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"sometimes life causes one family to suffer-tbe way it seems: firing at

it with both barrels-wbile other families go untouched. It isn't logical,

it isn't fair. But it happens. I can think of other instances; so can

you."

"How do we know those other instances weren't punishments also?"

"Because there's no way they could be. Because all of life is chance-

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the chances we make ourselves, by error or bad luck, including the bad luck

of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all it is, Ardythe,

and it's madness to blame yourself, in any way, for what's happened to

Wally."

She answered dully, "I want to believe you. But I can't. Leave me now, Nim.

They're going to send me home this afternoon."

Standing, he told her, "I'll drive out soon."

She shook her head. "I'm not sure you should. But phone me."

He bent to kiss her cheek, then remembering her wishes, abandoned the

attempt and went out quietly.

His mind was in turmoil. Clearly, Ardytbe needed psychiatric help, but if

Nim himself suggested it to Mary or anyone else, be would have to explain

why-in detail. Even under the seal of medical confidence, he couldn't see

himself doing that. At least, not yet.

The grief about Wally, Ardythe, and his own dilemma stayed with him through

the day, refusing to be pushed away.

As if that wasn't enough, Nim was pilloried that afternoon in the

California Examiner.

He had wondered if, in view of the emergency employment of a belicopter to

airlift Wally out of Devil's Gate Camp, Nancy Molineaux might abandon her

intention to write about the helicopter's other uses.

She hadn't.

Her story was in a box facing the editorial page.

The Captains and the Kings

. . . and GSP & L's Mr. Goldman

Ever wonder what it would be like to have a private helicopter whisk you

wherever you wanted while you sat back and relaxed?

Most of us will never experience that exotic pleasure.

Those who do fall into certain categories-the President of the United

States, the Shah of Iran, the late Howard Hughes, occasionally the Pope,

and, oh yes, certain favored executives of your friendly public utility,

Golden State Power & Light. For example-Mr. Nimrod Goldman.

Why Goldman?, you might ask.

Well, it seems that Mr. Goldman, who is a GSP & L vice president, is too

important to ride on a bus, even though one -privately chartered by

Golden State Power-was going his way the other day and had plenty of

spare seats. Instead be chose a helicopter which . . .

There was more, along with a picture of a GSP & L helicopter and an

unflattering portrait of Nim which, he suspected, Ms. Molineaux chose from

the newspaper's files.

Especially damaging was a paragraph which read:

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Electric and gas consumers, already beset by high utility bills, and who

have been told that rates must soon go up again, may wonder about the way

their money is being spent by GSP & L, a quasi-public company. Perhaps

if executives like Nimrod Goldman were willing to travel-like the rest

of us-less glamorously, the resultant savings, along with other

economies, could help hold down those persistent rate increases.

In midafternoon Nim folded the newspaper and flagged the article, then gave

it to J. Eric Humphrey's secretary. "Tell the chairman I figured he'd see

this anyway, so he might as well get it from me."

Minutes later Humphrey strode into Nim's office and tossed the paper down.

He was angrier than Nim had ever seen him and, uncharacteristically, raised

his voice. "In God's name what were you thinking of to get us into this

mess? Don't you know the Public Utilities Commission is considering our

application for a rate increase, and will hand down a decision in the next

few days? This is just the kind of thing to raise a public clamor which

could make them cut our throats."

Nim released some irritability of his own. "Of course I know that." He

motioned to the newspaper. "I'm as upset about this as you are. But that

damn woman reporter had her scalping knife out. If she hadn't picked the

helicopter, it would have been something else."

"Not necessarily; not if she hadn't found anything. By using the helicopter

indiscreetly as you did, you dumped an opportunity in her lap."

On the point of snapping back, Nim decided to keep quiet. Taking blame

unfairly, he supposed, could be considered part of an assistant's job. Only

two weeks earlier the chairman had told his senior aides at an informal

meeting, "If you can save yourself half a day's travel, and do your job

faster and more efficiently, use a company helicopter because it's cheaper

in the long run. I realize we need those aircraft for transmission line

patrols and emergencies, but when they're not in use that way, it costs

very little more to have them in the air than it does to keep them on the

ground."

Something else Eric Humphrey had presumably forgotten was asking Nim to

take on the two-day press briefing and to represent him at an important

Chamber of Commerce meeting the morning of the first day of the press tour.

There was no way Nim could have done both without using the helicopter.

However, Humphrey was a fair man and would probably remember later. Even if

be failed to, Nim reasoned, it didn't much matter.

But that three-day combination of events bad left him exhausted and

melancholy. Thus, when Harry London, who knew some-though not all-of the

reasons behind Nim's depression, bad dropped in to suggest some drinking

after work, Nim accepted promptly.

