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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 bad 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 wbereabouts,

He, was approaching- North Castle. How near to- his destinationdare be

drive? He decided: Within one mile.

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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 bad 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-witb base ingratitudetook

their informant into custody, charging him with being drunk in public.

Davey Birdsong was arrested, shortly after 5:30 A.M., 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

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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 Arcbambault 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.

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 A.M. 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.

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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 envy and much scurrying to catch up. The Chronicle's

editor, however, was big enough to send Nancy a halfdozen 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, bad 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. Pris-

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cilla 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 bad been working under deadline pressure since before dawn and,

having had no sleep the night before and being sustained only by coffee