“No!” Ms. Molineaux interrupted. “That’s your purpose. The press decides its own purposes, which may include some of yours, but also anything else we happen to see or hear and choose to write about.”
“She’s right, of course.” The comment came from a mild-mannered man in rimless glasses, representing the Sacramento Bee.
“Tess,” Nim told Van Buren as he sipped his vodka and tonic, “I just decided I prefer my job to yours.”
Several people laughed as the p.r. director shrugged.
“If all the horseshit’s finished,” Nancy Molineaux said, “I’d like to know the purchase price of that fancy egg-beater outside, and how much an hour it costs to operate.”
“I’ll inquire,” Van Buren told her, “and if the figures are available, and if we decide to make them public, I’ll make an announcement tomorrow. On the other hand, if we decide it’s internal company business, and none of yours, I’ll report that.”
“In which case,” Ms. Molineaux said, unperturbed, “I’ll find out some other way.”
Food had been brought in while they talked—a capacious platter of hot meat pies and, in large earthenware dishes, mashed potatoes and zucchini. Two china jugs held steaming gravy.
“Pile in!” Teresa Van Buren commanded. “It’s bunk-house food, but good for gourmands.”
As the group began helping itself, appetites sharpened by the mountain air, the tensions of a moment earlier eased. When the first course was eaten, a half-dozen freshly baked apple pies appeared, accompanied by a gallon of ice cream and several pots of strong coffee.
“I’m sated,” Los Angeles Times announced at length. He leaned back from the table, patted his belly and sighed. “Better talk some shop, Tess, while we’re still awake.”
The TV man who had mixed Nim’s drink now asked him, “How many years are these geysers good for?”
Nim, who had eaten sparingly, took a final sip of black, unsweetened coffee, then pushed his cup away. “I’ll answer that, but let’s clear up something first. What we’re sitting over are fumaroles, not geysers. Geysers send up boiling water with steam; fumaroles, steam only—much better for driving turbines. As to how long the steam will last, the truth is: no one knows. We can only guess.”
“So guess,” Nancy Molineaux said.
“Thirty years minimum. Maybe twice that. Maybe more.”
New West said, “Tell us what the hell’s going on down there in that crazy teakettle.”
Nim nodded. “The earth was once a molten mass—gaseous and liquid. When it cooled, a crust formed which is why we’re living here and now and not frying. Down inside, though—twenty miles down—it’s as damned hot as ever and that residual heat sends up steam through thin places in the crust. Like here.”
Sacramento Bee asked, “How thin is thin?”
“We’re probably five miles above the hot mass now. In that five miles are surface fractures where the bulk of the steam has collected. When we drill a well we try to hit such a fracture.”
“How many other places like this produce electricity?”
“Only a handful. The oldest geothermal generating plant is in Italy, near Florence. There’s another in New Zealand at Wairakei, and others in Japan, Iceland, Russia. None is as big as California’s.”
“There’s a lot more potential, though,” Van Buren interjected. “Especially in this country.”
Oakland Tribune asked, “Just where?”
“Across the entire western United States,” Nim answered. “From the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific.”
“It’s also one of the cleanest, non-polluting, safest forms of energy,” Van Buren added. “And—as costs go nowadays—cheap.”
“You two should do a soft-shoe routine,” Nancy Molineaux said. “All right—two questions. Number one: Tess used the word ‘safe.’ But there have been accidents here. Right?”
All the reporters were now paying attention, most of them writing in notebooks or with tape recorders switched on.
“Right,” Nim conceded. “There were two serious accidents, three years apart, each when wellheads blew. That is, the steam got out of control. One well we managed to cap. The other—‘Old Desperado’ it’s known as—we never have entirely. There it is, over there.”
He crossed to a window of the trailer and pointed to a fenced-in area a quarter mile away. Inside the fence, steam rose sporadically at a dozen points through bubbling mud. Outside, large red signs warned: EXTREME DANGER—KEEP AWAY. The others craned to see, then returned to their seats.
