Overload

  “A few minutes ago,” Pritchett said to Laura Bo, “you stated that some strains of natural life at Tunipah have become extinct elsewhere. Will you tell us what they are?”

  The Sequoia Club chairwoman nodded. She said with authority, “There are two that I know of: a wild flower, the Furbish lousewort, and the Microdipodops, otherwise known as the kangaroo mouse.”

  Here is where we part company, Nim mused. He remembered his argument with Laura Bo over lunch two months ago when he had objected: “You’d let a mouse, or mice, prohibit a project which will benefit millions of people?”

  Evidently the same possibility had occurred to Roderick Pritchett because his next question was: “Do you expect criticism on those two issues—the Furbish lousewort and the Microdipodops? Do you expect people to say that human beings and their desires are more important?”

  “I expect a great deal of that kind of criticism, even abuse,” Laura Bo said. “But nothing changes the shortsightedness and folly of reducing, or eliminating, any endangered species.”

  “Would you explain that a little more?”

  “Yes. A principle is involved, a life-and-death principle which is repeatedly and thoughtlessly violated. As modern society has developed—cities, urban sprawl, industry, highways, pipelines, all the rest—we have upset the balance of nature, destroyed plant life, natural watersheds and soil fertility, banished wild creatures from their habitat or slaughtered them en mass, disrupted normal growth cycles, all the while forgetting that every intricate part of nature depends on all the other parts for continuance and health.”

  From the bench the commissioner injected, “But surely, Mrs. Carmichael, even in nature there is flexibility.”

  “Some flexibility. But almost always it has been pushed beyond the limits.”

  The commissioner nodded politely. “Please proceed.”

  Her regal manner unruffled, Laura Bo continued, “The point I am making is that past environmental decisions have been based on short-term expediency, almost never a larger view. At the same time, modern science—and I speak as a scientist myself—has operated in self-contained compartments, ignoring the truth that ‘progress’ in one area may be harmful to life and nature as a whole. Automobile emissions—a product of science—are a huge example, and it is expediency which permits them to stay as lethal as they are. Another example is the excessive use of pesticides which, in preserving certain life forms, have wiped out many more. The same is true of atmospheric damage from aerosol sprays. It is a long list. We have all been moving, and still are, toward environmental suicide.”

  While the Sequoia Club chairman had been speaking, the hearing room had hushed to a respectful silence. Now no one moved, waiting for her next words.

  “It is all expediency,” she repeated, her voice rising for the first time. “If this monstrous Tunipah development is allowed to proceed, expediency will doom the Furbish lousewort and the Microdipodops, and much else besides. Then, if the process continues, I foresee the day when a single industrial project—just like Tunipah—will be ruled as more important than the last remaining stand of daffodils.”

  The concluding words brought an outburst of applause from the spectator section. While it persisted, Nim thought angrily: Laura Bo was using her stature as a scientist to make a non-scientific, emotional appeal.

  He went on seething for another hour as the questions and responses—in similar vein—continued.

  Oscar O’Brien’s subsequent cross-examination of Laura Bo produced nothing in the way of retraction and in some areas strengthened her earlier testimony. When the GSP & L counsel inquired with a broad smile if she really believed “that a few populated mouseholes and an unattractive wild flower—almost a weed—are more important than the electrical needs of several million humans,” she replied tartly, “To ridicule is easy and cheap, Mr. O’Brien, as well as being the oldest lawyer’s tactic in the book. I have already stated why the Sequoia Club believes Tunipah should remain a natural wilderness area and the points which seem to amuse you are two among many. As to the ‘electrical needs’ of which you speak, in the opinion of many, the need for conservation, of making better use of what we have, is a greater need by far.”

  O’Brien flushed and snapped back, “Since you know so much better than experts who have investigated Tunipah, and find it an ideal site for what is proposed, where would you build?”

  Laura Bo said calmly, “That is your problem, not mine.”

