Later today the ex-Supreme Court Justice would appear as GSP & L’s spokesman at a regional hearing on the utility’s plans for Tunipah. It was one of an Energy Commission series—some called it a traveling road show—at which local leaders and citizens were invited to testify about power needs in their areas. The San Joaquin Valley farmers, who saw their livelihood threatened by power shortages, were already among Tunipah’s staunch advocates.
Inevitably, there would be opposition too.
Still watching the activity below them, Yale told Nim, “I know what you mean about eliminating manhood—even in animals. In a way it’s a pity; it’s also necessary. When you’re a farmer you don’t even think about those things.”
“Are you enjoying being one?”
“A part-time farmer? I’m not sure.” The old man frowned. “Mostly I’ve been looking at balance sheets, trying to find out why this operation and others in that family trust of ours won’t show a profit.”
“What’s happening right now,” Nim said, “seems to be efficient.”
“Efficient but damned costly.”
They were observing the “check in” process in which calves, born on a grazing range and raised for six months there, were brought to the feedlot to be fattened for market.
Five cowboys—middle-aged men garbed in denims—kept the operation moving.
It began with herding a half-dozen calves into a circular pen. Inside, the animals were prodded, by electric cattle prods, into a narrow cement corridor, the walls extending above their heads but open at the top. A grubicide solution, to kill grubs and insects, was poured generously over each animal.
The corridor led—with an awful inevitability, Nim thought—to a hydraulic squeeze. This was a metal cage. As each calf entered, the cage contracted so the creature was held tightly with its head protruding and body lifted from the ground. The frightened animal bellowed lustily—with good reason, as the next few minutes proved.
First procedure was the discharge into each ear of a syringe containing motor oil. It would remove ticks. Next a huge hypodermic was shoved into the bellowing mouth and a worming solution injected. After that, the sharp extremities of both horns were clipped off with a heavy shear, leaving the soft and bloody insides exposed. Simultaneously came a strong, sickening smell of burning hair and flesh as a red-hot electric branding iron was pressed into the creature’s side.
Then, at the touch of a lever, and with a hiss of air, the cattle squeeze rotated ninety degrees onto its side. In what had been the bottom, a small “gate” was exposed, which a cowboy opened. Inserting an aerosol can containing disinfectant, the man sprayed the calf’s genitals, then put the can down and picked up a knife. Reaching inside, he slit the scrotum, probed with fingers, then pulled out and cut the testicles, which he tossed into a container beside him. Another application of the aerosol spray on the now bleeding, gaping wound, and the operation was complete.
The steer, having been deprived of all desires other than to eat, would fatten nicely.
The hydraulic squeeze was opened. Still bellowing, the animal ran out into a further holding pen.
From beginning to end it had taken less than four minutes.
“It’s faster and simpler than it used to be,” Yale told Nim. “In my grandfather’s day, and even recently, the calves would have to be lassoed and roped up before the things you’re watching could be done. Nowadays our cowboys rarely ride horses; some of them don’t even know how.”
Nim asked, “Is the modern way cheaper?”
“It ought to be, but isn’t. It’s the inflated cost of everything that does us in—labor, materials, feed, electricity—especially electricity. This operation runs on it. We use electric power for the mill which mixes feed for forty thousand cattle. And did you know that in the pens there are bright lights on all night?”
“As I understand it,” Nim said, “it’s so the cattle can see to eat.”
“Right. They sleep less, feed more, and fatten faster. But our power bills are astronomical.”
Nim hummed, “It seems to me I’ve heard that song before,” and Yale laughed.
“Sound like a bellyaching consumer, don’t I? Well, today I am. I’ve told the trust manager, Ian Norris, to cut down, economize, search out waste, conserve. We have to.”
Nim had met Norris briefly, earlier this morning. He was a dour, humorless man in his late fifties who had an office in the city and managed other estates as well as the Yale Family Trust. Nim guessed that Norris had preferred it when Paul Sherman Yale was in Washington and uninvolved in trust business.
