They were a third of the way down when the sound of an explosion reached them. The ground vibrated first, then the sound wave followed—a loud, reverberating cruump! Seconds later there was another explosion, and then a third, and the sky lit up with a bright, yellow-blue flash. The flash repeated itself, then the reflection of flames, from fiercely burning oil from the transformers, lighted the sky. Rounding a bend in the gravel road, Georgos had a sudden sense of something being different. Then he realized what it was: His objective had been fulfilled. All the lights of Millfield were out.
Aware of the urgent need to get clear, not knowing if the security guard in the car had radioed a message or not, Georgos continued running, leading the way.
With relief, and both of them near exhaustion, he found their car where they had left it—in the stand of trees near the foot of the hill. Minutes later they were on their way, headed for the city, with blacked-out Millfield behind them.
“You killed those men! You murdered them!”
Yvette’s voice, from the front seat of the car beside him, was hysterical as well as still breathless from her exertion.
“I had to.”
Georgos answered tersely, without turning his head, keeping his eyes directed at the freeway which they had just reached. He was driving carefully, making sure to stay slightly below the legal speed limit. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped by the Highway Patrol for some driving infraction. There was blood, Georgos knew, on his clothing from the man he had knifed, and there would be blood on the knife also, identifiable by type. He had discovered, too, that he was bleeding copiously himself—from his left thigh where the wire had penetrated more deeply than he had realized earlier. And he could feel his ankle swelling from when it twisted on the rock.
Yvette whined, “You didn’t have to kill them!”
He shouted at her fiercely, “Shut up! Or I’ll kill you.”
He was thinking back, mentally running over every detail that had happened, trying to remember if there were any clues left behind which would identify either him or Yvette. They had both worn gloves at the fence and in laying the charges. He had slipped his off to connect the timer, and later when he fired the gun. But the gloves had been on when he attacked with the knife, so there would be no fingerprints on the car door handle. Prints on the gun? Yes, but he had had the presence of mind to bring the gun with him and would dispose of it later.
Yvette was sniveling again. “That one in the car. He was an old man! I saw him.”
“He was a dirty fascist pig!”
Georgos said it forcefully, in part to convince himself, because the memory of the gray-haired man had been eating at him too. He had tried to push out of his mind the recollection of the shocked, open mouth and stifled scream as the knife went in deeply, but he had not succeeded. Despite his anarchist training and the bombings since, Georgos had not killed anyone at close quarters before and the experience sickened him. He would never admit it though.
“You could go to prison for murder!”
He snarled back, “So could you.”
There was no point in explaining that he was indictable for murder already—for the seven deaths resulting from the La Mission plant explosion and the letter bombs mailed to GSP & L. But he could set his woman straight about tonight, and would.
“Get this, you stupid whore! You’re in this as much as I am. You were there, a part of it all, and you killed those pigs just as if you pulled the knife or fired the gun. So whatever happens to me happens to you. Don’t ever forget it!”
He had got through to her, he could tell, because she was sobbing now, choking on words, burbling something incoherent about wishing she hadn’t gotten into this. For an instant he felt compassion and a surge of pity. Then self-discipline reasserted itself; he dismissed the thought as being weak and counterrevolutionary.
He estimated they were almost halfway to the city, then realized something he had been too preoccupied to take in earlier. The area they were passing through, normally brightly lighted and well beyond Millfield, was also in darkness; even street lights were out. With sudden satisfaction he thought: It meant that the other freedom fighters had succeeded in their objectives. The entire battle, fought under his generalship, had been won!
Georgos began humming a little tune, composing in his mind a communiqué to acquaint the world with one more glorious victory by Friends of Freedom.
3
“When the power failure happened,” Karen Sloan said from her wheelchair, “Josie and I were on our way home in Humperdinck.”
“Humperdinck?” Nim was puzzled.
Karen gave him one of her warm, glowing smiles. “Humperdinck is my beautiful, beautiful van. I love it so much I just couldn’t call it ‘van,’ so I gave it a name.”
They were in the living room of Karen’s apartment and it was early evening in the first week of November. Nim had accepted—after several postponements because of pressures of work—an invitation from Karen to join her for dinner. Josie, Karen’s aide-housekeeper, was in the kitchen preparing the meal.
The small apartment was softly lighted, warm and comfortable. Outside, in contrast, most of northern California was enduring a Pacific gale, now in its third day, which had brought strong winds and torrential rain. As they talked, rain pounded against the windows.
Other sounds merged softly; the steady hum of the respirator mechanism which kept Karen breathing, and an accompanying hiss of air, inward and out; small clatters of dishes, the noise of a cupboard door opening, then closing, from the kitchen.
“About the power failure,” Karen resumed. “I’d been to a movie, at a theater where they have facilities for wheelchairs—I can do so many things now with Humperdinck that I couldn’t before—and, while Josie was driving, all the street lights, and lights in buildings, went out.”
“Almost one hundred square miles,” Nim said with a sigh. “Everything went. Everything.”
