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masturbate.

It was almost unbelievable how well and smoothly everything bad 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

wasi-only twice bad 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 bad

deliberately parked some distance from the hotel, partly to avoid the

possibility of being noticed, partly to get away quickly when be needed

3o8

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 communiqu6 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 A.M. 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 be 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 consumers 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 .

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Birdsong smiled as he thought about it and surreptitiously checked his

watch: 1:45 A.M.

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 bad

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 be 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 A.m. 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.

Nancy Molineaux enjoyed life's luxuries and her apartment, in an ex-

clusive, modern high-rise, reflected it.

The beige durrie living room rug by Stark matched vertical linen window

blinds. A Pace coffee table of smoked glass, cbrome 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.

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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 bad 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 any more." 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.

'Mis 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.

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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 au-

tomatic-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 A.M.. . .

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."

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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?"