14

At approximately the same moment that Georgos Archambault made his decision to bomb La Mission for the second time, Harry London faced Nim Goldman.

“No!” London said. “Goddammit no! Not for you, Nim, or anybody else.”

Nim said patiently, “All I’ve asked you to do is consider some special circumstances. I happen to know the Sloan family …”

The two men were in Nim’s office. Harry London, standing, leaned across the desk between them. “You may know the family, but I know the case. It’s all in here. Read it!” The Property Protection chief, his face flushed, slammed down a bulky file.

“Calm down, Harry,” Nim said. “And I don’t need to read the file. I’ll take your word about the kind of case it is, and how messy.”

A short time ago, remembering his promise to Karen the previous evening, Nim had telephoned Harry London to see if he knew of a theft of service case involving a Luther Sloan.

“You bet I do,” had been the answer.

When Nim disclosed his personal interest, London had stated, “I’ll come up.”

Now Harry London insisted, “You’re damn right it’s a messy case. Your friend Sloan has been bypassing meters—lots of them—for better than a year.”

Nim said irritably, “He isn’t my friend. His daughter is.”

“One of your many women friends, no doubt.”

“Knock it off, Harry!” Nim, too, was becoming angry. “Karen Sloan is a quadriplegic.”

He went on to describe the Sloan family, how both parents helped Karen financially, and how Luther Sloan had gone into debt to buy a special van for Karen’s use. “One thing I’m certain of. Whatever Karen’s father did with any money he made, he didn’t spend it on himself.”

London said contemptuously, “So does that make thievery any better? Of course it doesn’t, and you know it.”

“Yes, I know it. But surely, if we also know of extenuating circumstances, we could be less tough.”

“Just what did you have in mind?”

Nim ignored the caustic tone. “Well, maybe we could insist on restitution, let Luther Sloan pay back whatever was stolen, giving him some time to do it, but not launch criminal proceedings.”

Harry London said coldly, “So that’s your suggestion?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Nim,” London said, “I never thought the day would come when I’d stand here and hear you say what you just did.”

“Oh, for Chrissakes, Harry! Who knows what they’ll say and do in certain situations?”

“I do. And I know what I’m saying now: The Sloan case will take its course, which means a criminal charge is going to be laid within the next few days. Unless, of course, you decide to fire me and do it your way.”

Nim said wearily, “Harry, stop talking bilge.”

There was a silence, then London said, “Nim, you’re thinking of Yale, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re thinking that old man Yale got away with power theft, or at least involvement in it, so why shouldn’t Luther Sloan? You’re figuring there was one law for the big cheese, now another law for the little guy—your friend’s father. Right?”

Nim nodded. “Yes, I was thinking pretty much along those lines.”

“Well, you’re right. That’s the way it is, and I’ve seen it happen at other times, in other places. The privileged, the powerful, those with money, can bend the law or get themselves a better deal. Oh, not always, but often enough to make justice unequal. But that’s the way the system works, and while I may not like it, I didn’t make it. However, I’ll also tell you this: If I’d had the solid evidence against Mr. Justice Yale that I have against Luther Sloan, I’d never have backed down the way I did.”

“Then there is strong evidence?”

London gave a twisted grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Okay, so tell me.”

“Nim, in the Quayle setup, Luther Sloan was the gas man. They gave him most of the illegal gas work which came their way, probably because he was damn good at it. I’ve seen some of the jobs he did, and there were plenty; we have details from the Quayle records and the goods on him. Something else: You talked just now about Sloan making restitution. Well, as far as we can estimate, the illicit work he did has cost GSP & L, in gas revenue losses, about two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. And from what you tell me, Sloan might not have that kind of dough.”

Nim threw up his hands. “Okay, Harry. You win.”

London shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t. Nobody wins. Not me, not you, not GSP & L, and certainly not Luther Sloan. I’m simply doing my job, the way I’m supposed to.”

“And doing it honestly,” Nim said. “Maybe more so than the rest of us.”

Nim found himself regretting what had just passed between himself and Harry London. He wondered if their friendship would ever be quite the same again. He rather doubted it.

“Be seeing you, I guess,” London said. He picked up the file he had brought with him, and left.

Nim supposed he would have to call Karen and deliver the bad news. He dreaded doing it. However, before he could pick up the telephone, his office door flew open and Ray Paulsen strode in.

The executive vice president of power supply asked brusquely, “Where’s the chairman?”

