Overload (20 page)

never have entirely. There it is, over there."

He crossed to a window of the trailer and pointed to a fenced-in area a

quarter mile away. Inside the fence, steam rose sporadically at a dozen

points through bubbling mud. Outside, large red signs warned: EXTREME

DANGER-KEEP AWAY. The others craned to see, then returned to their seats.

"When Old Desperado blew," Nim said, "for a mile around it was raining

hot mud, with rocks cascading down like hail. It did a lot of damage.

Muck settled on power lines and transformers, shorting everything,

putting us out of action for a week. Fortunately, it happened at night

when few people were at work and there were only two injuries, no deaths.

The second blowout, of another well, was less severe. No casualties."

"Could Old Desperado ever blow again?" the stringer for small-town papers

inquired.

"We believe not. But, like everything else to do with nature, there's no

guarantee."

"The point is," Nancy Molineaux insisted, "there are accidents."

"Accidents happen everywhere," Nim said tersely. "The point Tess was

making, correctly, is that the incidence is low. What's your second

question?"

"It's this: Assuming everything the two of you have said is true, why

isn't geothermal more developed?"

"That's easy," New West offered. "They'll blame environmentalists."

Nim countered sharply, "Wrong! Okay, Golden State Power has had

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its differences with environmentalists, and will probably have more. But

the reason geothermal resources haven't been developed faster is-poli-

ticians. Specifically, the U. S. Congress."

Van Buren shot Nim a warning look which he ignored.

"Hold it!" one of the TV correspondents said. "I'd like some of this on

film. If I make notes now, will you do it again outside?"

"Yes," Nim agreed. "I will."

"Christ!" Oakland Tribune protested. "Us real reporters will settle for

once around. Let's cut the crap and get on!"

Nim nodded. "Most of the land which should have been explored, long ago,

for geothermal potential is federal government property."

"In which states?" someone asked.

"Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico. And

lots more sites in California."

Another voice urged, "Keep going!" Heads were down, ball-points racing.

"Well," Nim said, "it took a full ten years of Congressional do-nothing,

double-talk and politics before legislation was passed which authorized

geothermal leasing on public lands. After that were three more years of

delay while environmental standards and regulations got written. And even

now only a few leases have been granted, with ninety percent of

applications lost in bureaucratic limbo."

"Would you say," San lose Mercury prompted, "that during all this time

our patriotic politicians were urging people to conserve power, pay

higher fuel costs and taxes, and be less dependent on imported oil?"

Los Angeles Times growled, "Let him say it. I want a direct quote."

"You have one," Nim acknowledged. "I accept the words just used."

Teresa Van Buren broke in firmly. "That's enough! Let's talk about

Fincastle Valley. We'll all be driving there as soon as we're finished

here."

Nim grinned. "Tess tries to keep me out of trouble, not always suc-

ceeding. Incidentally, the helicopter's going back shortly; I'm staying

with you through tomorrow. Okay-Fincastle." He produced a map from a

briefcase and pinned it to a bulletin board.

"Fincastle-you can see it on the map-is two valleys over to the east.

It's unoccupied land and we know it's a geothermal area. Geologists have

advised us there are spectacular possibilities-for perhaps twice the

electric power being generated here. Public bearings on our Fincastle

plans are, of course, to begin soon."

Van Buren asked, "May I. . . . ?"

Nim stepped back and waited.

"Let's spell out something loud and clear," the p.r. director told the

group. "In advance of the bearings we aren't trying to convert Nrou, or

to undercut the opposition. We simply want you to understand what's

involved, and where. Thanks, Nim."

"A piece of gut information," Nim continued, "about Fincastle-and

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also Devil's Gate which we'll visit tomorrow-is this: They represent a

Niagara of Arab oil which America will not have to import. Right now

our geothermal setup saves ten million barrels of oil a year. We can

triple that if . . ."

The briefing, with its information and cross-examination, leavened by

badinage, rolled on.

15

The pale blue envelope bore a typewritten address which began:

NIMROD GOLDMAN, ESQUIRE-PERSONAL

A note from Nim's secretary, Vicki Davis, was clipped to the envelope.

It read:

Mr. London, himself, put this through the mailroom metal detector. He

says it's okay for you to open.

Vicki's note was satisfactory on two counts. It meant that mail arriving

at GSP & L headquarters and marked "personal" (or "private and

confidential," as the recent letter bombs had been) was being handled

warily. Also, a newly installed detection device was being used.

Something else Nim had become aware of: Since the traumatic day on which

Harry London had almost certainly saved the lives of Nim and Vicki Davis,

London appeared to have appointed himself Nim's permanent protector.

Vicki, who nowadays regarded the Property Protection Department bead with

something close to veneration, co-operated by sending him an advance

daily schedule of Nim's appointments and movements. Nim had learned of

the arrangement accidentally and was unsure whether to be grateful,

irritated or amused.