“When Old Desperado blew,” Nim said, “for a mile around it was raining hot mud, with rocks cascading down like hail. It did a lot of damage. Muck settled on power lines and transformers, shorting everything, putting us out of action for a week. Fortunately, it happened at night when few people were at work and there were only two injuries, no deaths. The second blowout, of another well, was less severe. No casualties.”
“Could Old Desperado ever blow again?” the stringer for small-town papers inquired.
“We believe not. But, like everything else to do with nature, there’s no guarantee.”
“The point is,” Nancy Molineaux insisted, “there are accidents.”
“Accidents happen everywhere,” Nim said tersely. “The point Tess was making, correctly, is that the incidence is low. What’s your second question?
“It’s this: Assuming everything the two of you have said is true, why isn’t geothermal more developed?”
“That’s easy,” New West offered. “They’ll blame environmentalists.”
Nim countered sharply, “Wrong! Okay, Golden State Power has had its differences with environmentalists, and will probably have more. But the reason geothermal resources haven’t been developed faster is—politicians. Specifically, the U. S. Congress.”
Van Buren shot Nim a warning look which he ignored.
“Hold it!” one of the TV correspondents said. “I’d like some of this on film. If I make notes now, will you do it again outside?”
“Yes,” Nim agreed. “I will.”
“Christ!” Oakland Tribune protested. “Us real reporters will settle for once around. Let’s cut the crap and get on!”
Nim nodded. “Most of the land which should have been explored, long ago, for geothermal potential is federal government property.”
“In which states?” someone asked.
“Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico. And lots more sites in California.”
Another voice urged, “Keep going!” Heads were down, ball-points racing.
“Well,” Nim said, “it took a full ten years of Congressional do-nothing, double-talk and politics before legislation was passed which authorized geothermal leasing on public lands. After that were three more years of delay while environmental standards and regulations got written. And even now only a few leases have been granted, with ninety percent of applications lost in bureaucratic limbo.”
“Would you say,” San Jose Mercury prompted, “that during all this time our patriotic politicians were urging people to conserve power, pay higher fuel costs and taxes, and be less dependent on imported oil?”
Los Angeles Times growled, “Let him say it. I want a direct quote.”
“You have one,” Nim acknowledged. “I accept the words just used.”
Teresa Van Buren broke in firmly. “That’s enough! Let’s talk about Fincastle Valley. We’ll all be driving there as soon as we’re finished here.”
Nim grinned. “Tess tries to keep me out of trouble, not always succeeding. Incidentally, the helicopter’s going back shortly; I’m staying with you through tomorrow. Okay—Fincastle.” He produced a map from a briefcase and pinned it to a bulletin board.
“Fincastle—you can see it on the map—is two valleys over to the east. It’s unoccupied land and we know it’s a geothermal area. Geologists have advised us there are spectacular possibilities—for perhaps twice the electric power being generated here. Public hearings on
our Fincastle plans are, of course, to begin soon.”
Van Buren asked, “May I.…?”
Nim stepped back and waited.
“Let’s spell out something loud and clear,” the p.r. director told the group. “In advance of the hearings we aren’t trying to convert you, or to undercut the opposition. We simply want you to understand what’s involved, and where. Thanks, Nim.”
“A piece of gut information,” Nim continued, “about Fincastle—and also Devil’s Gate which we’ll visit tomorrow—is this: They represent a Niagara of Arab oil which America will not have to import. Right now our geothermal setup saves ten million barrels of oil a year. We can triple that if …”
The briefing, with its information and cross-examination, leavened by badinage, rolled on.
15
The pale blue envelope bore a typewritten address which began:
NIMROD GOLDMAN, ESQUIRE—PERSONAL
A note from Nim’s secretary, Vicki Davis, was clipped to the envelope. It read:
Mr. London, himself, put this through the mailroom metal detector. He says it’s okay for you to open.
