Something else Nim weighed from time to time was that news about his womanizing seemed to become known no matter how discreet he tried to be. There had been several examples of such leakages, the latest this afternoon. What was it Teresa Van Buren had said? “You’ve got a few things to learn about women, Nim—other than calisthenics in bed, and from rumors I hear, you’re getting plenty of that.” Obviously Teresa had more than rumors to go on or she would not have spoken so bluntly. And if Teresa knew, so did others in GSP & L.
Was Nim imperiling his own career? If so, was it worth it? Why did he do it, anyway? And was it for real or just a game?
“I’ll be damned if I know,” Nim said aloud in the small closed car, and the remark seemed applicable to what he had been thinking about and a good deal more.
His own house, near the outskirts of the city, was silent when he arrived, with only a dim night-light in the downstairs hallway left burning. At Nim’s urging, the Gold-mans were a conservation-conscious family.
Upstairs he tiptoed into Leah’s and Benjy’s rooms. Both youngsters were sleeping soundly.
Ruth stirred as he came into their bedroom, and inquired sleepily, “What time is it?”
He answered softly, “A little past midnight.”
“How’s Ardythe?”
“I’ll tell you in the morning.”
The answer seemed satisfactory and Ruth returned to sleep.
Nim showered quickly, remembering that he should remove any traces of Ardythe’s perfume, then climbed into his own twin bed. Moments later, surrendering to exhaustion from the pressures of the day, he was asleep himself.
6
“We are agreed, then,” J. Eric Humphrey said. His inquiring gaze swept over the nine men and two women seated with him around the conference room table. “We are agreed we should accept Nim’s planning report in toto and press at the highest level for immediate, urgent approval of the three projects—Tunipah coal-burning plant, Devil’s Gate pumped storage, and opening the Fincastle geothermal field.”
As nods and murmured assent greeted the chairman’s summation, Nim Goldman leaned back, for the moment relaxed. His presentation of future plans—the product of intense work by himself and many others—had been a grueling one.
The group, GSP & L’s management committee, included all officers reporting directly to the chairman. Officially, it rated second in authority to the Board of Directors. In fact, it was the real fount of policy decisions and power.
It was Monday afternoon and the meeting, which had carried over from the morning, had worked its way through a long agenda. A few around the table showed signs of weariness.
Five days had passed since the disastrous explosion at La Mission and the subsequent power failure. In the meantime there had been intensive studying of entrails—the cause and effect of what had happened, along with prognostications for the future. The inquisitions had continued late into every night and over the weekend. Also, since last Wednesday, because of cooler weather and some luck, no further blackouts had occurred. But one conclusion was inescapable. There would be other blackouts, far more serious, unless GSP & L began building more generating capacity soon.
“Soon” meant within the next year. Even then there could still be serious shortages ahead since a conventional fossil-fueled power plant took five years to design and build, a nuclear plant six—preceded, in each case, by the four to six years it took to obtain the needed licenses.
“As well as those three projects we’ve been talking about,” Oscar O’Brien, the utility’s general counsel, said, “I assume we’ll still continue our nuclear license applications.” O’Brien was a former government lawyer from Washington, a burly man, shaped like a bass fiddle, who smoked cigars continuously.
Across the table from him, Ray Paulsen, executive vice president of power supply, growled, “We goddam well better.”
Next to Paulsen, Nim Goldman doodled thoughtfully on a pad. He reflected: Despite their mutual dislike, and disputes in many areas, the one thing he and Paulsen agreed on was a need for more power generation.
“Yes,” Eric Humphrey said, “we shall keep our nuclear applications simmering. But we all know that since the Three Mile Island accident the chance of more nuclear plants being approved—for the next few years anyway—is slim.”
The chairman continued, “Anticipating our decision here about the non-nuclear plants, I have already arranged a meeting with the Governor—in Sacramento, the day after tomorrow. I intend to urge him to bring pressure on all regulatory agencies to move swiftly. I shall also suggest, for each of the three projects, combined hearings before all regulatory bodies from whom we require approval, perhaps starting as early as next month.”
“It’s never been done that way, Eric,” Stewart Ino, a senior vice president in charge of rates and valuation, objected. Ino was an old-timer at CSP & L; he had a chubby yeoman’s face and with the addition of a ruff and velvet hat could have been a British beefeater. An expert on licensing procedures, he liked to follow them precisely. “Separate hearings have always been the rule,” he added. “To combine them would create complications.”
“Let the lousy bureaucrats worry about that,” Ray Paulsen told him. “I’m for Eric’s idea which would shove a live wire up their asses.”
“Three live wires,” someone said.
Paulsen grinned. “Better still.”
Ino looked offended.
Ignoring the last exchange, Eric Humphrey observed, “Let’s remember there are strong arguments in favor of exceptional action. Moreover, we shall never have a better time to press them. The power failure of last week showed clearly that a crisis can happen; therefore crisis methods are needed to counter it. Even in Sacramento I think they’ll see that.”
“In Sacramento,” Oscar O’Brien said, “all they see is politics, just as in Washington. And let’s face it—the opponents of what we plan will use politics to the hilt, with Tunipah at the top of their hate list.”