“What I’d like to do,” Yale said, “is sell off this property and some of the others my grandfather left. But right now is a bad time.”
While they talked, Nim had continued watching the procession below them. Something puzzled him.
“That last calf,” he said. “And the one before it. They weren’t castrated. Why?”
A cowboy nearby, overhearing Nim’s question, turned. He had a swarthy Mexican face and was grinning broadly. So was Mr. Justice Yale.
“Nim, my boy,” the old man said. He leaned nearer, speaking confidentially. “There’s something I should tell you. Those last two were girls.”
They had lunch in Fresno, in the Windsor Room of the Hilton Hotel. During the meal Nim continued the briefing he had come for. It proved an easy task. As soon as any fact or statistic was presented, Mr. Justice Yale appeared to have it memorized. He rarely asked for repetition and his sharp, probing questions showed a quickness of mind, plus a grasp of the big picture. Nim hoped that when he was eighty his mental powers would be as good.
Much of their talk was about water. Ninety percent of electric power used by farmers in the lush San Joaquin Valley, Nim reported, was to pump water from wells for irrigation. Therefore, interruptions in power supply could be disastrous.
“I remember this valley when it was mostly desert,” Paul Yale reminisced. “That was in the 1920s. There was a time when nobody believed anything would grow here. The Indians called it ‘Empty Valley.’”
“They hadn’t heard of rural electrification.”
“Yes, it wrought miracles. What’s that line from Isaiah?—‘The desert shall rejoice, and blossom as the rose.’” Yale chuckled. “Maybe I can slip that into my testimony. A line or two from the Bible adds a touch of class, don’t you think?”
Before Nim could answer, the maître d’ came to their table. He announced, “Mr. Yale, there’s a telephone call for you. You may take it at the hostess’ desk if you wish.”
The older man was gone several minutes. Nim could see him across the room, writing in a notebook as he listened intently to whatever was being said on the telephone. When he returned to the table, he was beaming and had the notebook open.
“Some good news from Sacramento, Nim. Excellent news, I think. An aide to the Governor will be at the hearing here this afternoon; he’ll read a statement that the Governor now strongly supports the plans for Tunipah. A confirming press release is going out now from the Governor’s office.” Yale glanced at his notes. “It speaks of ‘a personal conviction, after study, that the Tunipah development is essential to the growth and prosperity of California.’ ”
“Well,” Nim said, “you really pulled it off. Congratulations!”
“I’ll admit I’m pleased.” Pocketing the notebook, Yale glanced at his watch. “What do you say we get some exercise and walk over to that hearing?”
“I’ll walk with you, but I won’t come in.” Nim grinned. “You may remember—at the Energy Commission I’m still persona non grata.”
Their destination was the State Building, some ten minutes away.
It was a bright, pleasant day and Paul Yale, spry in walking as in much else, stepped out briskly. After the flow of talk before and during lunch, both fell silent.
Nim’s thoughts returned, as they had so often lately, to Ruth. A week and a half had passed since the soul-searing night When he learned that Ruth’s life was en
dangered by cancerous cells at large in her body. Apart from a talk with Dr. Levin, Nim had kept the knowledge to himself. There seemed no point in turning Ruth—as he had seen happen with other families—into an object of gossip and speculation.
Dr. Levin’s attitude had been neither defeatist nor reassuring. “Your wife may have many years of normal life,” he had said. “But you must also know that her condition could deteriorate suddenly and rapidly. Treatment, though—whether it’s chemotherapy or immunotherapy—will tilt the odds in her favor.”
As to possible additional therapy, Ruth was to make another trip to New York soon; it would be decided then if the newer, in-part-experimental method at the Sloan-Kettering Institute was likely to help her. For Nim, as well as Ruth, the waiting was like living on the loose ledge of a precipice, wondering if it would collapse or hold.