Vicki’s note was satisfactory on two counts. It meant that mail arriving at GSP & L headquarters and marked “personal” (or “private and confidential,” as the recent letter bombs had been) was being handled warily. Also, a newly installed detection device was being used.
Something else Nim had become aware of: Since the traumatic day on which Harry London had almost certainly saved the lives of Nim and Vicki Davis, London appeared to have appointed himself Nim’s permanent protector. Vicki, who nowadays regarded the Property Protection Department head with something close to veneration, co-operated by sending him an advance daily schedule of Nim’s appointments and movements. Nim had learned of the arrangement accidentally and was unsure whether to be grateful, irritated or amused.
In any case, he thought, he was a long way from Harry’s surveillance now.
Nim, Teresa Van Buren, and the press party had spent last night here at a Golden State Power outpost—Devil’s Gate Camp—having continued by bus from Fincastle Valley. It had been a four-hour journey, in part through the breathtaking beauty of Plumas National Forest.
The camp was thirty-five miles from the nearest town and sheltered in a rugged fold of mountains. It comprised a half-dozen company-owned houses for resident engineers, foremen and their families, a small school—now closed for summer vacation—and two motel-type bunkhouses, one for GSP & L employees, the second for visitors. High overhead were high voltage transmission lines on steel-gridded towers—a reminder of the small community’s purpose.
The press party had been divided by sex, then housed four to a room in the visitors’ quarters, which were plain but adequate. There had been mild grumbling about the four-in-a-room arrangement, one implication being that, given more privacy, some bed-hopping might have developed.
Nim had a room to himself over in the employees’ bunkhouse. After dinner last night he stayed on for drinks with some of the reporters, joined a poker game for a couple of hours, then excused himself and turned in shortly before midnight. This morning he had awakened refreshed, and was now ready for breakfast, which would be in a few minutes, at 7:30 A.M.
On a veranda outside the employees’ bunkhouse, in the clear morning air, he examined the blue envelope, turning it over in his hand.
It had been brought by a company courier, traveling through the night like a modern Paul Revere and bearing company mail for Devil’s Gate and other GSP & L frontiers. It was all part of an internal communications system, so the letter for Nim imposed no extra burden. Just the same, he thought sourly, if Nancy Molineaux learned about a personal letter routed that way, her bitchiness would have another workout. Fortunately she wouldn’t.
The disagreeable reminder of the Molineaux woman had been prompted by Teresa Van Buren. In bringing Nim his letter a few minutes ago, Tess reported that she, too, had received one—containing information she had asked for yesterday about helicopter costs. Nim was shocked. He protested, “You’re actually going to help that trollop nail us to a board?”
“Calling her nasty names won’t change anything,” Van Buren had said patiently, then added, “Sometimes you big-wheel executives don’t understand what public relations is all about.”
“If that’s an example, you’re damn right!”
“Look—we can’t win ‘em all. I’ll admit Nancy got under my skin yesterday, but when I thought about it some more, I reasoned she’s going to write about that helicopter whatever we do or say. Therefore she might as well have the correct figures because if she asks elsewhere, or someone guesses, for sure they’ll be exaggerated. Another thing: I’m being honest with Nancy now, and she knows it. In future, when something else comes up, she’ll trust me and maybe that time will be a lot more important.”
Nim said sarcastically, “I can hardly wait for that acid-mouthed sourpuss to write something favorable.”
“See you at breakfast,” the p.r. director had said as she left. “And do yourself a favor—simmer down.”
But he didn’t. Now, still seething inwardly, he ripped open the blue envelope.
It contained a single sheet of paper, matching the blue envelope. At the top was printed: From Karen Sloan.
Suddenly he remembered. Karen had said: “Sometimes I write poetry. Would you like me to send you some?” And he answered yes.
The words were neatly typed.
Today I found a friend,
Or maybe he found me,
Or was it fate, chance, circumstance—
Predestination, by whatever name?