There were reluctant murmurs of assent. Tunipah, as everyone around the table realized, could prove the most controversial of the three developments now being discussed. It was also, in several ways, the most vital of their plans.
Tunipah was a wilderness area near the California-Nevada border. It was neither inhabited—the nearest small town was forty miles distant—nor favored by sportsmen or naturalists since it held little of interest for either. The region was difficult to get to and no roads, only a few trails, traversed it. For all these reasons Tunipah had been chosen carefully.
What Golden State Power & Light proposed to build at Tunipah was an enormous generating plant, capable of producing more than five million kilowatts of electricity—enough to supply six cities the size of San Francisco. The fuel to be used was coal. This would be transported by rail from Utah, seven hundred miles away, where coal was plentiful and relatively cheap. A rail link would be built—to the main line of the Western Pacific Railroad—at the same time as the plant.
Coal could be North America’s answer to Arab oil. Coal deposits within the conterminous United States represent a third of the entire world’s known supply and are more than enough to satisfy U.S. energy needs for three centuries. Alaska is believed to have another two thousand years’ supply. Admittedly, coal presented problems. Mining was one, air pollution another, though modern technologies were at work on both. At new electric utility plants in other states, smokestacks a thousand feet high, supplemented by electrostatic filters and scrubbers that removed sulfur from smokestack gases, were reducing pollution to acceptable levels. And at Tunipah, what pollution there was would be far removed from inhabited or recreation areas.
Something else Tunipah would do was to permit the closing of some of GSP & L’s older, oil-burning plants. This would further reduce dependence on imported oil and produce big cost savings, present and future.
Logic favored the Tunipah project. But, as all public utilities had learned from experience, logic didn’t rule, nor did the gre
ater public good if a handful of determined objectors—no matter how warped or unqualified their judgments—decided otherwise. By the use of slow, procedural tactics applied with ruthless skill, a project like Tunipah could be so long delayed as to be, in reality, defeated. Those who consistently opposed any electric utility expansion made effective use of Parkinson’s third law: Delay is the deadliest form of denial.
“Is there more discussion?” J. Eric Humphrey asked. Several of those around the conference table had begun stuffing papers into briefcases, assuming the meeting to be almost over.
“Yes,” Teresa Van Buren said. “I’d like a nickel’s worth.”
Heads turned toward the public relations vice president, her short, plump figure thrust forward to command attention. Her normally unruly hair was more or less tidy today, presumably in deference to the occasion, but she still wore one of her inevitable linen suits.
“Twisting the Governor’s arm the way you plan, Eric, and stroking other egos around the state capitol is okay,” she pronounced. “I’m in favor of it. But it isn’t enough, not nearly enough to achieve what we want, and here’s the reason.”
Van Buren paused. Reaching down beside her seat, she produced two newspapers and spread them on the conference room table. “This is this afternoon’s California Examiner—an early edition I had sent in—and this one, this morning’s Chronicle-West, which you’ve undoubtedly all seen. I’ve been through both papers carefully and there’s not a word in either about last week’s power outage. For one day, as we know, the subject was big news, the next day minor news; after that it disappeared. And what’s true of the press is true of other media.”
“So what?” Ray Paulsen said. “There’s been other news. People lose interest.”
“They lose interest because no one keeps them interested. Out there”—Van Buren waved an arm in the general direction of the world beyond the conference room—“out there the press and public think of an electric power shortage as a here-today-gone-tomorrow, short-term problem. Almost no one is considering the long-term effects of power shortages which we know are getting closer—drastically lower living standards, dislocation of industry, catastrophic unemployment. And nothing will change that outside, uninformed thinking unless we make it change.”
Sharlett Underhill, executive vice president of finance and the other woman at the table, asked, “How do you make anybody think anything?”
“I’ll answer that,” Nim Goldman said. He snapped down his pencil. “One way is to start shouting the truth—the way things really are, not holding back—and to go on shouting loud and clear and often.”
Ray Paulsen said sardonically, “In other words, you’d like to be on TV four times a week instead of twice?”
Nim ignored the interruption. He went on, “We should, as company policy, keep on proclaiming what everyone at this table knows: That last week our peak load was twenty-two million kilowatts, and demand is growing by a million kilowatts a year. That, assuming the same growth rate, in three years we’ll be short on reserves, in four years we’ll have none. So how will we manage? The answer is: we won’t. Any fool can see what’s coming—three years from now, blackouts every time it’s hot; and in six years, blackouts every summer day. We have got to get some new generators built and we have to tell the public the consequences of not building them.”
There was a silence which Van Buren broke. “We all know every word of that is true, so why not say so? There’s even an opportunity next week. Nim has been booked for Tuesday on The Good Evening Show, which has a big following.”
Paulsen grunted. “Too bad I’ll be out that night.”
“I’m not at all sure we should be that forthright,” Sharlett Underhill said. “I need hardly remind everyone we have an application in process for a rate increase and we desperately need that extra revenue. I don’t want to see our chances of getting it jeopardized.”
