leather chair, he said, "Do that."

Nim buzzed Vicki on the intercom and ordered coffee for them both, Afterward he went around the desk and took a chair near Paulsen.

"You might as well know what I came to tell the chairman," Paulsen growled. "We've lost Big Lil."

Nim's calm deserted him. "We've what?"

Paulsen snapped, "You heard me the first time."

"We've lost Big Lil!” Nim repeated. "For how long?"

"At least four months. More likely six."

There was a knock and Vicki came in with two mugs of coffee. While she set them on a table, Nim stood up and began pacing restlessly. Now he could understand Paulsen's distress, and share it. Big Lil, La Mission No. 5, the largest single generator in the system, supplied a massive million and a quarter kilowatts, equal to six percent of GSP & L's maximum load. At any time the sudden loss of Big Lil would create major problems, as was demonstrated after the bombing last July. In the present circumstances it was calamitous.

"People!" Paulsen exploded. "Son-of-a-bitcbing, stupid people! You think you have it all figured, spell out every procedure clearly, then some incompetent clown lets you down." He reached for a coffee mug and drank.

Nim asked, "What happened?"

"We've had Big Lil off the line for a week for routine maintenance," Paulsen said. "You knew that."

"Yes. It was due back on line today."

"So it would have been. Except for a darn fool operator." Paulsen slammed a fist into his palm. "I could skin the bastard alive."

Angrily, gloomily, he spelled out the sorry details.

When a huge, steam-powered, oil-fueled generator like Big Lil was started up, procedures were elaborate and precise. An operator, working in a control room with a multitude of instruments to guide him, was trained to follow instructions carefully, step by step. A printed checklist was provided, undue haste forbidden. Normally, the entire process took several hours.

With Big Lil, as with any similar type generator, the boiler which provided steam was activated first. Projecting into the boiler, at various heights, were rings of oil guns-burners which sprayed atomized fuel. These were ignited remotely by the control room operator, level by level, starting at the bottom, For safety reasons, before a higher level was ignited, the level below it had to be burning.

Today, the operator-failing to check his instruments-thought the lowest level of oil guns was alight. It wasn't.

As succeeding levels of burners came on, the lowest level continued to pour out unburned oil which pooled at the bottom of the boiler.

Eventually the accumulated oil and vapor exploded.

"I thought there was a safety interlock . . ." Nim began.

"Hell!-of course there is." Paulsen sounded as if he were about to weep. "It's designed to prevent exactly what happened. But-can you believe this?-the damn fool operator overrode it manually. Said he wanted to bring the unit on line faster."

"Jesus Christ!" Nim could understand Paulsen's anger and frustration. He asked, "How much damage did the explosion do?"

"Plenty-to the internal boiler structure, much of the duct and flue work, more than half the water-wall tubes."

Nim whistled softly. He felt sympathy for Paulsen, but knew that words would do no good. He also realized that a four-month estimate for repairs was optimistic.

"This changes everything, Ray," Nim said, "especially about rolling blackouts."

"Don't I know it!"

Mentally, Nim was running over problems and logistics. Although Big Lil was an oil burner and eventually could fall victim to the OPEC embargo, it was by far the most economical oil-fueled generator the utility had. Now, Big Lil's output would have to be made up by other units which would use more fuel. Therefore, suddenly, GSP&L's total oil reserves represented a great deal less electric power than before.

Thus it followed, even more than previously: All oil stocks must be used cagily, rationed strictly.

"Blackouts should start within the next few days," Nim said.

Paulsen nodded. "I agree." He got up to go.

"Ray," Nim said, "I'll let you know as soon as the chairman comes in."

* * *

"My recommendation," Nim said at a hastily called conference on Friday afternoon, "is that we begin blackouts on Monday."

Teresa Van Buren protested, "It's too soon! We've already announced they won't begin until the week after next. Now you're saying you'd advance that ten days. We've got to give the public more warning."

"Warning be damned!" Paulsen snapped. "This is a crisis."

With wry amusement, Nim thought: For once he and Paulsen were in agreement, ranged against the others.

There were five of them, seated around a conference table in the chairman's office suite-J. Eric Humphrey, Paulsen, Van Buren, Nim and Oscar O'Brien.

The general counsel had been called in to consider any legal implications of the blackouts.

Prior to this conference, Nim had had several meetings with department heads to review the latest figures on GSP&L's oil stocks. They showed supplies were diminishing faster than anticipated, probably due to unseasonably warm weather and heavy use of air-conditioners.

Nim had also telephoned a Washington, D.C., lawyer-lobbyist who represented GSP & L on Capitol Hill. His report was: No breakthrough, or any sign of one, in the United States-OPEC deadlock. The lawyer added, “There's talk around here of plans to issue a new currency-an external, gold-backed dollar to satisfy OPEC. But it's talk, no more, and not enough to get the oil moving."

Nim had passed on the Washington report to the chairman and the others.

"I agree with Tess," Oscar O'Brien said, "that we ought to give as much advance warning about blackouts as we can."

Eric Humphrey queried, "Suppose we hold off until next Wednesday and start the blackouts then? That's five days from now, which should give people time to prepare."

After more discussion they agreed on Wednesday.

"I'll call a press conference immediately," Van Buren said. She addressed Nun. "Can you be available in an hour?"

He nodded. "Yes."

The remainder of the day proceeded at the same frenetic pace.

* * *

Amid the rush of decision-making and conferences, Nim postponed his intended call to Karen, and it was not until late Friday afternoon that lie found time to phone her.

Josie answered first, then Karen came on the line. He knew she would be wearing the special lightweight headband, earpiece and microphone which, with a micro-switch close to her head, enabled her to use the telephone without assistance if she wished. By arrangement with the phone company, Karen was able to reach an operator directly and have any number dialed for her.

"Karen," Nim said, "I'm calling about your father. I made some inquiries to see if there was anything I could do, but I have to tell you that there isn't. What's happening has gone too far." He added, hoping it would not sound banal, "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Karen said, and be sensed her dejection. "But I'm grateful to you for trying, Nimrod."

“The only advice I can give," be told her, "is that your father get himself a good lawyer."

There was a silence, then she asked, "Is it really that bad?"

There seemed no point in lying. "Yes, I'm afraid it is." Nim decided not to pass along Harry London's statement that a criminal charge would be laid within the next few days, or London's estimate of a two-hundred-and-thirty-thousand-dollar loss to GSP & L. Both items of news would be known soon enough.

“The strange thing is," Karen said, "I've always thought of Daddy as the most honest person I know."

"Well," Nim acknowledged, "I'm not making excuses for your father. I can't. But I guess, sometimes, there are pressures which do strange things to people. Anyway, I'm sure that whatever was behind what he did will be considered in court."

"But he didn't need to; that's the tragic thing. Oh, I've enjoyed the extra things my parents have made possible with money, including Humperdinck. But I could have managed without."

Nim didn't feel like telling Karen that obviously her father had seen a way to expiate some of his guilt feelings, and had taken it. That was something a psychologist or the courts, or maybe both, would have to unravel and pass judgment on. Instead, Nim asked, "You still have Humperdinck?"

"Yes. Whatever else is happening, Humperdinck hasn't been repossessed yet."

"I'm glad," he said, "because you'll need the van next week."

He went on to tell her about the new schedule of rolling blackouts beginning Wednesday. "In your area, power will go off at 3 pm Wednesday and stay off for at least three hours. So, to be safe, you should go to Redwood Grove Hospital sometime during the morning."

"Josie will take me," Karen said.

"If there's any change," Nim told her, "I'll call you. Also we'll talk about other blackouts later. Oh, by the way, I checked on the Redwood Grove emergency generator. It's in good shape and the fuel tank is full."

"It's truly wonderful," Karen said, with a flash of her normal brightness, "to be cared about so much."

15

"I really do believe," Ruth Goldman observed, turning pages of the Chronicle-West Sunday edition, "that people are beginning to face reality about an electrical crisis."

"If they'd listened to Dad," Benjy asserted, "they would have done it sooner."

The other three-Ruth, Nim and Leah-all laughed.