Were we like nanoid stars whose orbits,
Devised at time’s beginning,
In due season
Intersect?
Though we will never know,
No matter! For instinct tells me
That our friendship, nurtured,
Will grow strong.
So much of him I like:
His quiet ways, warmth,
A gentle wit, and intellect,
An honest face, kind eyes, a ready smile.
“Friend” is not easily defined. And yet,
These things mean that to me
Concerning one whom, even now,
I hope to see again
And count the days and hours
Until a second meeting.
What else was it Karen had said that day in her apartment? “I can use a typewriter. It’s electric and I work it with a stick in my teeth.”
With’ a flash of emotion Nim pictured her toiling—slowly, patiently—over the words he had just read, her teeth gripping the stick tightly, her blonde head—the only part of her she could move—repositioning itself after each laborious effort to touch a keyboard letter. He wondered how many drafts Karen had done before the letter-perfect final version she had sent him.
Unexpectedly, he realized, his mood had changed. The sourness of a moment earlier was gone, a warmth and gratitude replacing it.
On his way to join the press party at breakfast, Nim was surprised to meet Walter Talbot Jr. Nim had not seen Wally since the day of his father’s funeral. Momentarily, Nim was embarrassed, remembering his recent visit to Ardythe, then rationalized that Wally and his mother led separate, independent lives.
Wally greeted him cheerfully. “Hi, Nim! What brings you here?”
Nim told him about the two-day press briefing, then asked, “And you?”
Wally glanced at the high voltage lines above them. “Our helicopter patrol found broken insulators on one of the towers—probably a hunter using them for target practice. My crew will replace the whole string, working with the line hot. We hope to be finished this afternoon.”
While they talked, a third man joined them. Wally introduced him as Fred Wilkins, a company technician.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Goldman. I’ve heard of you. Seen you a lot on TV.” The newcomer was in his late twenties, had a shock of bright red hair and was health
ily suntanned.
“As you can see from the look of him,” Wally said, “Fred lives out here.”
Nim asked, “Do you like the camp? Doesn’t it get lonely?”
Wilkins shook his head emphatically. “Not for me, sir, or the wife. Our kids love it, too.” He inhaled deeply. “Breathe that air, man! A lot better’n you’ll get in any city. And there’s plenty of sunshine, all the fishing you need.”
Nim laughed. “I might try it for a vacation.”
“Daddy!” a child’s voice piped. “Daddy, has the mailman come?”
As the trio turned their heads, a small boy ran toward them. He had a cheerful, freckled face and bright red hair, making his parentage unmistakable.
“Just the company mailman, son,” Fred Wilkins said. “The post office van’ll be another hour.” He explained to the others, “Danny’s excited because it’s his birthday. He’s hoping for some packages.”
“I’m eight,” the small boy volunteered; he looked strong and sturdy for his age. “I had some presents already. But there might be more.”
“Happy birthday, Danny!” Nim and Wally said together.
Moments later they parted company, Nim continuing toward the visitors’ bunkhouse.
16
In the tailrace tunnel’s semi-darkness, above the mighty thunderous sound of confined rushing water, Oakland Tribune shouted, “When I get through these two days I’m gonna ask for a quiet week on the obit desk.”
Several others nearby smiled but shook their heads, unable to hear the words for two reasons—the all-enveloping water sound and plugs of absorbent cotton in their ears. Material for the plugs, which muffled the echoing tunnel noise a little, had been handed them outside by Teresa Van Buren. That was after the group scrambled down a steep rock stairway to where the tailrace of Devil’s Gate 1 generating plant emptied boisterously into Pineridge River, twenty feet below.
As they fiddled with the earplugs, preparing to enter the tunnel, someone had called out, “Hey, Tess! Why you takin’ us in by the back door?”
“It’s the tradesmen’s entrance,” she answered. “Since when did you characters deserve better? Besides, you’re always sounding off about needing color for your stories. Here it is.”