In any case, he thought, be was a long way from Harry's surveillance now.

Nim, Teresa Van Buren, and the press party had spent last night here at

a Golden State Power outpost-Devil's Gate Camp-baving continued by bus

from Fincastle Valley. It had been a four-hour journey, in part through

the breathtaking beauty of Plumas National Forest.

The camp was thirty-five miles from the nearest town and sheltered in a

rugged fold of mountains. It comprised a half-dozen companvowned houses

for resident engineers, foremen and their families, a small school-now

closed for summer vacation-and two motel-type bunkhouses, one for GSP &

L employees, the second for visitors. High over-

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head were high voltage transmission lines on steel-gridded towers-a reminder

of the small community's purpose.

The press party had been divided by sex, then housed four to a room in the

visitors' quarters, which were plain but adequate. There had been mild

grumbling about the four-in-a-room arrangement, one implication being that,

given more privacy, some bed-hopping might have developed.

Nim had a room to himself over in the employees' bunkhouse. After dinner

last night he stayed on for drinks with some of the reporters, joined a

poker game for a couple of hours, then excused himself and turned in

shortly before midnight. This morning be bad awakened refreshed, and was

now ready for breakfast, which would be in a few minutes, at 7:30 A.M.

On a veranda outside the employees' bunkhouse, in the clear morning air, be

examined the blue envelope, turning it over in his hand.

It had been brought by a company courier, traveling through the night like

a modern Paul Revere and bearing company mail for Devil's Gate and other

GSP&L frontiers. It was all part of an internal communications system, so

the letter for Nim imposed no extra burden. just the same, he thought

sourly, if Nancy Molineaux learned about a personal letter routed that way,

her bitchiness would have another workout. Fortunately she wouldn't.

The disagreeable reminder of the Molincaux woman had been prompted by

Teresa Van Buren. In bringing Nim his letter a fe-VN, minutes ago, Tess

reported that she, too, bad received one-containing information she had

asked for yesterday about helicopter costs. Nim was shocked. He protested,

"You're actually going to help that trollop nail us to a board?"

"Calling her nasty names won't change anything," Van Buren bad said

patiently, then added, "Sometimes you big-wheel executives don't understand

what public relations is all about."

"If that's an example, you're damn right!"

"Look-we can't win 'em all. I'll admit Nancy got under my skin yesterday,

but when I thought about it some more, I reasoned she's going to write

about that helicopter whatever we do or say. Therefore she might as well

have the correct figures because if she asks elsewhere, or someone guesses,

for sure they'll be exaggerated. Another thing: I'm being honest with Nancy

now, and she knows it. In future, when something else comes up, she']]

trust me and maybe that time will be a lot more important."

Nim said sarcastically, "I can hardly wait for that acid-mouthed sourpuss

to write something favorable."

-"See you at breakfast," the p.r. director had said as she left. "And do

yourself a -fav or_-___sim m-er do wn."

But he didn't. Now, still seething inwardly, be ripped open the blue

envelope.

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It contained a single sheet of paper, matching the blue envelope. At the

top was printed: From Karen Sloan.

Suddenly he remembered. Karen bad said: "Sometimes I write poetry. Would

you like me to send you some?" And he had answered yes.

The words were neatly typed.

Today I found a friend, Or maybe he found me, Or was it fate,

chance, circumstancePredestination, by whatever name? Were we

like nanoid stars whose orbits, Devised at time's beginning, In

due season Intersect? Though we will never know, No matter! For

instinct tells me That our friendship, nurtured, Will grow

strong.

So much of him I like: His quiet ways, warmth, A gentle wit, and

intellect, An honest face, kind eyes, a ready smile.

"Friend" is not easily defined. And yet, These things mean that

to me Concerning one whom, even now, I hope to see again And

count the days and hours Until a second meeting.

What else was it Karen had said that day in her apartment? "I can use a

typewriter. It's electric and I work it with a stick in my teeth."

With a flash of emotion Nim pictured her toiling-slowly, patiently -over

the words be had just read, her teeth gripping the stick tightly, her

blonde head-the only part of her she could move-repositioning itself after

each laborious effort to touch a keyboard letter. He wondered how many

drafts Karen had done before the letter-perfect final version she bad sent

him.

Unexpectedly, be realized, his mood bad changed. The sourness of a moment

earlier was gone, a warmth and gratitude replacing it.

On his way to join the press party at breakfast, Nim was surprised to meet

Walte~ Talbot Jr. Nim had not seen Wally since the day of his father's

funeral. Momentarily, Nim was embarrassed, remembering his recent visit to

Ardythe, then rationalized that Wally and his mother led separate,

independent lives.