"Thank you," Nim said. "I appreciate the loyalty."

Leah added, "Especially now it means you're vindicated."

"Hey!" Ruth told her, "that vocabulary class of yours is paying off."

Leah flushed with pleasure.

It was Sunday morning and the family had gathered in Nim's and Ruth's bedroom. Ruth was still in bed, having recently finished breakfast, brought to her on a tray. Nim had got up early to cook poached eggs on corned beef hash, a family favorite, for everyone.

Two days ago Ruth had flown back from New York following her second visit there for treatments at the Sloan-Kettering Institute. She had appeared pale on her return, and still did, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She admitted to having experienced some pain as a side effect, as had happened on the previous occasion, and was obviously tired.

It was still too early to know the effect of the treatments, and she would go back to New York in another three weeks. Ruth reported cheerfully, though, that the doctors she had talked with were "very hopeful."

Nim informed her about the impending "rolling blackouts" and that their own home would be affected, beginning Wednesday.

Characteristically, Ruth had said, "No problem. We'll plan ahead, and manage."

For a while, Ruth's mother, Rachel, would be coming in several days a week to help with the house and allow Ruth to rest.

"Listen to this." Ruth had turned to the Chronicle-West editorial page and began reading aloud.

THE POWER STRUGGLE

This newspaper, which tries to be honest and forthright in its opinions, admits to having second thoughts about some stands we have taken in the past.

We have, like many others, opposed increased development of nuclear electric power. We have, because of concern about pollution, aligned ourselves with opposition to coal-burning electric generating plants. We have supported wildlife preservation groups who opposed building additional dams for hydroelectric projects on the grounds that wildlife, especially fish populations, might be diminished. We expressed doubt about permitting more geothermal electric plants, fearing they would upset the economies of established tourist areas.

We do not apologize for any of these stands . They represented, and still do, our convictions in specific areas.

But, viewed as a whole, we are forced-in fairness-to agree with the electric power companies of California which argue that their hands have been tied while we have demanded of them what they cannot now deliver.

Instead of compromising here and there, as a give-and-take society should, we have said "no" to almost everything.

Let us remember that when the lights go out next Wednesday.

Perhaps we deserve what we are getting. Whether we do or not, the time has come for serious reappraisal of some long held views-our own and others'.

“There!" Ruth declared, putting down the newspaper. "What do you all think of that?"

Benjy said, "I think they should have mentioned Dad."

Ruth reached out and mussed his hair affectionately.

"It's a smooth piece of writing," Nim said. "Unfortunately, that's all it is. Oh yes, and it's five years late."

"I don't care," Ruth said. "I suppose I should care, but I don't. All I care about right now is being home, and loving you all."

In the afternoon, despite it being Sunday, Nim went to GSP&L headquarters and his office. There was plenty of activity, and decisions needing to be made. In a way, with regular blackouts only three days away, the utility was entering new and uncharted territory. As the chief dispatcher put it when Nim dropped into the Energy Control Center, "We assume everything will go smoothly and, as much as we can, we've all made sure it will. But there's always factor 'u'-for the unexpected, Mr. Goldman.

* * *

I've seen that devil bollix things too many times to believe it won't happen anywhere at any moment."

"We've had quite a few unexpected things already," Nim pointed out.

"Always room for one more, sir; sometimes two," the dispatcher said cheerfully. "Anyhow, that's the way I see it."

On his way home later, Nim wondered about the week to come, and the dispatcher's factor "u."

* * *

An hour or two after Nim went home, Georgos Archambault ventured out from his North Castle apartment. Now that his day for action-Tuesday-was so near, Georgos was more edgy and nervous than at any time since going into hiding. He sensed an observer or pursuer around each corner and in every shadow. But it proved to be imagination only. He obtained food, without incident, at a delicatessen, buying enough to last him until his departure for La Mission on Tuesday evening.

He also bought the Sunday newspapers and, on his way back to the apartment, mailed the envelope which contained that stupid Consumer Survey from Golden State Piss & Lickspittle. Briefly, Georgos hesitated at the mailbox, wondering if he should mail the letter after all. But, observing that the box had already had its single Sunday collection, and would not be cleared again until midmorning Monday, be dropped the envelope in.

16

Monday, relatively speaking, passed uneventfully. Tuesday, in the early morning hours, did not.

Nature, as if conspiring to embarrass GSP&L at a troubling time, mounted its own onslaught at the utility's geothermal field in the mountains of Sevilla County.

Deep in the earth beneath "Old Desperado," the wellhead which had once blown out of control and was never capped entirely, a subsidence of rock and subsoil released new geothermal steam under enormous pressure. The steam rushed to the surface with the force of twenty locomotives. Then, in a spectacular display which rivaled Dante's Inferno, hot mud, stones and rock were hurled high into the air with apocalyptic force.

Obeying another natural phenomenon, namely, "what goes up must come down," the tons of muck splattered widely over other portions of the geothermal field.

By sheer good luck, the blowout occurred at 2 am when only a handful of workers was on duty, and all were under cover. Consequently, there were neither deaths nor injuries, which would have been inevitable if the blow had happened in the daytime.

But the geothermal field's switching and transformer yard was less fortunate. It was deeply covered in wet muck, as were transmission lines nearby. The muck was a conductor of electricity. As a result, everything shorted out and the flow of power from all geothermal-driven generators; to the GSP & L transmission system was instantly cut off. No great or lasting damage was done. All that was needed was a massive cleanup job which would take two days. As for Old Desperado, its bout of mischief over, it settled back to sporadic, harmless steaming like a simmering kettle.

But for forty-eight hours, until the cleaning was complete, GSP & L would be deprived of seven hundred thousand kilowatts from its normally reliable geothermal source, and would need to find an equivalent amount of power elsewhere. The only way it could be done was by bringing more oil-powered generators on line, and thus the utility's precious reserve of oil was further, and unexpectedly, depleted.

One other question mark hung over Tuesday's operations.

Because of the time of year, out of the company's more than two hundred generating units, an unusually large number were removed from service and undergoing maintenance in preparation for the summer peak-load period. Thus, with the abrupt loss of Big Lil four days earlier, and now all geothermals, GSP&L's total generating capacity irrespective of the oil shortage-would be stretched thin for the next two days.

* * *

Nim learned of the geothermal failure and the potential capacity shortage on coming in to work on Tuesday morning.

His first thought was: How uncanny that the chief dispatcher's factor "u"-the unexpected-had intruded, precisely as the dispatcher said it might. His second was that until geothermal was back on line, GSP & L could not withstand and absorb another factor "u" episode.

The realization made him decide, before he started work, to telephone Karen Sloan.

"Karen," Nim said when she came on the line, "You've arranged to go to Redwood Grove Hospital tomorrow. Right?"

"Yes," she answered, "I'll be there in plenty of time before the afternoon blackout."

"I'd prefer it if you went today," he told her. "Could you do that?"

"Yes, of course, Nimrod. But why?"

"We're having a few problems-some we weren't expecting-and it's possible there could be a non-scheduled power cut. It may not happen, in fact it probably won't, but I'd feel easier if you were at the hospital and close to that standby generator."

"You mean I should go now?"

"Well, fairly soon. It's just a long-shot precaution."

"All right," Karen said. "Josie's here and we'll get ready. And, Nimrod."

"Yes?"

"You sound tired."

"I am," he admitted. "I guess we all are over here. It hasn't been the best of times, not lately."

"Take care of yourself," she told him. "And Nimrod, dear bless you!"

After Nim hung up, he thought of something else and dialed his home number.

Ruth answered. He told her about Old Desperado, the geothermal cutoff, and the doubtful capacity situation.

She said sympathetically, "Things do seem to happen all at once."

"I guess that's the way life works. Anyway, with all this, and rolling blackouts starting tomorrow, I'd better not come home tonight. I'll sleep on a cot in the office."

"I understand," Ruth said. "But be sure you get some rest, and 3remember that the children and I all need you for a long time to come."

He promised to do both.

