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 how 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 hear 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 A.M. 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.

GSP&L

Cheats

Consumers

Let the People,

Not Fat Cat

Capitalists,

Own GSP & L

p & Ifp 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 brought 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 hall, 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 Denver. 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?”

“Right! 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 Denver 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.”

Christ! Nim didn’t need a calculator to know it was his child. His emotions were whirling, as if in a blender, and what the hell 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 any more. 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—an 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 corner 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 headed 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 hands 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 any more. 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. If it 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 hastily. “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,” he 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.