“Well, we didn’t know that then. But we could see it was widespread, so Josie drove directly to Redwood Grove Hospital, which is where I go if I ever have problems. They have an emergency generator. The staff took care of me, and I stayed at the hospital for three days until the power was back on here.”
“Actually,” Nim told her, “I already knew most of that. As soon as I could after those explosions and the blackout, I phoned your number. I was at the office; I’d been called in from home. When there was no answer I had someone contact the hospital, which is listed on your info sheet. They told us you were there, so I stopped worrying because there was lots to do that night.”
“It was an awful thing, Nimrod. Not just the blackout, but those two men murdered.”
“Yes, they were old-timers,” Nim said, “pensioners who were brought back in because we were short of experienced security help. Unfortunately their experience belonged to another era and we found out later that the worst they’d ever dealt with was an occasional trespasser or small-time thief. They were no match for a killer.”
“Whoever did it hasn’t been caught yet?”
Nim shook his head. “It’s someone we, and the police, have been looking for for a long time. The worst thing is, we still haven’t the slightest idea who he is or where he operates from.”
“But isn’t it a group—Friends of Freedom?”
“Yes. But the police believe the group is small, probably no more than a half-dozen people, and that one man is the brains and leader. They say there are similarities in all the incidents so far which point to that—like a personal handwriting. Whoever he is, the man’s a homicidal maniac.”
Nim spoke feelingly. The effect of the latest bombing on the GSP & L system had been far worse than any other preceding it. Over an unusually wide area, homes, businesses and factories had been deprived of electric power for three to four days in many cases, a week in others, reminding Nim of Harry London’s observation several weeks earlier that, “Those crazies are getting smart.”
Only by a massive, cost
ly effort which required bringing in all of GSP & L’s spare transformers, borrowing some from other utilities, and diverting all available personnel to effect repairs, had power been restored as quickly as it was. Even so, GSP & L was being criticized for failure to protect its installations adequately. “The public is entitled to ask,” the California Examiner pontificated in an editorial, “if Golden State Power & Light is doing all it can to prevent a recurrence. Judging by available evidence, the answer is ‘no.’” However, the newspaper offered no suggestion as to how the enormous, widespread GSP & L network could be protected everywhere twenty-four hours a day.
Equally depressing was the absence of any immediately usable clues. True, the law enforcement agencies had obtained another voice print, matching earlier ones, from the bombastic tape recording received by a radio station the day after the bombings. As well, there were some threads of denim material snagged on a cut wire near the site of the double murder, almost certainly from a garment worn by the attacker. The same wire also revealed dried blood which had been typed and found to differ from the blood of both dead guards. But, as a senior police detective told Nim in a moment of frankness, “Those things can be useful when we have someone or something to match them with. Right now we’re no nearer to having that than we were before.”
“Nimrod,” Karen said, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s been almost two months since we were together. I’ve truly missed you.”
He told her contritely, “I’m sorry. I really am.”
Now that he was here, Nim wondered how he could have stayed away so long. Karen was as beautiful as he remembered her and, when they kissed a few minutes ago—a lingering kiss—her lips were loving, just as they had seemed before. It was as if, in a single instant, the gap in time had closed.
Something else Nim was aware of: In Karen’s company he experienced a sense of peace, as happened with few other people he knew. The feeling was hard to define, except perhaps that Karen, who had come to terms with the limitations of her own life, transmitted a tranquillity and wisdom suggesting that other problems, too, could be resolved.
“It’s been a difficult time for you,” she acknowledged. “I know because I read what the newspapers said about you, and saw reports on television.”
Nim grimaced. “The Tunipah hearings. I’ve been told I disgraced myself.”
Karen said sharply, “You don’t believe that, any more than I do. What you said was sensible, but most reports played that part down.”
“Any time you like, you can handle my public relations.”
She hesitated, then said, “After it happened I wrote some poetry for you. I was going to send it, then thought maybe you were tired of hearing from everybody, no matter what they said.”
“Not everybody. Just most people.” He asked, “Did you save it—the poem?”
“Yes.” Karen motioned with her head. “It’s over there. In the second drawer down.”
Nim rose from his seat and crossed to a bureau beneath bookshelves. Opening the drawer he had been told to, he saw a sheet of Karen’s blue stationery on top, which he took out, then read what was typewritten.
The moving finger sometimes does go back,
Not to rewrite but to reread;
And what was once dismissed, derided, mocked,
May, in the fullness of a moon or two,
Or even years,
Be hailed as wisdom,
Spoken forthrightly at that earlier time,
And having needed courage
To face the obloquy of others less perceptive,
Though burdened with invective.
Dear Nimrod!
Remind yourself: A prophet’s seldom praised
Before sunset
Of the day on which he first proclaimed
Unpalatable truths.
But if and when your truths
In time become self-evident,
Their author vindicated,
Be, at that harvest moment, forgiving, gracious,
Broad of mind, large-purposed,
Amused by life’s contrariness.