* * *

The special staff which had been assembled to process the so-called Consumer Survey in North Castle had been totally disbanded two weeks earlier. The basement room at GSP&L headquarters, where returned questionnaires had at first flooded in, was now in use for another purpose.

Sporadically, a few completed questionnaires straggled in. Some days there were one or two, on other days none.

Those that did arrive were routed by the mailroom to an elderly secretary in public relations, Elsie Young, who had been on the special staff but had since returned to her regular job. The questionnaires, in their distinctive postage-paid envelopes, were placed on her desk and, when she had time and inclination, she opened and inspected them, still comparing each with a sample of the handwriting from Georgos Archambault's journal.

Miss Young hoped the damn things would stop coming soon. She found them tedious, time-wasting, and an intrusion on more interesting work.

On Tuesday, around midmorning, Elsie Young observed that one of the special Consumcr Survey envelopes had been dropped into her in-tray by a messenger, along with a sizable batch of interoffice mail. She decided to deal with the interoffice stuff first.

* * *

Seconds after Karen concluded her conversation with Nim by touching the phone microswitch with her head, she remembered something she forgot to tell him.

She and Josie had planned to go shopping this morning. Should they still do the shopping, and afterward go to Redwood Grove, or should they cancel the shopping trip and leave for the hospital now?

Karen was tempted to call Nim back and ask his advice, then remembered the strain in his voice and the pressures he must be working under. She would make the decision herself.

What was it be had said about a possible power cut before tomorrow's scheduled one? "It may not happen, in fact it probably won't”. And later: "It's just a long-shot precaution."

Well . . . obviously! the sensible thing was to go shopping first, which Karen and Josie both enjoyed. Then they would come back briefly and afterward leave for Redwood Grove. They could still be there by early afternoon, perhaps sooner.

"Josie, dear," Karen called out in the direction of the kitchen. "I just had a call from Nimrod, and if you'll come in I'll tell you about our new plans."

* * *

Georgos Archambault possessed a certain animal instinct about danger. In the past, the instinct had served him well and he had learned to rely on it.

Near noon on Tuesday, as he paraded back and forth restlessly in the confined North Castle apartment, the same instinct warned him that danger was close. A crucial question was: Should he obey the instinct and, taking a large chance, leave immediately and head for La Mission and the cooling pumps he planned to destroy? Alternatively, should be disregard the instinct and remain until darkness, then leave as originally planned?

A second question, equally important: Was his present instinct genuine or the product of a heightened nervousness?

Georgos wasn't sure as he debated, within himself, the pros and cons.

He intended to make his final approach to the La Mission plant pump house underwater. Therefore, if he could get safely on the river and reasonably close to the plant, be would submerge and, from then on, the likelihood of his being seen was minimal, even in daylight. In fact, daylight, filtering downward, would help him locate his underwater point of entry more easily than in total darkness.

But could he launch the dinghy and get into it, wearing scuba gear, unobserved? Although the spot he had chosen as a launch-point-a half-mile from La Mission-was normally deserted, there was always the possibility of someone being there and seeing him, especially during the daytime. Georgos assessed that particular risk as: fair.

The really big hazard in daylight-a horrendous one-was to drive his Volkswagen van through North Castle, and then to La Mission, another fifty miles. A description of the van, and undoubtedly its license number, was in the possession of police, sheriff's departments and the Highway Patrol. If he were spotted, there was no way he could outrun pursuit. On the other hand, it was eight weeks since the description had been issued and the pigs could have forgotten, or be inattentive. Something else in his favor: there were a lot of beat-up VW vans around and the sight of one more would not be unusual.

Just the same, Georgos assessed the first part of his mission, if undertaken now, as: high risk.

He continued pacing and debating, then abruptly made up his mind. He would trust his instincts about danger. The decision was to go!

Georgos left the apartment at once and went into the adjoining garage.

There he began what he had intended doing tonight: Checking his equipment carefully before departure. He hurried, however, the sense of danger still persisting.

17

“There's a telephone call for you, Mrs. Van Buren," a waitress announced, "and I was told to tell you it's important."

"Everybody thinks their call is important," the PR director grumbled, "and most times they're dead wrong."

But she got up from the table in the GSP & L officers' dining room where she was lunching with J. Eric Humphrey and Nim Goldman, and went to the telephone outside.

A minute or two later she returned, excitement in her eyes. "One of those Consumer Surveys came back and we've got a match on the Archambault handwriting. A half-wit in my department has been sitting on the thing all morning. I'll ream her out later, but she's on the way to the Computer Center with it now. I said we'd meet her there."

"Get Sharlett," Eric Humphrey said, rising from the table. "Tell her to leave her lunch." the executive vice president of finance could be seen a few tables away.

While Van Buren did so, Nim went outside to the telephone and called Harry London. The Property Protection chief was in his office and, when informed of what was happening, said he would go to the Computer Center too.

Nim knew that Oscar O'Brien, the only other member of the "think group," was out of town for the day.

He joined the others-the chairman, Sharlett Underhill and Van Buren-at the elevator outside the dining room.

* * *

They had gone through the usual security formalities in entering the Computer Center. Now, the four who had interrupted lunch, plus Harry London, gathered around a table as Teresa Van Buren opened out the Consumer Survey form and a photographed handwriting sample which a chastened Elsie Young had delivered to her a few minutes ago.

It was Eric Humphrey who expressed what was obvious to everyone. “There's no doubt of it being the same handwriting. Absolutely none."

Even if there were, Nim thought, what was written was a giveaway.

The terrorists you presumptuously describe as small-time, cowardly and ignorant are none of those things. They are important, wise and dedicated heroes. You are the ignoramuses, as well as criminal exploiters of the people. Justice shall overtake you! Be warned there will be blood and death . . .

"Why the bell," Harry London said to no one in particular, "did he take so long?"

Sharlett Underhill held out a hand. "Give that to me."

Van Buren passed her the questionnaire and the finance chief took it to the portable "black light" which Nim had seen used during his previous visit to the center. Mrs. Underhill snapped the light on and held the form under it. At the top of the sheet the number "9386" stood out.

She led the way to a computer terminal-a keyboard with a cathode ray screen above it-and sat down.

First, Mrs. Underhill trapped in her personal code: 44SHAUND. (It was her age and a corruption of her two names.)

The screen instantly signaled: READY. ENTER REQUEST.

She typed in the project name-NORTH CASTLE SURVEY followed by the secret code, known only to herself and one other, which would release the needed information. The words NORTH CASTHE SURVEY appeared on the screen; the secret code didn't the computer's precaution against others observing and memorizing it.

Immediately the computer signaled: ENTER QUESTIONNAIRE NUMBER.

Sharlett Underhill typed in: 93tle screen flashed back:

OWEN GRAINGER

12 WEXHAM RD, APT E

The city's name and a zip code followed.

"I got it," Harry London said. He was already running to a phone.

* * *

Slightly more than an hour later Harry London reported personally to Eric Humphrey and Nim, who were in the chairman's office suite.

"Archambault's flown the coop," London said. "If that woman had only opened the questionnaire when it came in this morning . . ."

Humphrey said sharply, "Recriminations will do us no good. What did the police find at that address?"

"A warm trail, sir. According to a neighbor, a man who's been seen occasionally before, drove away in a Volkswagen van half an hour before the place was raided. The police have issued an APB for the van, and they have the building staked out in case be comes back. But" -London shrugged-"that guy Archambault has slipped through their hands before."

"He must be getting desperate," Nim said.

Eric Humphrey nodded. "I was thinking that too." He considered, then told Nim, "I want an immediate warning sent to all our plant managers and security personnel. Give them a report of what has happened and repeat Archambault's description; also get a description of the vehicle he's driving. Instruct our people everywhere to increase their vigilance and to report anything suspicious or unusual. We've been that man's target before.

He may decide to make us one again."

"I'll get on it right away," Nim said, as he wondered: Was there no end to what could happen in a single day?

* * *

Georgos hummed a little tune and decided that today his luck was holding.

He had been driving for an hour and a quarter and was almost at the point, near La Mission, where he planned to launch the dinghy. Apparently his VW van had attracted no attention, probably-in part because he had driven carefully, observing traffic rules and speed limits. He had also avoided freeways where encountering a California Highway Patrol car would have been more likely. Now he was traversing a gravel road, his first objective less than a mile ahead.