  Davey Birdsong declined to cross-examine Laura Bo, stating grandiosely, “Power & light for people supports the Sequoia Club view, so well expressed by Mrs. Carmichael.”

  On the following day, as the last of several more opposition witnesses was concluding, O’Brien whispered to Nim beside him, “Get yourself together. You’re on again next.”

  13

  Nim felt jaded, anyway. The prospect of new testimony and additional cross-examinations soured him still more.

  He had slept only intermittently the night before and, when he did sleep, dreamed he was in a cell-like enclosure, without door or windows, in which all four walls comprised banks of circuit breakers. Nim was trying to keep the circuit breakers switched on and current—which he knew was needed—flowing. But Davey Birdsong, Laura Bo Carmichael and Roderick Pritchett had him surrounded and were determinedly snapping the breakers off. Nim wanted to shout at the others, to argue and plead, but his voice wouldn’t work. In desperation he sought to move faster. To offset their six hands against his two he tried kicking switches with his feet. But his limbs resisted; they seemed encased in glue and moved with maddening slowness. With despair Nim realized he was losing, could not keep pace with the others, and soon all the switches would be off. It was then he awoke, soaked in perspiration, and couldn’t sleep again.

  Now, with Nim once more in the witness chair, the presiding commissioner was saying, “I remind the witness he is already sworn …”

  When the preliminaries were over, Oscar O’Brien began, “Mr. Goldman, how many shares of Golden State Power & Light do you own?”

  “One hundred and twenty.”

  “And their market value?”

  “As of this morning, two thousand one hundred and sixty dollars.”

  “So any suggestion that you, personally, are likely to make a lot of money out of Tunipah is …”

  “Ridiculous and insulting,” Nim snapped before the question could be completed. He had personally asked O’Brien to get that into the record, and hoped the press would report it—as they had Birdsong’s charge about profiteering. But Nim doubted if they would.

  “Quite so.” O’Brien seemed taken aback by Nim’s intensity. “Now let us go back to the environmental impact statement about Tunipah. Mrs. Carmichael in her testimony argued that …”

  The idea was to counteract testimony by opposition witnesses which had been erroneous, excessively prejudiced or incomplete. Nim wondered, while responding to O’Brien’s questions, what effect it would all have. He decided: probably none.

  O’Brien concluded in less than half an hour. He was followed by Holyoak, the commission counsel, and Roderick Pritchett, neither of whom gave Nim a hard time and both were mercifully brief.

  Which left Davey Birdsong.

  The p & Ifp leader indulged in his characteristic gesture of passing a hand through his bushy, gray-flecked beard as he stood regarding Nim.

  “Those shares of yours, Goldman. You said they were worth”—Birdsong consulted a slip of paper—“two thousand one hundred and sixty dollars. Right?”

  Nim acknowledged warily, “Yes.”

  “The way you said it—and I was right there, listening; so were others—made it sound as if that kind of money was just peanuts to you. A ‘mere’ two thousand, you seemed to say. Well, I guess to someone like you who’s used to thinking in millions, and riding around in helicopters …”

  The commissioner interrupted. “Is this a question, Mr. Birdsong? If so, please come to the point.”

  “Yessir!
” The big man beamed toward the bench. “I guess it’s just that Goldman here gets under my skin because he’s such a big cheese, or acts that way, and can’t understand how much that kind of money means to poor people …”

  The commissioner rapped sharply with his gavel. “Get on with it!”

  Birdsong grinned again, secure in the knowledge that however much he might be scolded, the chances of being cut off entirely were remote. He turned back to Nim.

  “Okay, here’s my question: Did it occur to you that money like that—’mere thousands,’ as you put it—means a fortune to a lot of people who will have to foot the bill for Tunipah?”

  “In the first place I didn’t say ‘mere thousands,’ or imply it,” Nim retorted. “You did. In the second, yes it did occur to me, because that kind of money means a lot to me too.”