For not to all, only the few,
Are presbyopic gifts: long vision, clarity, sagacity,
By chance, through lottery at birth,
Bestowed by busy nature.
Silently, Nim read the words a second time. At length he said, “Karen, you never cease to surprise me. And whenever you do this I’m not sure of what to say, except I’m moved and grateful.”
At that moment, Josie—short and sturdy, her dark features beaming—marched in with a loaded tray. She announced, “Lady and gentleman, dinner is served.”
It was a simple but tasty meal. A Waldorf salad, followed by a chicken casserole, then lemon sherbet. Nim had brought wine—a hard-to-get Heitz Cellar Cabernet Sau-vignon—superb! As on the last occasion, Nim fed Karen, experiencing the same sense of sharing and intimacy that he had before.
Only once or twice did he remember with a trace of guilt the excuse he had used for not being at home tonight—an evening business engagement for GSP & L. But he rationalized that spending the time with Karen was different from other occasions when he had cheated and lied to Ruth, or tried to. Perhaps, even now, he thought, Ruth didn’t believe him, but if so she had given no indication when he left this morning. Also in his favor, Nim reminded himself: During the past four weeks there had been only one other occasion when he was not at home in time for family dinner, and then he genuinely had been working late.
Easily, leisurely, during their intensely personal dinner, Nim and Karen talked.
Josie had removed dishes and brought them coffee when, for a second time, the subject of Karen’s van came up. Humperdinck. The special van, adapted under Ray Paul-sen’s direction to convey a quadriplegic’s elaborate, powered wheelchair, and purchased from GSP & L by Karen’s parents.
“Something I haven’t explained,” Karen told him, “is that I don’t really own Humperdinck. I can’t afford to. It has to be registered to my father, even though I use it.”
Insurance was the reason. “Insurance rates for a disabled person are astronomical,” Karen said, “even though someone like me will never drive. With the van in my father’s name, the rates are lower, so that’s why I don’t own Humperdinck officially.”
She went on, “Apart from the insurance, I was worried—still am a little—about Daddy borrowing the money to pay for Humperdinck. His bank said no, so he went to a loan company and they agreed, but at higher interest. I know it will be hard for him to make the loan payments because his business is not doing well, and he and Mother already help me with money when my allowances won’t stretch. But they insisted I shouldn’t concern myself, and to let them do the worrying.”
Nim said thoughtfully, “Maybe there’s something I could do. I could contribute a little money myself, then see if our company would donate …”
Karen cut in sharply, “No! Absolutely not! Nimrod, our friendship is wonderful and I cherish it. But I won’t take money from you—ever—and that includes your asking someone else. If my own family does something for me, that’s different and we work it out together, but that’s all. Besides, you already helped us enough with Humperdinck.” Her voice softened. “I’m a proud and independent person. I hope you understand.”
“Yes,” he said, “I understand, and I respect you.”
“Good! Respect is important. Now, Nimrod dearest, you’ll only believe what a difference Humperdinck has made to my life if you let me show you. May I ask you something bold?”
“Ask me anything.”
“Could we have a date outside—perhaps go to the symphony?”
He hesitated only momentarily. “Why not?”
Karen’s face lighted with a smile and she said enthusiastically, “You must tell me when you can be free and I’ll make arrangements. Oh, I’m so happy!” Then, impulsively: “Kiss me again, Nimrod.”
As he went to her, she tilted up her face, her mouth seeking his eagerly. He put a hand behi
nd her head, running his fingers gently through her long blonde hair. She responded by pressing her lips closer. Nim found himself emotionally and sexually stirred and the thought came to him: How much promise the next few minutes might hold if Karen were whole in body instead of what she was. Then he dismissed the thought and broke off the kiss. For a moment he caressed her hair again, then returned to his chair.
“If I knew how,” Karen said, “I’d purr.”
Nim heard a discreet cough and turned his head to see Josie standing at the doorway. The aide-housekeeper had changed from the white uniform she wore while serving dinner to a brown wool dress. He wondered how long she had been there.
“Oh, Josie,” Karen said, “are you ready to go?” For Nim’s benefit she added, “Josie’s visiting her family tonight.”
“Yes, I’m ready,” the other woman acknowledged. “But shouldn’t I put you to bed before I go?”
“Well, I suppose so.” Karen stopped, a faint flush suffusing her cheeks. “Or perhaps, later on, Mr. Goldman wouldn’t mind …”
He said, “If you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll be glad to.”
“Well, then, that’s settled,” Josie said. “So I’ll be going, and good night.”
A few minutes later they heard the sound of the outer door closing.
When Karen spoke there seemed a nervousness in her voice. “Josie won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Normally I have a relief aide-housekeeper, but she’s not well, so my big sister is coming for the night.” She glanced at a wall clock. “Cynthia will be here in an hour and a half. Can you stay until then?”
“Of course.”
“If it’s inconvenient for you, Jiminy—he’s the janitor you met the first time—will come in for a while.”