A few minutes later he caught a glimpse of the Coyote River through a tangled growth of underbrush and trees which bordered it in this area. The river was wide at the point he had chosen and soon he could see much more of it. He stopped, where the gravel road ended, about thirty yards from the riverbank.

To Georgos' relief, no other vehicles or human beings were in sight.

As he began unloading the dinghy and supplies, carrying them in a half-dozen trips toward the river, his excitement and a sense of elation grew.

After the initial trip, be removed the dinghy from its container and inflated it with the pump which was in the package. No problem. Then be pushed the dinghy into the water, tying the painter to a tree, and transferred the equipment into it. There was a compressed-air tank and regulator-the tank filled with an hour's air supply, a face mask, fins, a snorkel for use if he was near the surface, a waterproof flashlight, a mesh belt, an inflatable balloon with a C02 cartridge to give him buoyancy because of the weight be was carrying, a hydraulic metal cutter, and wire cutters.

Last of all, Georgos loaded aboard the cylindrical Tovex bombs. He had brought eight of them, weighing five pounds each, and they would be fastened to his webbed belt. Georgos had decided that eight bombs were all he could carry; to attempt to take more would be inviting disaster. As it was, the bombs would destroy eight of the eleven water pumps-putting most, if not all, of La Mission's four operating generators out of action.

The fifth La Mission generator was the one they called Big Lil. Georgos had been sorry, in a way, to read in Sunday's newspapers that Big Lil was already disabled and would require several months of repairs. Well, maybe after today it would be several months more.

When everything was in the dinghy, and secure, Georgos, who had already discarded his clothing and changed into a wet suit untied the painter and eased himself aboard. The dinghy at once floated clear of the bank and began moving gently downstream. There was a small paddle, and he used it.

The day was warm and sunny and, in other circumstances, an excursion on the river would have been enjoyable. But he had no time for enjoyment now.

Staying fairly close to the shoreline, he kept a lookout for other people.

So far be had seen none. There were some boats in the distance, a long way downstream, but too far away for him to be observed.

In less than ten minutes be could see La Mission plant ahead, with its high smokestacks and the big, functional building which housed boilers and turbine-generators. In another five minutes he decided he was close enough, and paddled into shore. There was a small, shallowhater cove. On reaching it, he slipped out of the dinghy, then, wading in front, tied the painter once more to a tree. Now he donned the tank, mask, snorkel, belt and fins, and attached the remainder of his load. When everything was in place he took one last look around, turned on his air, then waded out toward midstream. Moments later he slipped into deep water and began swimming, ten feet below the surface.

He had already taken a sight on his objective the plant pump house, a long, low, concrete structure, projecting into the river. Georgos knew that the pump house had two levels. One, above the water and accessible from other portions of the plant, housed the electric motors which drove the pumps. The second level-mostly underwater-contained the pumps themselves. It was this second level he intended to penetrate. On the way into the plant, he surfaced twice, quickly, to check his bearings, then went under again to stay out of sight. Soon his forward progress was halted by a concrete wall; he had reached the pump house.

Feeling his way along, he began searching for the metal grating through which he would need to cut his way. Almost at once, the pull of the water guided him to it. The purpose of the grating was to prevent large objects from being drawn in with the cooling water and damaging the pumps. Behind the grating was a wire mesh screen, shaped into a large, horizontal cylinder. The cylinder caught smaller debris and was rotated occasionally to clean it.

Georgos began working on the grating with his hydraulic metal cutter, a compact tool about eighteen inches long and favored by underwater treasure hunters. Soon he had opened a large circle and pulled the metal bars away. The cutout portion dropped to the riverbed. There was no problem about seeing. ample daylight was coming in from above.

The wire mesh cylinder was now exposed. Georgos knew he would have to cut his way into it from the outside, then make a second bole on the far side to reach the interior pump bay. The distance between the two holes-the cylinder's diameter-would be about ten feet.

He began snipping away with his wire cutters, smaller than the hydraulic cutter and suspended on a looped cord from his wrist. After a few minutes, another hole was cut. Georgos pulled away the cut circle of mesh, then eased himself carefully through the hole, making sure that none of his equipment snagged. Swimming forward, he began cutting the further screen. Soon that, too, gave way and he passed through.

Now he was fully inside the pump bay. From light filtering down from apertures in the pump house floor above, he was able to make out the bulk of the first pump, directly ahead.

Georgos was not afraid of the suction of the pumps. From his text. book studies he knew that he would only be affected by it if he went deep, which he had no intention of doing.

Using the flashlight, he began looking for a place to locate the first bomb.

just as be found one-a flat surface on the housing-be sensed movement behind him and turned. There was enough light to see that the wire mesh cylinder through which he had entered, and which had been still, was now rotating, continuously and steadily.

* * *

The plant superintendent at La Mission was a bright young engineer, Bob Ostrander. He had been second-in-command to Plant Superintendent Danieli when Danieli, Walter Talbot and two others were killed last July as a result of the bomb, planted by Friends of Freedom, which damaged Big Lil.

Bob Ostrander, ambitious and tough-minded, had wanted to be promoted-but not the way it happened. Danieli had been his good friend and they worked well together. The men's wives were equally close; their children still used each other's houses interchangeably.

Because of the manner of Danieli's death, Ostrander nursed a burning anger about terrorists in general and especially the misnamed Friends of Freedom.

Consequently, when a teletype message arrived in the early afternoon of Tuesday, warning that Georgos Archambault, the Friends of Freedom leader and prime suspect in last year's Big Lil bombing, might make a new attack on GSP & L property, Bob Ostrander put himself and all his staff on full alert.

On his instructions, the entire La Mission plant was searched immediately for possible intruders. When none were found, attention was directed outward to the plant perimeter. A pair of two-man patrols, which Ostrander organized, was ordered to make continuous rounds of the perimeter fence and report by walkie-talkie any unusual activity or sign of break-in. Guards at the main gate were told: No one, other than company employees, was to be admitted without permission from the superintendent. Bob Ostrander also telephoned the county sheriff and learned that the sheriff's department, too, had received information about Georgos Archambault and a Volkswagen van he reportedly was driving.

At Ostrander's urging, the sheriff diverted two of his patrol cars to search roads in the area of the La Mission plant for any sign of a VW van such as described. Less than thirty minutes after Bob Ostrander's call-at 2:35 pm. the sheriff reported back that a VW van, positively identified as Archambault's, had been found abandoned by the Coyote River, a half-mile upstream of the plant.

Not far from it were a pump and a package which apparently had contained an inflatable rubber dinghy. An intensive search for Archambault by sheriff's deputies was now in progress. One deputy sheriff would shortly be on the river in his own motorboat. Ostrander at once removed several staff members from other duties and sent them to patrol the river side of the plant, their instructions to sound an alarm at the sight of any boat.

The superintendent remained at his desk, which had become a communications center. About ten minutes later the sheriff phoned again. He had just received a radio report that a rubber dinghy, with no one in it, had been discovered in a cove they both knew, around a headland from the plant. "It looks as if the guy has come ashore and figures to get in through your fence," the sheriff said. "Every man I have on duty is over your way, searching, and I'm coming myself. Don't worry! We've got him bottled up."

As be hung up the telephone, Bob Ostrander was less confident than the sheriff. On previous occasions, he remembered, the Friends of Freedom leader had shown himself to be devious and resourceful. Coming through the fence, especially in daylight, did not make sense. Suddenly, as realization dawned, Ostrander said aloud, "Scuba gear! That's why he needed a dinghy. The son-of-a-bitch is coming underwater. The pump house!"

He left his office on the run.

A watch foreman was among those patrolling on the river side of the plant. Ostrander, arriving hurriedly, asked him, "Have you seen anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Come with me." they strode toward the pump house. On the way Ostrander explained his theory about an underwater attack. At the forward extremity of the pump house, where it projected into the river, was an open walkway. The plant superintendent led the way onto it. Midpoint on the walkway was a metal inspection hatch directly above the wire mesh cylinder through which water passed into the pump bay; the two men opened the hatch, then leaned over, looking down. The top of the wire mesh cylinder was visible below them. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Ostrander told the foreman, "Go inside and turn the cylinder slowly."