  “If it means that much,” Birdsong said quickly, “maybe you’d like to double it.”

  “Maybe I would. What the hell’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m asking the questions.” Birdsong smiled maliciously. “So you admit you’d like to double your money, and maybe you will if this Tunipah deal goes through, won’t you?” He waved a hand airily. “No, don’t bother answering. We’ll draw our own conclusions.”

  Nim sat, fuming. He saw O’Brien watching him intently, trying to convey a message: Watch yourself! Be wary and moderate.

  “You said some things about conservation,” Birdsong resumed. “I have some questions on that too.”

  During the re-examination by O’Brien, conservation had been mentioned briefly. It gave p & Ifp a right to raise the subject now.

  “Do you know, Goldman, that if big, rich outfits like Golden State Power spent more on conservation instead of on multimillion dollar ripoffs like Tunipah, we could cut the use of electricity in this country by forty percent?”

  “No, I do not know that,” Nim shot back, “because a forty percent saving from conservation is unrealistic and a figure you probably pulled out of the air, the way you do most of your other accusations. The best that conservation will do—and is doing already—is help to offset a part of new growth and buy us a little time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time to let the bulk of people realize they are facing an electrical crisis which can change their lives—for the worse—in ways they never dreamed of.”

  “Is that really true?” Birdsong taunted. “Or isn’t the real truth that Golden Power doesn’t want conservation because conservation interferes with profits?”

  “No, it isn’t the truth, not any kind of truth, and it would take a twisted mind—like yours—to suggest or believe it.” Nim knew he was being baited, and was rising to the bait, probably just as Birdsong intended. Oscar O’Brien was frowning; Nim looked the other way.

  “I’ll ignore that nasty remark,” Birdsong said, “and ask another question. Isn’t the real reason you people aren’t working hard at developing solar energy and wind power—which are available now—is because those are cheap power sources, and you wouldn’t make the huge profits you expect from Tunipah?”

  “The answer is ‘no,’ even though your question’s a distorted half-truth. Solar electricity is not available in sizable amounts, and won’t be until the turn of the century at the earliest. Costs of collecting solar power are extremely high—far more than electricity from coal at Tunipah; also, solar may be the biggest polluter yet. As to wind powers—forget it, except for peripheral, small applications.”

  Above Nim, the commissioner leaned forward. “Did I understand you, Mr. Goldman, to say that solar power can pollute?”

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman.” The statement often surprised those who hadn’t considered solar in all its aspects. “With today’s technology, a solar power plant with the same output that we are proposing for Tunipah would need one hundred and twenty square miles of land just to house its collectors. That’s roughly seventy-five thousand acres—two thirds the size of Lake Tahoe—compared with three thousand acres required by a conventional power plant such as we are proposing now. And remember—land used for those solar collectors would be shut off to any other use. If that isn’t pollution …”

  He left the sentence unfinished as the commissioner nodded. “An interesting point, Mr. Goldman. One, I suppose, that many of us hadn’t thought of.”

  Birdsong, who had been standing impatiently during the exchange, resumed his attack. “You tell us, Goldman, that solar power won’t be ready until the next century. Why should we believe you?”

  “You don’t have to.” Nim slipped back into his earlier manner, making his contempt for Birdsong clear. “You can believe or disbelieve anything you want. But a consensus of the best technical judgments, made by experts, says that large-scale use of solar electricity is twenty-plus years away; even then it may not fulfill expectations. That’s why, in the meantime, there must be coal-burning plants like Tunipah—and in a lot more places than just Tunipah—to meet the coming crisis.”

  Birdsong sneered, “So we’re back to that fake, make-believe, phony crisis.”

  “When it happens,” Nim told him heatedly, “you can read those words back and eat them.”

  The commissioner reached for his gavel to command order, then hesitated; perhaps curious to see what would happen next, he let his hand fall back. Birdsong’s face reddened, his mouth tightened angrily.