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Now he felt the liquor taking hold and, while he wasn't any happier, an

increasing numbness was somehow comforting. In a corner of his brain

still functioning with clarity, Nim. despised himself for what he was

doing, and the implied weakness. Then he reminded himself it didn't

happen often-he couldn't remember the last time he had had too much to

drink-and maybe just letting yourself go once in a while, saying to hell

uith everythingi, could be therapeutic.

"Let me ask you something, Harry," Nim said thickly. "You a religious

man? Do you believe in God?"

Once more London drank deeply, then used a handkerchief to wipe beer foam

from his lips. "No to the first. About the second, put it this way: I've

never made a big deal about not believing."

"How about personal guilt? You carry a lot of that around?" Nim was

remembering Ardytbe, who had asked: "Doesn't your religion teach you to

believe in God's anger and punishment?" This afternoon he had dismissed

the question. Since then, annoyingly, it had replayed itself in his mind

several times.

"I guess everybody's got some guilts." London seemed inclined to end his

statement there, then changed his mind and added, "I sometimes think

about two guys in Korea, close buddies of mine. We were on a recce patrol

near the Yalu River. Those two were further forward than the rest of us,

then we were all pinned down by enemy fire. The two guys needed help to

get back. I was a topkick, in charge, and should have led the rest of us

right then, taking a chance to reach them. While I was still dithering,

making up my mind, the gooks found them; a grenade blew them both to

bits. That's a guilt I carry around; that and some others."

He drank again, then said, "You know what you're doing, pal? You're

getting us both . . . what's that word?"

"Maudlin," Nim said, having trouble pronouncing it.

"You got it! . . . maudlin." Harry London nodded solemnly as the cocktail

bar pianist began playing As Time Goes By.

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PART TWO

I

Davey Birdsong, who had been inspecting the Sequoia Club's impressive

headquarters, inquired cheekily, "Where's the chairman's private sauna?

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

"We don't have either," Laura Bo Carmichael said, a trifle stiffly. She

was not entirely at case with the bearded, portly, jesting Birdsong, who,

though a naturalized American for many years, still exhibited some of the

rough outback manners of his native Australia. Laura Bo, who had met

Birdsong a few times previously at outside meetings, equated him with the

"Jolly Swagman" in Waltzing Matilda.

Which was ridiculous, of course, and she knew it. Though Davey Birdsong

seemed to make a point of sounding uncultured and dressed the same

way-today be wore shabby, patched jeans and running shoes with string for

laces-tbe Sequoia Club chairman was well aware he was a scholar of

stature, holding a master's degree in sociology, as well as being a

part-time lecturer at the University of California at Berkeley. He had

also put together a coalition of consumer, church and left-wing political

groups which called itself p & lfp-or, power & light for people. (The

lower case initials were, in Birdsong's words, "to emphasize we are not

capitalists.")

The declared aim of p&lfp was "to fight the profit-bloated monster GSP

& L on all fronts." In various confrontations so far, p & lfp had opposed

rate increases for electricity and gas, had fought licensing of a nuclear

power plant, had objected to GSP & L public relations activities"ruthless

propaganda unwillingly paid for by consumers," was bow Birdsong and p &

lfp described it-and had urged a compulsory takeover of the power company

by municipalities. Now, Birdsong's movement was seeking to join forces

with the prestigious Sequoia Club in opposing the latest GSP & L

expansion plans. That proposal was to be reviewed at a meeting with top

club officials, due to begin shortly.

"Geez, Laura baby," Birdsong observed, his gaze still roaming the im-

posing paneled boardroom where they were talking, "I guess it's real

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soul-inspiring to work in a ritzy layout like this. You should see my dump.

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

She told him, "Our headquarters was deeded to us many years ago as part of

a bequest. A condition was that we occupy the building; otherwise we would

not receive the substantial income which accompanies it." At certain

moments-this was one of them-Laura Bo Carmichael found the stately Cable

Hill mansion, which the Sequoia Club occupied, something of an

embarrassment. It was once a millionaire's town house which still bespoke

wealth, and personally she would have preferred simpler quarters. To move,

however, would have been financial madness. She added, "I'd prefer you not

call me 'Laura baby."'

"I'll make a note of that." Grinning, Birdsong produced a notebook,

unclipped a ball-point pen and wrote something down.

Putting the notebook away, he regarded the slight, trim figure of Mrs.

Carmichael, then said reflectively, "Bequests, eh? From dead donors. I

guess that, and those big live donors, is what keeps the Sequoia Club so

rich."

"Rich is a relative word." Laura Bo Carmichael wished the three of her

colleagues who were to join her for this meeting would arrive. "It's true