There was an electric mechanism to do so, operable both from the pump house and the main control room.

Moments later the wire cylinder began to revolve. Almost at once Ostrander could see the first large hole which had been cut. He remained where he was, watching as the cylinder continued turning. When he saw the second hole his fears were confirmed. Running into the pump house, he shouted, "He got inside! Keep the screen going!”

At least, he thought, he would block Archambault's way out.

His engineer's mind was icy cool. He stopped, aware of the need for a fast decision, yet taking time to think deliberately, carefully, assessing possibilities.

Somewhere underneath where he was standing, Archambault was swimming, undoubtedly with a bomb or bombs. Where would he direct the bombing?

There were two possible targets. One was the pumps, another the condensers further into the plant.

Blowing up the pumps would be damaging enough; it could put all of La Mission's generators out of use for months. But a bomb in the condensers would be far, far worse. Rebuilding them might take a year.

Bob Ostrander knew about explosives. He had studied them at engineering school and since. A five-pound dynamite bomb, no larger than a loaf of bread, could pass through the pumps and enter the condensers. Perhaps Archambault had released such a bomb, or was about to. All that he needed to do was set the timing mechanism and drop it: it would find its way through the pumps to the condensers. The condensers had to be protected. To do so meant shutting down the entire plant. Now.

There was a wall telephone in the pump house. Bob Ostrander went to it and dialed 2 for the main control room.

A ringing tone and a click. "Chief operator."

"This is Ostrander. I want you to hit the trips on all units and stop the circulating water."

Reaction was instant as the operator protested, "You'll blow the rupture discs. Besides, we should warn Energy Control . . ."

"Goddammit! Don't give me an argument!" Ostrander gripped the phone and shouted, knowing at any moment an explosion might rip apart the pump house or the condensers. "I know what I'm doing. Hit those trips! Hit them now!"

* * *

Georgos knew nothing of what was going on above him. He only knew, as the wire mesh cylinder continued to revolve, that his escape route was cut off. Not that he had really expected to escape; he had known from the beginning of this mission that his likelihood of surviving it was slight. But he didn't want to die in here. Not this way. Trapped . . .

He thought, with mounting panic: Maybe the mesh cylinder would stop. Then he could cut two more holes. He turned sharply to inspect it.

At that same instant while turning, his wire cutters, fastened to his wrist by the looped cord, broke loose. The knot had opened . . .

The cutters were yellow, intended for easy visibility. He could see them falling . . .

Instinctively, Georgos rolled over, kicked bard and dived, following the glimpse of yellow. His band was outstretched. He almost had them.

Then he felt a sudden rush of water and realized he had gone too deep and was being sucked into a pump. He attempted to turn back. Too late! The water engulfed and held him.

He let his mouthpiece and air tube go and tried to scream. Water filled his lungs. Then the pump impeller blades, seven feet across, seized him and chopped him into little pieces.

The air tank was chopped up too; the bombs, unfused and harmless, passed through the pumps.

Only seconds later, all pumps slowed and stopped.

* * *

In the main control room, the chief operator, who had just punched four red trip buttons one after the other on separate consoles, was glad the responsibility wasn't his. Young Ostrander had better have a damn good explanation for taking La Mission 1, 2, 3 and 4-Producing three 3million two hundred thousand kilowatts-off the line without warning. To say nothing of blowing all the turbine rupture discs, which would take eight hours to repair.

As he logged the time-3:02 pm.-the direct line phone from Energy Control Center began ringing. When the chief operator picked it up, a voice demanded, "What the hell's going on? You've put the system into blackout."

* * *

Bob Ostrander had no doubt that his decision to shut down all generators had been the right one. He foresaw no problem in defending it.

Blowing the turbine rupture discs-a safety feature anyway-was a small price to pay for saving the condensers.

Immediately after giving the shutdown order, Ostrander and the watch foreman had inspected the condensers, leaving the pump house to do so. Almost at once they saw a series of metal objects-the cylindrical bombs. Not knowing if they were dangerous or harmless, the two men gathered them up and ran to the river, where they flung them in.

Now, having returned to the condensers, and taking a second look around, Ostrander had time to reflect that nothing yet had happened in the pump house. Presumably Archambault was still down there and capable of doing damage, though it was possible the revolving wire mesh cylinder had diverted him. Ostrander decided: he would get back to the pump house and figure what should be done next.

About to leave, he noticed some small pieces of debris which appeared to have come through the pumps and had collected on a condenser. He was looking at one of the pieces and reached out to pick it up, then stopped. Bob Ostrander swallowed and felt sick. It was a human hand, peculiarly stained.

18

Goodness!-bow quickly the time had gone. Karen was shocked to realize it was well past 2 pm.

It scarcely seemed any time at all since she had promised Nimrod she would go to Redwood Grove Hospital, yet several hours had gone by. Of course, the shopping had taken longer than expected-didn't it always?-but she had bought a pretty dress at a bargain price, a pair of shoes, various items of stationery she needed, and a necklace of crystal beads which caught her eye. Ile necklace, which fortunately was inexpensive, would be just right for her sister; she would give it to Cynthia on her birtliday, which was coming soon. Then Josie had a list of drug-store items they needed and that consumed still more time. But it had all been successful and Karen really enjoyed the shopping, which they did in a big, colorful mall only two blocks from the apartment building. Another good feature of the shopping mall was that Karen could go there directly in her wheelchair, controlling it herself, which she preferred to do.

One thing they did not need to do today was buy food because Karen would be at Redwood Grove during the electric power cuts. It looked as if these were going to be frequent until the OPEC oil mess was cleared up, which she hoped to goodness would be soon.

She hadn't let herself think too much about all that time she would have to spend at the hospital, but knew she would miss greatly being at home in her apartment. Ile hospital was reassuring, especially now, with its reliable supply of electricity. Just the same, it was an institution, fairly spartan, and as for the food there-yech!

The hospital food was another reason they were running late.

Josie had suggested, and Karen agreed, that it would be more pleasant if they had lunch at the apartment before leaving and, in any case, lunch at Redwood Grove would probably be over by the time they got there. So, when they came back from shopping, Josie prepared a meal for them both while Karen continued writing a new poem she intended to send to Nimrod.

Now, with lunch over, Josie was busy putting into a suitcase the things Karen would need at the hospital.

With a sudden surge of affection, Karen said, "Josie, what a dear, dear person you are! You do so much, never complain, and give me far more than I can ever give to you."

"You give me enough, just being with you," Josie said, without looking up as she continued to pack the suitcase. Karen knew that open displays of affection embarrassed her housekeeper-aide, but would not be put off.

"Josie, stop that and come here. I want to kiss you."

With a shy smile, Josie came.

"Put your arms around me," Karen told her. When she did, Karen kissed her and said, "Darling Josie, I love you very much "

"And I love you," Josie said, then broke loose and went back to her packing.

As she finished, she announced, "We're all set. I'll go down now and bring Humperdinck around. Will you be okay if I leave you?"

"Of course. While you're gone I'll make a phone call."

Josie put the telephone headband onto Karen. Then a minute or two later, as Josie left, Karen heard the apartment door close, Karen touched the telephone microswitch with her head. In her earpiece she heard a ringing tone, followed by a voice. "Operator. May I help you?"

"I have manual service, Operator. Will you dial for me, please?" Karen gave the number of her telephone, then the number she was calling-her parents' house.

"One moment." there was a series of clicks, then a ringing tone. Karen waited for the call to be answered-as it usually was on the second or third ring-but to her surprise the ringing continued. Karen had talked with her mother early this morning and knew that Henrietta Sloan was feeling unwell and did not intend to go to work today, nor did she plan to go out.

Karen thought: the operator had probably dialed a wrong number.

She broke the connection by moving her head against the microswitch and tried again. Again a continuous ring. Again no answer.