  “I won’t be eating any words. You will!” he spat at Nim. “You’ll choke on words—you and that capitalist gang at Golden State Power. Words, words, words! From these hearings, which those of us who stand against you will keep going as long as we can, and from other hearings like them. After that, still more words because we’ll drag this Tunipah boondoggle through the courts, and tie you up with appeals, injunctions, and every other legal blockage in the book. Then if that isn’t enough we’ll raise new objections, so the whole cycle will start again and, if we have to, we’ll go on for twenty years. The people will stop your profiteering schemes, and the people will win!”

  The p & lfp leader paused, breathing heavily, then added, “So maybe solar energy will get here first after all, Mister Goldman. Because let me tell you, you won’t get those coal-burning plants. Not Tunipah or any others. Not now or ever.”

  As the commissioner hesitated again, seeming fascinated by the verbal duel, a burst of applause erupted in part of the spectator section. At the same moment, Nim exploded. He slammed a fist down hard on an arm of the witness chair, then leaped to his feet. Eyes blazing, he faced Davey Birdsong.

  “So maybe you will stop those plants being built—Tunipah and others—just the way you say. And if you do, it will be because this crazy, self-defeating system gives limitless power to egomaniacs and kooks and charlatans like you.”

  Suddenly the hearing room had fallen silent. Nim’s voice rose as he continued. “But spare us any sanctimonious drivel, Birdsong, about you representing the people. You don’t. We represent the people—ordinary, decent, normal-living people who rely on power companies like ours to light and heat their homes, and keep factories working, and do the million other things you’ll cut people off from if you and your kind have their selfish, shortsighted way.”

  Nim swung toward the bench, directly addressing the commissioner and administrative law judge. “What’s needed now, in this state and most others, is intelligent compromise. Compromise between the ‘no-growth-at-any-pricers’ like the Sequoia Club and Birdsong, and those who call for maximum growth and damn the environment Well, I—and the company I work for—admit the need for compromise, and urge it on ourselves and others. We recognize there are no easy, simple choices, which is why we seek the middle ground, namely: Let there be some growth, but for God’s sake grant us the means—electrically—to accommodate it.”

  He turned back to Birdsong. “What you’ll do for people in the end is make them suffer. Suffer from desperate shortages, from massive unemployment, from all the big and small things which won’t work without electric power—all of it when the crisis
hits, a crisis which isn’t phony but is real, a crisis which will sweep across North America, and probably a lot of other places in the world.”

  Nim asked the silent, surprised figure in front of him, “And where will you be then, Birdsong? In hiding, probably. Hiding from the people who’ll have found out what you really are—a cheat and faker who misled them.”

  Even while speaking, Nim knew he had gone too far, had broken recklessly the normal constraints of public hearings, as well as restrictions placed on him by GSP & L. Perhaps he had even given Birdsong grounds for claiming libel. Yet another part of Nim’s mind argued that what he had said needed to be said, that there were limits to patience and reasonableness, and that someone had to speak out plainly, fearlessly, accepting whatever consequences came.

  He stormed on, “You sound off about forty percent conservation, Birdsong. That isn’t conservation; that’s deprivation. It would mean a whole new way of life, and a damn sight poorer one.

  “Okay, there are some who say we ought to have lower standards of living, all of us, that we live too well and should be deprived. Well, maybe that’s true, maybe not. But, either way, that kind of decision for change isn’t for power companies like GSP & L to make. Our responsibility is to maintain the living standards which people—through their elected governments—tell us that they want. It’s why we’ll go on protecting those standards, Birdsong, until ordered otherwise—but ordered officially, not by over-inflated, self-appointed pecksniffs like you.”

  As Nim paused for breath, the commissioner inquired coolly, “Have you quite finished, Mr. Goldman?”

  Nim swung to face the bench. “No, Mr. Chairman, I haven’t. While I’m on my feet there are a couple of other things I’d like to say.”