“Frankness is likely to improve our chances,” Van Buren said, “not diminish them.”
The finance vice president shook her head. “I’m not so sure. And something else I believe is that the kind of statements we’re talking about, if made at all, should come from the chairman.”
“For the record,” Eric Humphrey put in mildly, “I was asked to appear on The Good Evening Show and I deputed Nim. He seems to do that kind of thing quite well.”
“He’d do a whole lot better,” the p.r. vice president said, “if we gave him carte blanche to issue some plain, ugly warnings instead of insisting on the ‘moderate line’ we always do.”
“I’m still in favor of a moderate line.” This time the speaker was Fraser Fenton, who held the title of president, though his main responsibility was for the utility’s gas operations. Fenton, thin, balding and ascetic, was another veteran.
“Not all of us,” he continued, “accept your gloomy view, Tess, of what’s ahead. I’ve been thirty-four years with this utility and I’ve seen problems come and go. I believe we’ll get around the capacity shortage somehow …”
Nim Goldman interjected, “How?”
“Let me finish,” Fenton said. “Another point I want to make is about opposition. It’s true that right now we encounter organized opposition to everything we try to do, whether it’s build more plants, increase rates, or give stockholders a decent dividend. But I believe most, if not all of that—the opposition and consumerism—will pass. It’s a fashion and a fad. Those involved will eventually become tired, and when that happens we’ll go back to the way things used to be, when this utility and others did pretty much what they wanted. That’s why I say we should continue talking a moderate line, and not stir up trouble and antagonism by alarming people needlessly.”
“I agree with all that,” Stewart Ino said.
Ray Paulsen added, “Me, too.”
Nim’s eyes met Teresa Van Buren’s and he knew their thoughts were the same. Within the public utilities business, Fraser Fenton, Ino, Paulsen, and others like them represented a cadre of entrenched executives who had grown up in their jobs during easier times and refused to acknowledge that these were gone forever. Mostly, such people attained their present eminence through seniority, never having been subject to the tough, sometimes cutthroat competition for advancement which was a norm in other industries. The personal security of the Fraser Fen-tons et al had become wrapped around them like a cocoon. The status quo was their holy grail. Predictably, they objected to anything they saw as rocking the boat.
There were reasons for this—often debated by Nim and other younger executives. One was the nature of a public utility—monopolistic, not subject to day-by-day competition in the marketplace; this was why utilities like Golden State Power & Light sometimes resembled government bureaucracies. Secondly, utilities, through most of their history, had been in a strong seller’s market, able to sell as much of their product as they could produce, the process helped along by abundant sources of cheap power. Only in recent years, as power sources became scarcer and more costly, had utility executives needed to face serious commercial problems and make hard, unpopular decisions. Nor, in older days, were they locked in combat with tough-minded, skillfully led opposition groups, including consumers and environmentalists.
It was these profound changes, the Nim Goldman types argued, which a majority of top level executives had failed to accept, or deal with realistically. (Walter Talbot, Nim remembered sadly, had been a notable exception.) The oldsters, for their part, regarded Nim and his kind as impatient, troublemaking upstarts and usually, since the older group comprised a majority, their point of view prevailed.
“I’ll admit to being ambivalent,” J. Eric Humphrey told the group, “on this question of should we, or shouldn’t we, bore in harder with our public statements. My personal nature is against it, but at times I see the other side.” The chairman, smiling slightly, glanced at Nim. “You were bristling just now. Anything to add?”
Nim hesitated. Then he said, “Only this. When the serious blackouts begin—I mean t
he long-lasting and repeated blackouts a few years from now—we, the utilities, will be blamed, no matter what has, or hasn’t, happened in the meantime. The press will crucify us. So will the politicians, doing their usual Pontius Pilate act. After that the public will blame us too, and say: Why didn’t you warn us while there was still time? I agree with Teresa—that time is now.”
“We’ll vote on it,” Eric Humphrey announced. “A show of hands, please, for the harder approach we’ve just heard advocated.”
Three hands went up—Teresa Van Buren’s, Nun’s, and that of Oscar O’Brien, the general counsel.
“Against,” the chairman called.
This time the raised hands numbered eight.
Eric Humphrey nodded. “I’ll go with the majority, which means we continue what someone called our ‘moderate line.’”
“And make goddam sure,” Ray Paulsen cautioned Nim, “you keep it moderate on those TV talk shows.”
Nim glared at Paulsen, but contained his anger, saying nothing.
As the meeting broke up, the participants divided into smaller segments—twos and threes—discussing their separate, special interests.
“We all need a few defeats,” Eric Humphrey told Nim cheerfully on the way out. “A certain humbling from time to time is good.”
Nim avoided comment. Before today’s meeting he had wondered if the old guard’s laissez-faire viewpoint about public relations could be sustained after the events of last week. Now he had the answer. Nim wished, too, that the chairman had supported him. He knew that if the subject had been one on which Humphrey held strong views they would have prevailed, regardless of any vote.
“Come in,” the chairman said as they neared their adjoining offices down the hallway from the conference room. “There’s something I want you to handle.”