Karen tried another number-Cynthia's. Again, a continuous ringing tone, but no reply.

Unusually, Karen felt a vague unease. She was rarely alone in the apartment and, on the few occasions when she was, liked to be in touch with someone by telephone.

When she had told Josie she could go, she did so without thinking about it. Now she wished she hadn't.

At that precise moment several lights in the apartment went out, the window air-conditioner stopped, and Karen felt a slight break in rhythm as her respirator switched over from the building's supply to battery.

With a start, Karen remembered something which both she and Josie had overlooked. The battery on the wheelchair, which had been drawn on considerably during her shopping jaunt, ought to have been replaced immediately after she came in. Instead, Josie had plugged in the chair to the building supply and switched the chair battery to "charge."

However, the battery would need at least six hours of charging to recoup what it had lost this morning; it had had barely one, and now, with external power off, the charging would have stopped.

There was a spare, fully charged battery to the right of Karen's chair, ready to be installed before leaving for the hospital. Karen could see it. But there was no way she could connect it herself. She hoped the power would come back on in a few minutes. And, more than ever, she hoped Josie would return quickly.

Karen decided to telephone Nimrod. It seemed likely that the non-scheduled power cut he had said was "possible" and "a long shot" had actually happened.

But when she pressed the phone microswitch with her bead, all she got was a recorded announcement. "All circuits are busy. Please hang up and place your call later."

She tried again. "This is a recorded .

Once more. The same result.

Karen knew, from having read about it, that whenever there was a widespread blackout, phone lines became clogged because more people tried to use them than the system could handle. Also, many dialed "Operator" to ask what was happening, making it difficult to reach an operator too.

She began to be really alarmed. Where was Josie? Why was she taking so long? And why hadn't the janitor, Jimmy, come in to see if she was okay, as he always did when anything out of the ordinary occurred?

* * *

Though Karen had no means of knowing it, a combination of events had contributed to her predicament.

* * *

At 10:45 am, while Karen and Josie were getting ready to go shopping, Luther Sloan was arrested and charged with a total of sixteen offenses, all felonies, under Section 693C of the California Penal Code, which deals specifically with stealing gas.

Since that time, Henrietta Sloan, shocked, despairing, totally inexperienced in the matter, had been trying to arrange her husband's bail.

Shortly before noon she telephoned her elder daughter, Cynthia, appealing for help. Cynthia responded by asking a neighbor to take care of her one living-at-home child when he returned from school, then left to meet her mother. Cynthia's husband was at work and would not be home until evening.

While Karen had been trying to telephone her mother and sister, both were shuttling between a bail bondsman's office and the jail where Luther Sloan was held. They were in the visitors' section of the jail when the power cut occurred, but were unaware of it. The jail had its own standby generator and, while lights flickered off briefly, they came on again at once as the generator started up automatically and took hold.

Only a few minutes earlier, Henrietta Sloan and Cynthia had discussed phoning Karen, but decided against it, not wishing to distress her.

Neither of the two women, nor Luther Sloan, would know about the power cut for another two hours when bail was finally arranged and the trio left the jail together.

* * *

A few minutes before the lights in Karen's apartment went out and her wheelchair and respirator switched over to battery operation, Bob 3Ostrander had shouted to the chief operator at La Mission plant, "Hit those trips! Hit them now!"

When the operator did, the GSP & L transmission system was deprived, without warning, of three million two hundred thousand kilowatts of power, at a time when the utility was operating with a thin reserve, and on a warm May afternoon with load demand unseasonably high because of widespread use of air-conditioners.

The result: A monitoring computer, recognizing there was now insufficient power on line to meet demand, instantly opened high voltage circuit breakers, plunging a large area of the GSP & L system into blackout.

Karen's apartment building was in one of the areas affected.

* * *

Josie and the janitor, Jiminy, were trapped in the apartment building elevator and were shouting frantically, trying to attract attention.

After Josie left Karen she walked quickly to a service station close by where Humperdinck had been left overnight. The lessee knew Karen and allowed the van to be parked without charge. It took Josie less than ten minutes to collect Humperdinck and stop at the apartment house front door, where Karen's wheelchair could be conveniently loaded. The wizened old janitor was touching up paint outside when Josie returned.

He asked, "How's our girl Karen?"

"Fine," Josie answered, then she told him about going to Redwood Grove Hospital because of the next day's scheduled blackout. At that be put down his paint can and brush and said he would come up to see if there was anything he could do to help.

In the elevator, Jiminy pressed the button for the sixth floor and they began ascending. They were between the third floor and the fourth when the elevator stopped and its light went out. There was an emergency battery-powered lamp on a shelf and Jiminy reached up and switched it on, In its dim glow he pressed every button in sight, but nothing happened.

Soon after, they both began shouting for help.

They had now been shouting for twenty minutes without any response.

There was a small trapdoor in the roof of the elevator, but both Josie and Jimmy were short and, even perching on each other's shoulder swhich they tried in turn-they could move it only slightly but had no chance whatever of getting through. Even if they did, it was unlikely they could escape from the elevator shaft.

Josie had long ago remembered about Karen's low battery, which made her cries more desperate and, after a while, her tears flowed as her voice became hoarser.

Though they did not know it then, Josie and Jiminy would remain in the elevator for almost three hours until electric power was restored.

* * *

The telephone company would later report that, while its emergency generators functioned during the blackout, for an hour after it happened, demand for its services was unprecedented. Thousands of calls went uncompleted, and many who tried to reach operators for information were unable to do so.

* * *

Nim Goldman, under pressure on several fronts because of the sudden power failure, thought briefly of Karen and was relieved she had agreed to go to Redwood Grove Hospital early this morning. He decided that later, when things had eased a little, he would phone her there.

* * *

Karen was now white with fear, and sweating.

By this time she knew that something serious had happened to prevent Josie coming back.

She had tried to telephone again and again. Still, all that she could get was the recorded voice. She considered maneuvering her wheelchair and causing it to bang against the outside apartment door in the hope that someone might be passing and would hear, but to move the chair at all would drain, even faster, whatever strength remained in the battery.

Karen knew, through experience and calculation, that the battery could not last long, even to power her respirator. In fact, there was barely a quarter of an hour's life remaining in the battery. On returning from the shopping trip, its power was even more reduced than Karen supposed. Karen, whose religious beliefs had never been strong, began to pray. She begged God and Jesus Christ to send Josie, or Jiminy, or her parents, or Nimrod, or Cynthia, or anyone-anyone!

"All they have to do, God, is connect that other battery. The one down there, Jesus! Anybody can do it! I can tell them how. Oh please, God! Pleasel . . ."

She was still praying when she felt the respirator begin to slow, her breathing become slow and inadequate.

Frantically, she tried the telephone again. "'nis is a recorded announcement. All circuits are busy. Please bang up and . . ."

A high-pitched buzzer, connected to the respirator and powered by a small nickel cadmium cell, sounded a warning that the respirator was about to stop. Karen, her consciousness already diminishing, heard it dimly, as if from a long distance away.

As she began to gasp, helplessly craving air she could not take in unaided, her skin turned red, then blue as she became cyanotic. Her eyes bulged. Her mouth worked wildly. Then, as air ceased coming entirely, she choked; intense pain gripped her chest.

Soon, mercifully, the battery died and, with it, Karen.

Just before her death, her bead slumped sideways and, as it touched the telephone microswitch, a voice responded. "Operator. May I help you?"

19

In some ways, Nim thought, it was like the rerun of an old movie as be explained to the assembled press group, including TV and radio crews, what had happened at La Mission plant to cause the latest blackout. He reflected: Was it really just ten months ago that Walter Talbot and the others died, and Big Lil suffered bomb damage which caused last summer's blackout? So much had happened since, that the gap in time seemed wider.

Nim was aware of one difference, today. It was the attitude of the media people, compared with ten months earlier. Today, there seemed a genuine awareness of the problems GSP & L faced, and a sympathy which had previously been lacking.

"Mr. Goldman," Oakland Tribune asked, "if you get green lights to build the plants you need, bow long will it take to catch up?"