“The only advice I can give,” Dr. Levin had added, “is what I’ve told your wife already: Live one day at a time, and use it to the full. Don’t let her put things off that she wants to do, and can. Come to think of it, that’s good counsel for us all. Remember that you or I could drop dead from a heart attack or be killed in a traffic accident tomorrow, with your wife surviving us by many years.”
The doctor had sighed. “I’m sorry, Nim; maybe that sounds like a load of bull. I know you want something definite. Everybody does. But the advice I’ve given you is the best I have.”
Nim had taken Dr. Levin’s advice by spending as much time with Ruth as possible. Today, for example, he could have stayed on overnight in Fresno; there were local developments about which he might usefully inform himself. Instead, he had arranged to take an afternoon flight back, and would be home for dinner.
His thoughts were jerked into the present by Mr. Justice Yale, who observed, “There seems to be an extraordinary number of people around for this time of day.”
Nim had been preoccupied; now he looked about him. “You’re right. There are.”
The streets within immediate view contained large numbers of pedestrians, all apparently heading in the same direction—toward the State Building. Some were hurrying, as if anxious to get ahead of others. Cars, too, were streaming in and a traffic jam was developing. Among occupants of the cars and those on foot, women and teen-agers seemed to predominate.
“Perhaps,” Nim said, “word got around that you were coming here.”
The old man chuckled. “Even if it did, I don’t have the charisma to pull a crowd this size.”
They reached the grassy mall which fronted on the State Building. It was packed with people.
“If you want to find something out, a good way is to ask,” Yale said. He touched the arm of a middle-aged man in workman’s clothes. “Excuse me. We are curious to know why so many people are here.”
The other looked at him incredulously. “You ain’t heard?”
Yale smiled. “It’s why I asked.”
“It’s Cameron Clarke. He’s coming here.”
“The movie actor?”
“Who else? Gonna speak his piece at some gumment hearing. Bin on radio all morning. On TV too, so my old lady says.”
Nim asked, “What government hearing?”
“How should I know? Who cares? Just wanna get a look at him, is all.”
Paul Yale and Nim exchanged glances as the same thought occurred to them.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Yale said.
They began easing their way closer to the State Building, a functional, uninteresting edifice with steps in front. At the same time a black limousine with a police motorcycle escort approached from the opposite direction. A cry went up, and was repeated, “There he is!” The crowd surged forward.
More policemen appeared. They cleared a way for the limousine to reach the sidewalk near the steps. As the car stopped, a uniformed chauffeur jumped out and opened the rear door. A short, slight young man emerged. He had a shock of blond hair and was wearing a lightweight tan suit. The crowd cheered.
“Cameron! Hi there, Cameron!” Someone began the cry and others took it up.
Like royalty, Cameron Clarke waved in response.
He was Hollywood’s current gold-plated box office guarantee. His handsome, boyish, amiable face was known to fifty million worshiping fans from Cleveland to Calcutta, from Seattle to Sierra Leone, from Brooklyn to Baghdad. Even august justices of the U. S. Supreme Court had heard of Cameron Clarke, as Paul Sherman Yale had demonstrated moments earlier. The mere presence of Clarke anywhere was sufficient to set off a near-riot of adulation. The Fresno police, undoubtedly aware of this, were doing their best to control the crowd now.
Press photographers, who had begun shooting as the limousine stopped, were continuing as if film were inexhaustible. A TV crew, which had been waiting, moved in closer to the movie star.
An interview ensued.
Interviewer (with great respect): Mr. Clarke, why are you here?
Cameron Clarke: I am here, as an ordinary humble citizen, to protest an ill-conceived, sordid and totally unneeded scheme which would desecrate the magnificent, unspoiled area of California known as Tunipah.
I: Sir, those are strong words. Would you explain why you feel that way?
C.C.: Certainly. The Tunipah plan is ill-conceived because it is anti-environment. It is sordid because the objective is to make profits for Golden State Power & Light, which doesn’t need them. It is unnecessary because another source of power is available; furthermore, conservation could reduce power needs by more than Tunipah would generate.