“He had a dental appointment,” Nim said. “Anything I can do for you?”

Paulsen ignored Nim’s question. “When will he be back?”

Nim checked his watch. “I’d say in an hour.”

Paulsen looked weary and haggard, Nim thought, his shoulders more stooped than usual, his hair and beetling eyebrows grayer than a month ago. It was not surprising. They had all been under strain—Ray Paulsen, because of his large responsibilities, as much as anyone.

“Ray,” Nim said, “if you’ll excuse me for saying so, you look like hell. Why not take it easy for a few minutes? Sit down, switch off, and I’ll send for coffee.”

Paulsen glared and appeared on the point of answering angrily. Then, abruptly, his expression changed. Dropping heavily into a soft leather chair, he said, “Do that.”

Nim buzzed Vicki on the intercom and ordered coffee for them both. Afterward he went around the desk and took a chair near Paulsen.

“You might as well know what I came to tell the chairman,” Paulsen growled. “We’ve lost Big Lil.”

Nim’s calm deserted him. “We’ve what?”

Paulsen snapped, “You heard me the first time.”

“We’ve lost Big Lil!” Nim repeated. “For how long?”

“At least four months. More likely six.”

There was a knock and Vicki came in with two mugs of coffee. While she set them on a table, Nim stood up and began pacing restlessly. Now he could understand Paulsen’s distress, and share it. Big Lil, La Mission No. 5, the largest single generator in the system, supplied a massive million and a quarter kilowatts, equal to six percent of GSP & L’s maximum load. At any time the sudden loss of Big Lil would create major problems, as was demonstrated after the bombing last July. In the present circumstances it was calamitous.

“People!” Paulsen exploded. “Son-of-a-bitching, stupid people! You think you have it all figured, spell out every procedure clearly, then some incompetent clown lets you down.” He reached for a coffee mug and drank.

Nim asked, “What happened?”

“We’ve had Big Lil off the line for a week for routine maintenance,” Paulsen said. “You knew that.”

“Yes. It was due back on line today.”

“So it would have been. Except for a damn fool operator.” Paulsen slammed a fist into his palm. “I could skin the bastard alive.”

Angrily, gloomily, he spelled out the sorry details.

When a huge, steam-powered, oil-fueled generator like Big Lil was started up, procedures were elaborate and precise. An operator, working in a control room with a multitude of instruments to guide him, was trained to follow instructions carefully, step by step. A printed checklist was provided, undue haste forbidden. Normally, the entire process took several hours.

With Big Lil, as with any similar type generator, the boiler which provided steam was activated first. Projecting into the boiler, at various heights, were rings of oil guns—burners which sprayed atomized fuel. These were ignited remotely by the control room operator, level by level, starting at the bottom. For safety reasons, before a higher level was ignited, the level below it had to be burning.

Today, the operator—failing to check his instruments-thought the lowest level of oil guns was alight. It wasn’t.

As succeeding levels of burners came on, the lowest level continued to pour out unburned oil which pooled at the bottom of the boiler. Eventually the accumulated oil and vapor exploded.

“I thought there was a safety interlock …” Nim began.

“Hell!—of course there is.” Paulsen sounded as if he were about to weep. “It’s designed to prevent exactly what happened. But—can you believe this?—the damn fool operator overrode it manually. Said he wanted to bring the unit on line faster.”

“Jesus Christ!” Nim could understand Paulsen’s anger and frustration. He asked, “How much damage did the explosion do?”

“Plenty—to the internal boiler structure, much of the duct and flue work, more than half the water-wall tubes.”

Nim whistled softly. He felt sympathy for Paulsen, but knew that words would do no good. He also realized that a four-month estimate for repairs was optimistic.

“This changes everything, Ray,” Nim said, “especially about rolling blackouts.”

“Don’t I know it!”

Mentally, Nim was running over problems and logistics. Although Big Lil was an oil burner and eventually could fall victim to the OPEC embargo, it was by far the most economical oil-fueled generator the utility had. Now, Big Lil’s output would have to be made up by other units which would use more fuel. Therefore, suddenly, GSP & L’s total oil reserves represented a great deal less electric power than before.

Thus it followed, even more than previously: All oil stocks must be used cagily, rationed strictly.

“Blackouts should start within the next few days,” Nim said.

Paulsen nodded. “I agree.” He got up to go.