"Ten years," Nim answered. "Oh, if we had a real crash program, maybe eight. But we need a lot of permits and licenses before we can even begin. So far there isn't any sign of them."

He had come here, to a press conference in the observation gallery of the Energy Control Center, at Teresa Van Buren's request, shortly after the shutdown of all La Mission's remaining generators and the resultant blackout. Nim's first intimation that anything was wrong was when the lights in his office went briefly off and on. That was because special circuitry was protecting the utility's headquarters, and vital installations like the Energy Control Center, from loss of power.

Nim, guessing that something was wrong, had gone to Energy Control at once where Ray Paulsen, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, filled him in on what had happened.

"Ostrander did the right thing, and I'll back him up on it," Paulsen said. "If I'd been there, I'd have done the same."

"Okay, Ray," Nim acknowledged. "When I talk with the press I'll take that line."

"Something else you can tell them," Paulsen said, "is that we'll have all power back on in three hours or less. And by tomorrow, La Mission 1, 2, 3, and 4 will be on line again, and all geothermal units."

"Thanks. I will."

It was noticeable, Nim thought, that, in the press of events, the antagonism between him and Paulsen seemed to have evaporated. Perhaps it was because both of them were too busy for it.

Now, in the press conference, Nancy Molineaux asked, "Does this change any of the scheduled blackouts?"

"No," Nim responded. “They'll have to begin tomorrow, as planned, and continue every day after that."

Sacramento Bee inquired, "Will you be able to restrict them to three hours only?"

"It's unlikely," Nim said. "As our oil supplies diminish, the blackouts will have to be longer-probably six hours a day."

Someone whistled softly.

A TV newsman asked, "Have you heard there's been some rioting-demonstrations against the 'anti's?"

"Yes, I have. And in my opinion it doesn't help anybody, including US."

The demonstrations had happened last night. Nim read about them this morning. Stones were hurled through windows of the Sequoia Club and headquarters of the Anti-Nuclear League. Demonstrators at both places, who described themselves as "Ordinary Joe Citizens," had. clashed with police and several demonstrators were arrested. Later they were released without being charged. It was being freely predicted that there would be more demonstrations and rioting, presumably across the country, as unemployment increased because of power cuts. Amid it all, GSP & L's former critics and opponents were strangely silent.

Finally at the press conference, somebody asked, "What's your advice to people, Mr. Goldman?"

Nim grinned weakly. "Switch off everything you don't need to survive."

It was about two hours later, shortly after 6 pm., when Nim returned to his office.

He told Vicki, who was working late-it was getting to be a habit" Call Redwood Grove Hospital and ask to speak to Miss Sloan."

She buzzed him a few minutes later. “The hospital says they have no Miss Sloan registered."

Surprised, he queried, "Are they sure?"

"I asked them to make sure, and they checked twice for me."

“Then try her home number." He knew that Vicki had it, though he found it hard to believe that Karen would not have left her apartment for the hospital. This time, instead of buzzing, Vicki opened his office door and came in. Her face was serious.

"Mr. Goldman," she said, "I think you'd better take this call."

Puzzled, be picked up the phone. "Is that you, Karen?"

A choked voice said, "Nimrod, this is Cynthia. Karen is dead."

* * *

"Can't we go any faster?" Nim asked the driver.

"I'm doing my best, Mr. Goldman." the man's voice was reproachful.

“There's a lot of traffic, and more people than usual on the streets."

Nim had ordered a company car and chauffeur to be at the main doorway, rather than lose time getting his Fiat and driving himself. He arrived on the run and had given the address of Karen's apartment building. They were on the way there.

Nim's thoughts were in turmoil. He had obtained no details from Cynthia, only the bare fact that the power cut had been responsible for Karen's death. Nim already blamed himself-for failing to follow through, for not checking sooner to be sure Karen had gone to Redwood Grove.

Though knowing it was too late, he burned with impatience to arrive.

As a diversion, looking through the car's windows at the streets in gathering dusk, he considered what the driver had just said. There were many more people out than usual. Nim recalled reading about New York City during blackouts-people came out-of-doors in droves but, when asked, few knew why. Perhaps they were seeking instinctively to share adversity with their neighbors.

Others, of course, had taken to the New York streets to break the law, and burn, and plunder. Maybe, as time went on, both things would happen here.

Whether they did or didn't, Nim thought, one thing was certain: Patterns of life were changing significantly, and would change still more.

The city's lights were either on or coming on. Soon, the few remaining pockets without power would have theirs restored too.

Until tomorrow.

And the day after.

And, after that, who knew how prolonged or drastic the departure from normal life would be?

"Here you are, Mr. Goldman," the driver announced. They were at Karen's apartment building.

Nim said, "Please wait."

* * *

"You can't come in," Cynthia said. "Not now. It's too awful."

She had come out into the corridor when Nim arrived at the apartment, closing the door behind her. While the door was briefly open, Nim could hear someone inside having hysterics-it sounded like Henrietta Sloan-and a wailing which he thought was from Josie. Cynthia's eyes were red.

She told him as much as she knew about the series of misfortunes which added up to Karen's terrible, lonely death. Nim started to say what he had already thought, about blaming himself, when Cynthia stopped him.

"No! Whatever the rest of us did or didn't do, Nimrod, no one in a long time did as much for Karen as you. She wouldn't want you to feel guilt or blame yourself. She even left something for you. Wait!"

Cynthia went back inside and returned with a single sheet of blue stationery. "This was in Karen's typewriter. She always took a long time with anything like this and was probably working on it before . . . before. . ." Her voice choked; she shook her head, unable to finish.

"Thank you." Nim folded the sheet and put it in an inside pocket. "Is there anything at all I can do?"

Cynthia shook her head. "Not now." then, as he started to leave, she asked,

"Nimrod, will I see you again?"

He stopped. It was a clear and obvious invitation, just as be remembered the same invitation once before.

"Oh Christ, Cynthia," Nim said. "I don't know."

The damnable thing was, be thought, he wanted Cynthia, who was warm and beautiful and eager to give love. Wanted her, despite his reconciliation with Ruth, despite loving Ruth devotedly.

"If you need me, Nimrod," Cynthia said, "you know where I am."

He nodded as he turned away.

* * *

In the car, going back to GSP & L headquarters, Nim took out, and unfolded, the sheet of Karen's familiar stationery which Cynthia had given him.

Holding it under a dome light, he read:

Is it so strange, my dearest Nimrod,

That lights should be extinguished?

Rush lights have failed;

All fires that men have started

Burn low, and die.

Yet light, like life, survives:

The meanest gleam, a flaming brand,

Each holds a..

What did they hold? he wondered. What last sweet, loving thought of Karen's would he never know?

20

A rollaway bed had been brought into Nim's office. It was there when he returned, made up with sheets, a blanket and a pillow, as he had asked for it to be.

Vicki had gone home.

Thoughts of Karen still filled his mind. Despite Cynthia's words, his sense of guilt persisted. It was a guilt, not only for himself, but for GSP&L, of which he was a part, and which had failed her. In modern life, electricity had become a lifeline-for those like Karen, literally and it should not be broken, no matter what the cause. Reliability of service was, above all, the first duty, a near-sacred trust, of any public utility like GSP & L. And yet the lifeline would be broken-tragically, sadly, in a sense needlessly-again and again, beginning with tomorrow. Nim was sure that as rolling blackouts continued, there would be other losses and hardships, many unforeseen.

Would he ever shake off his guilt about Karen, he wondered? In time, perhaps, but not yet.

Nim wished there were someone be could talk to at this moment, in whom he could confide. But he had not told Ruth about Karen, and couldn't now.

He sat at his desk and put his face in his hands. After a while, be knew he must do something which would divert him mentally. For an hour or two, at least.

The events of the day-trauma piled on trauma-bad prevented him from dealing with the accumulated papers on his desk. If he failed to clear some of them tonight, be knew there would be twice as many tomorrow. But as much for mental relief as any other reason, he settled down to work. He had been concentrating for ten minutes when he heard the telephone in the outer office ring. He answered it on his extension.