Nim and Paul Yale were within hearing. “He’s reciting lines,” Nim muttered angrily. “I wonder what uninformed idiot wrote them for him.”
I: What is that other source of power, Mr. Clarke?
C.C.: Solar energy.
I: You believe that solar could be available now?
C.C.: Absolutely. However, there is no hurry, even for solar. The talk we hear of electrical shortage is just a scare tactic—propaganda put out by the power companies.
A spectator shouted, “Attaboy, Cameron! That’s telling the bastards! Stick it to ’em!”
The actor looked up, waved an acknowledgment, and smiled.
Nim told his companion, “I think I’ve heard enough. If you don’t mind, Mr. Yale, I’ll start back north and leave you to the hearing. It looks as if it will be quite a production.”
“I know who’ll be the star, and it isn’t me,” Yale said ruefully. “All right, Nim; you go. Thanks for all your help.”
As Nim elbowed his way outward through the crowd, Yale beckoned a policeman and identified himself. A moment later, unnoticed, he was escorted into the State Building.
The TV interview with Cameron Clarke was continuing.
“Actually,” Oscar O’Brien said next day, “when you get Cameron Clarke by himself, you find out he’s a pretty decent guy. I talked to him; I also know a couple of his friends. He has a solid marriage and three kids he’s crazy about. The trouble is though, whenever he opens his mouth in public, what he says gets treated as if it came from Mount Olympus.”
The general counsel, who had appeared at the Fresno hearing, was reporting—at an inquest session—to J. Eric Humphrey, Teresa Van Buren, and Nim.
“As it turned out,” O’Brien said, “the main reason Clarke is opposed to Tunipah is that he owns property near there—a hideaway place he and his family use in summers. They keep horses, ride the trails, fish, sometimes camp out overnight. He’s afraid our Tunipah development would spoil all that, and he’s probably right.”
Eric Humphrey asked, “Was the point not made that the welfare of millions of Californians outweighs the holiday privileges of one individual?”
“It was made all right,” O’Brien said. “Christ knows, I tried on cross-examination. But do you think anyone cared? No! Cameron Clarke objected to Tunipah and the god of the silver screen had spoken. That was all that mattered.”
The lawyer stopped, remembering, then said, “When Clarke spoke his piece at the hearing about d
espoiling nature—and, by God, I have to admit he was good, it was like Marc Antony orating over Caesar’s corpse—there were people, among those crowded in, who were crying. I mean it—crying!”
“I still think someone wrote his lines,” Nim said. “From all I hear, he doesn’t know that much about anything.”
O’Brien shrugged. “It’s academic.”
He added, “I’ll tell you something else. When Clarke had finished testifying and was ready to leave, the presiding Commissioner sent word he would appreciate an autograph. Wanted it for his niece, he said. Damn liar! It was for himself.”
“Whichever way you slice it,” Teresa Van Buren pronounced, “Cameron Clarke has done our cause a lot of harm.”
No one mentioned what scarcely needed saying: That TV, radio and print reviews of the movie actor’s brief appearance had eclipsed all other news about Tunipah. In the Chronicle-West and California Examiner, the statement by the Governor of California in support of the project rated a brief paragraph near the end of the Clarke-dominated report. On TV it was not mentioned at all. As to Paul Sherman Yale’s appearance, that was totally ignored.
13
Instinct told Nancy Molineaux she was onto something. Possibly a major story, though so far it was shapeless and insubstantial. There were other problems. One was that she didn’t really know what she was looking for. Another was the practical need to do other, regular reporting jobs for the California Examiner, which limited the time available for her nebulous quest. Making it even more difficult was the fact that she had not confided in anyone yet, particularly the Examiner’s city editor, who was always in a mad rush for results and could never understand that finesse and patience could sometimes be important tools of a good reporter. Nancy had both.
She had been using them since the Golden State Power & Light annual shareholders meeting when Nim Goldman suggested to her in anger, “Why not investigate him?”