“Ray,” Nim said, “I’ll let you know as soon as the chairman comes in.”

“My recommendation,” Nim said at a hastily called conference on Friday afternoon, “is that we begin blackouts on Monday.”

Teresa Van Buren protested, “It’s too soon! We’ve already announced they won’t begin until the week after next. Now you’re saying you’d advance that ten days. We’ve got to give the public more warning.”

“Warning be damned!” Paulsen snapped. “This is a crisis.”

With wry amusement, Nim thought: For once he and Paulsen were in agreement, ranged against the others.

There were five of them, seated around a conference table in the chairman’s office suite—J. Eric Humphrey, Paulsen, Van Buren, Nim and Oscar O’Brien. The general counsel had been called in to consider any legal implications of the blackouts.

Prior to this conference, Nim had had several meetings with department heads to review the latest figures on GSP & L’s oil stocks. They showed supplies were diminishing faster than anticipated, probably due to unseasonably warm weather and heavy use of air-conditioners.

Nim had also telephoned a Washington, D.C., lawyer-lobbyist who represented GSP & L on Capitol Hill. His report was: No breakthrough, or any sign of one, in the United States-OPEC deadlock. The lawyer added, “There’s talk around here of plans to issue a new currency—an external, gold-backed dollar to satisfy OPEC. But it’s talk, no more, and not enough to get the oil moving.”

Nim had passed on the Washington report to the chairman and the others.

“I agree with Tess,” Oscar O’Brien said, “that we ought to give as much advance warning about blackouts as we can.”

Eric Humphrey queried, “Suppose we hold off until next Wednesday and start the blackouts then? That’s five days from now, which should give people time to prepare.”

After more discussion they agreed on Wednesday.

“I’ll call a press conference immediately,” Van Buren said. She addressed Nim. “Can you be available in an hour?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

The remainder of the day proceeded at the same frenetic pace.

Amid the rush of decision-making and conferences, Nim postponed his intended call to Karen, and it was not until late Friday afternoon that he found time to phone her.

Josie answered first, then Karen came on the line. He knew she would be wearing the special lightweight headband, earpiece and microphone which, with a microswitch close to her head, enabled her to use the telephone without assistance if she wished. By arrangement with the phone company, Karen was able to reach an operator directly and have any number dialed for her.

“Karen,” Nim said, “I’m calling about your father. I made some inquiries to see if there was anything I could do, but I have to tell you that there isn’t. What’s happening has gone too far.” He added, hoping it would not sound banal, “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Karen said, and he sensed her dejection. “But I’m grateful to you for trying, Nimrod.”

“The only advice I can give,” he told her, “is that your father get himself a good lawyer.”

There was a silence, then she asked, “Is it really that bad?”

There seemed no point in lying. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Nim decided not to pass along Harry London’s statement that a criminal charge would be laid within the next few days, or London’s estimate of a two-hundred-and-thirty-thousand-dollar loss to GSP & L. Both items of news would be known soon enough.

“The strange thing is,” Karen said, “I’ve always thought of Daddy as the most honest person I know.”

“Well,” Nim acknowledged, “I’m not making excuses for your father. I can’t. But I guess, sometimes, there are pressures which do strange things to people. Anyway, I’m sure that whatever was behind what he did will be considered in court.”

“But he didn’t need to; that’s the tragic thing. Oh, I’ve enjoyed the extra things my parents have made possible with money, including Humperdinck. But I could have managed without.”

Nim didn’t feel like telling Karen that obviously her father had seen a way to expiate some of his guilt feelings, and had taken it. That was something a psychologist or the courts, or maybe both, would have to unravel and pass judgment on. Instead, Nim asked, “You still have Humperdinck?”

“Yes. Whatever else is happening, Humperdinck hasn’t been repossessed yet.”

“I’m glad,” he said, “because you’ll need the van next week.”

He went on to tell her about the new schedule of rolling blackouts beginning Wednesday. “In your area, power will go off at 3 P.M. Wednesday and stay off for at least three hours. So, to be safe, you should go to Redwood Grove Hospital sometime during the morning.”

“Josie will take me,” Karen said,

“If there’s any change,” Nim told her, “I’ll call you. Also we’ll talk about other blackouts later. Oh, by the way, I checked on the Redwood Grove emergency generator. It’s in good shape and the fuel tank is full.”

“It’s truly wonderful,” Karen said, with a flash of her normal brightness, “to be cared about so much.”