The bus traveled about a mile within the geothermal field's rugged terrain, over narrow roads, uneven in places, winding between wellheads, generator buildings and the ever-present maze of hissing, steaming pipes. There were few other vehicles. Because of danger from scalding steam, the public was banned from the area and all visitors escorted.

At one point the bus passed a huge switching and transformer yard. From here, high voltage transmission lines on towers carried power across the mountains to a pair of substations forty miles away, where it was funneled into the backbone of the Golden State Power & Light electric system.

On a small, asphalted plateau were several house trailers which served as offices, as well as living quarters, for on-site crews. The bus balted beside them. Teresa Van Buren led the way into one trailer where places had been set on trestle tables. Inside she told a whitecoated kitchen helper, "Okay, open the tiger cage." He produced a key and unlocked a wall cabinet to reveal liquor, wine, and mixes. A moment later a bucket of ice was brought in and the PR director told the others, "Everybody help yourselves."

Most were on their second drink when the sound of an aircraft engine overhead became audible, then grew quickly in volume. From the trailer's windows several people watched a small helicopter descending. It was painted in GSP & L's orange and white and bore the company insignia. It alighted immediately outside and the rotors slowed and stopped. A door at the front of the fuselage opened. Nim Goldman clambered out.

Moments later Nim joined the group inside the trailer. Teresa Van Buren announced, "I think most of you know Mr. Goldman. He's here to answer questions."

"I'll put the first question," a TV correspondent said cheerfully. "Can I mix you a drink?"

Nim grinned. "Thanks. A vodka and tonic."

"My, my!" Nancy Molineaux observed. "Aren't you the important one, to come by helicopter when the rest of us rated a bus!"

Nim regarded the young, attractive black woman cagily. He remembcred their previous encounter and clash; also Teresa Van Buren's assessment of Ms. Molineaux as an outstanding newspaperwoman. Nim still thought she was a bitch.

"If it's of any interest," he said, "I had some other work to do this morning, which is why I left later than you and came the way I did."

Nancy Molineaux was not deterred. "Do all the utility executives use helicopters when they feel like it?"

"Nancy," Van Buren said sharply, "you know damn well they don't."

"Our company," Nim volunteered, "owns and operates a half-dozen small aircraft, including two helicopters. Mainly they are used for patrolling transmission lines, checking mountain snow levels, conveying urgent supplies, and in other emergencies. Occasionally-very occasionally-one will convey a company executive if the reason is important. I was told this session was."

"Are you implying that now you're not so sure?"

"Since you ask, Miss Molineaux," Nim said coldly, "I'll admit to having doubts."

"Hey, knock it off, Nancy!" a voice called from the rear. "The rest of us are not interested in this."

Ms. Molineaux wheeled on her colleagues. "Well, I am. I'm concerned about how the public's money is squandered, and if you aren't, you should be."

"The purpose of being here," Van Buren reminded them all, "is to view our geothermal operations and talk about . . ."

"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 PR director shrugged.

"If all the horseshit's finished," Nancy Molineaux said, "I'd like to know the purchase price of that fancy eggbeater 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 bunkhouse 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 bell'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 lose 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 PR director told the group. "In advance of the bearings 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 "persona!" (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 bead 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 suryeillance 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 be had awakened refreshed, and was now ready for breakfast, which would be in a few minutes, at 7:30 am.

On a veranda outside the employees' bunkhouse, in the clear morning air, be 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 PR director had said as she left. "And do yourself a favor - simmer down."