"I'll bet," Teresa Van Buren's voice said, "you thought you were through being the company's mouthpiece for today."

"Since you mention it, Tess," he told her, "the idea had occurred to me."

The PR director chuckled. “The press never sleeps; more's the pity. I have two people over here who'd like to see you. One is AP, who has some supplementary questions for a national story on our rolling blackouts. The other is Nancy Molineaux, who won't say what the bell she wants, but wants something. How about it?"

Nim sighed. "Okay, bring them over."

There were moments-this was one-when he regretted the defection and departure of Mr. Justice Yale.

"I won't stay," the PR director said a few minutes later. She introduced AP, an elderly male reporter with rheumy eyes and a smoker's cough. Nancy Molineaux had elected to wait in the outer office until AP was through. The wire service man's questions were professional and thorough and he scribbled Nim's answers, in his own version of shorthand, on a batch of copy paper. When they had finished, be got up to go and asked, "Shall I send the doll in?"

"Yes, please."

Nim heard the outer door close, then Nancy entered.

"Hi!” she said.

As usual, she was stylishly, though simply, dressed-tonight in a silk shirtwaist dress, coral-colored, a perfect complement to her flawless black skin. Her handsome, high-cheekboned face seemed to have lost some-thought not all-of its haughtiness, Nim thought, perhaps because she had been friendlier, ever since their meeting in the Christopher Columbus Hotel, and the shattering events which followed it.

She sat down opposite him, crossing her long, shapely legs. Nim regarded them briefly, then looked away.

"Hi!" he acknowledged. "What can I do for you?"

“There's this." She got up and placed a long strip of paper on the desk in front of him. He saw it was a carbon copy of a teletype.

"It's a story that just broke," Nancy said. “The morning papers will have it. We'd like to develop it with some comments-yours for one for the afternoon."

Swinging his chair to where the light was better, Nim said, "Let me read this."

"Be hard to comment if you don't," she said lazily. "Take your time."

He scanned the news story quickly, then went back to the beginning and studied it carefully.

WASHINGTON, D.C., MAY 3-rN A DRAMATIC MOVE TO RESOLVE THE CURRENT OIL CRISIS, THE UNITED STATES IS TO ISSUE A NEW CURRENCY, TO BE KNOWN AS THE NEW DOLLAR. IT WILL BE BACKED BY GOLD AND BE WORTH TEN EXISTING DOLLARS.

THE PRESIDENT WILL ANNOUNCE THE NEW DOLLAR AT A WHITE HOUSE PRESS CONFERENCE TOMORROW AFTERNOON.

SOME WASHINGTON OFFICIALS HAVE ALREADY DUBBED THE NEW CURRENCY "THE HONEST DOLLAR."

THE OIL EXPORTING NATIONS OF OPEC WILL BE ASKED TO ACCEPT PAYMENT FORTHEIR OIL IN NEW DOLLARS, WITH PRICE ADJUSTMENTS TO BE NEGOTIATED.

INITIAL OPEC REACTION HAS BEEN CAUTIOUSLY FAVORABLE. HOWEVER, OPEC SPOKESMAN SHEIK AHMED MUSAED STATED THAT AN INDEPENDENT AUDIT OF UNITED STATES GOLD WOULD BE SOUGHT BEFORE ANY AGREEMENT BASED ON THE NEW DOLLAR COULD BE CONCLUDED.

WE WOULD NOT GO SO FAR AS TO SUGGEST THAT THE UNITED STATES HAS LIED ABOUT ITS GOLD RESERVES," SHEIK MUSAED TOLD REPORTERS TONIGHT IN PARIS, "BUT THERE HAVE BEEN PERSISTENT RUMORS, WHICH CANNOT BE BRUSHED ASIDE LIGHTLY, THAT THEY ARE NOT AS LARGE AS OFFICIALLY STATED. THEREFORE WE WISH TO MAKE SURE THAT COLD BACKING OF THE NEW DOLLAR IS REAL AND NOT ILLUSORY."

THE PRESIDENT IS EXPECTED TO INFORM AMERICANS THAT THEY CAN ACQUIRE NEW DOLLARS BY SURRENDERING THEIR OLD DOLLARS AT THE RATE OF TEN TO ONE. THE CHANGE WILL BE VOLUNTARY AT FIRST BUT, UNDER PROPOSED LEGISLATION, COMPULSORY WITHIN FIVE YEARS. AFTER THAT, THE OLD DOLLAR WILL BE PHASED OUT, HAVING VALUE ONLY AS A COLLECTOR'S ITEM.

AT HIS NEWS CONFERENCE THE PRESIDENT WILL UNDOUBTEDLY BE ASKED . . .

Nim thought: So the possibility which GSP & L's Washington lobbyist had mentioned last week had become reality.

He was aware of Nancy Molineaux, waiting.

"I'm no financial genius," Nim said. "But I don't think you need to be one to know that what's happening here"-be tapped the teletype sheet with a finger-"has been inevitable for a long time, since inflation started and, after that, we let ourselves get dependent on imported oil. Unfortunately, a lot of decent, middle-class folk who've worked bard and accumulated savings, are the ones who'll be hurt most when they line up to trade their dollars ten for one. Even now, though, all that this does is buy us some time. Time until we stop purchasing oil we can't afford, stop spending money we don't have, and begin developing our own, untapped energy resources."

"Thanks," Nancy said; "that'll do nicely." She put away a notebook she had been writing in. "Over at the paper, by the way, they seem to think that you're Sir Oracle. Oh yes, and speaking of which, you might 4like to know that in Sunday's edition we're reprinting what you said at that hearing last September-the one where you blew up and got yourself in the shit. Suddenly it all makes more sense than it seemed to then." A thought occurred to her. "Do you want to tell me-for the record-how you feel about all that?"

On impulse, Nim opened a drawer of his desk and took out a folder. From it he extracted a sheet of blue stationery and read aloud:

Be, at that harvest moment, forgiving, gracious,

Broad of mind, large-purposed,

Amused by life's contrariness.

"Not bad," Nancy said. "Who wrote that?"

"A friend of mine." He found he was having trouble speaking. "A friend who died today."

There was a silence, then she asked, "May I read it all?"

"I don't see why not." He handed her the paper.

When Nancy had finished, she looked up. "A woman?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Was that the reason you looked the way you did when I came in here tonight-like you'd been swept up from a stable floor?"

Nim smiled briefly. "If that's the way I looked, I suppose the answer's 'yes."'

Nancy put the sheet of stationery on top of the folder on his desk. "Want to tell me about it? Off the record, if you like."

"Yes," he said, "it'll be off the record. Her name was Karen Sloan. She was a quadriplegic, and had been one since she was fifteen." He stopped.

"Go on," Nancy said. "I'm listening."

"I think she was the most beautiful person-in every way-I've ever known."

A pause, then: "How did you meet her?"

"Accidentally. It happened right after that blackout last July Barely an hour ago Nim had longed for someone to talk to, to confide in.

Now, he poured it out to Nancy. She listened, interjecting an occasional question, but was mostly silent. When be described the manner of Karen's death, she stood up, moved around the room, and said softly, "Oh, baby! Baby!"

"So you see," Nim said, "I guess looking like something from a stable floor wasn't all that surprising."

Nancy had returned to the desk. She pointed to his spread-out papers.

“Then why are you bothering with all that crap?"

"I had work to do. Still have."

"Bullshit! Dump it and go home."

He shook his head and glanced toward the bed. "Tonight I'm sleeping here. We still have problems, and tomorrow-remember?-we start rolling blackouts."

"Then come home with me."

He must have looked startled because she added softly, "My pad is five minutes away. You can leave the phone number, then if you have to, you can get back here fast. If you don't get called, I'll make breakfast in the morning, before you leave."

They stood facing each other. Nim was aware of a musky perfume, of Nancy's slim, willowy, desirable body. He had an urge to know more about her. Much more. And he knew-as had happened so often in his life, and for the second time tonight-he was being tempted by a woman.

"You won't get the offer again," she said sharply. "So make up your mind. Yes or no?"

He hesitated for the briefest second. Then he told her, "Okay, let's go.