"Have you been thinking the way I have, Nim? About a reason for what happened?"

"Ardythe, I was there. I saw .

"I don't mean that. I mean why."

Bewildered, he shook his head.

"I've done a lot of thinking since yesterday, Nim. And I've decided that what seemed like an accident could be because of us-you and me."

Still not understanding, he protested, "Please. You're overwrought. It's a terrible shock, I know, especially coming so soon after Walter."

"That's the point." Ardythe's face and voice were tense. "You and I were sinful, so soon after Walter died. I've a feeling I'm being punished, that Wally, Mary, the children, are all suffering because of me.

For a moment he was reduced to shocked silence, then said vehemently, "For God's sake, Ardythe, stop this! It's ridiculous!"

"Is it? Think about it when you're alone, the way I've been doing. And just now you said 'for God's sake.' You're a Jew, Nim. Doesn't your religion teach you to believe in God's anger and punishment?"

"Even if it does, I don't accept all that."

"I didn't either," Ardythe said mournfully. "But now I'm wondering."

"Look," he said, searching desperately for words to change her thinking, "sometimes life causes one family to suffer-the way it seems: firing at it with both barrels-while other families go untouched. It isn't logical, it isn't fair. But it happens. I can think of other instances; so can you."

"How do we know those other instances weren't punishments also?"

"Because there's no way they could be. Because all of life is chance the chances we make ourselves, by error or had luck, including the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's all it is, Ardythe, and it's madness to blame yourself, in any way, for what's happened to Wally."

She answered dully, "I want to believe you. But I can't. Leave me now, Nim. They're going to send me home this afternoon."

Standing, he told her, "I'll drive out soon."

She shook her head. "I'm not sure you should. But phone me."

He bent to kiss her cheek, then remembering her wishes, abandoned the attempt and went out quietly.

His mind was in turmoil. Clearly, Ardythe needed psychiatric help, but if Nim himself suggested it to Mary or anyone else, he would have to explain why-in detail. Even under the seal of medical confidence, he couldn't see himself doing that. At least, not yet.

The grief about Wally, Ardythe, and his own dilemma stayed with him through the day, refusing to be pushed away.

As if that wasn't enough, Nim was pilloried that afternoon in the California Examiner.

He had wondered if, in view of the emergency employment of a belicopter to airlift Wally out of Devil's Gate Camp, Nancy Molineaux might abandon her intention to write about the helicopter's other uses.

She hadn't.

Her story was in a box facing the editorial page.

The Captains and the Kings . . . and GSP & L's Mr. Goldman Ever wonder what it would be like to have a private helicopter whisk you wherever you wanted while you sat back and relaxed?

Most of us will never experience that exotic pleasure.

Those who do fall into certain categories-the President of the United States, the Shah of Iran, the late Howard Hughes, occasionally the Pope, and, oh yes, certain favored executives of your friendly public utility, Golden State Power & Light. For example-Mr. Nimrod Goldman.

Why Goldman?, you might ask.

Well, it seems that Mr. Goldman, who is a GSP & L vice president, is too important to ride on a bus, even though one -privately chartered by Golden State Power-was going his way the other day and had plenty of spare seats. Instead be chose a helicopter which . . .

There was more, along with a picture of a GSP & L helicopter and an unflattering portrait of Nim which, he suspected, Ms. Molineaux chose from the newspaper's files.

Especially damaging was a paragraph which read: Electric and gas consumers, already beset by high utility bills, and who have been told that rates must soon go up again, may wonder about the way their money is being spent by GSP & L, a quasi-public company. Perhaps if executives like Nimrod Goldman were willing to travel-like the rest of us-less glamorously, the resultant savings, along with other economies, could help hold down those persistent rate increases.

In mid-afternoon Nim folded the newspaper and flagged the article, then gave it to J. Eric Humphrey's secretary. "Tell the chairman I figured he'd see this anyway, so he might as well get it from me."

Minutes later Humphrey strode into Nim's office and tossed the paper down. He was angrier than Nim had ever seen him and, uncharacteristically, raised his voice. "In God's name what were you thinking of to get us into this mess? Don't you know the Public Utilities Commission is considering our application for a rate increase, and will hand down a decision in the next few days? This is just the kind of thing to raise a public clamor which could make them cut our throats."

Nim released some irritability of his own. "Of course I know that." He motioned to the newspaper. "I'm as upset about this as you are. But that damn woman reporter had her scalping knife out. If she hadn't picked the helicopter, it would have been something else."

"Not necessarily; not if she hadn't found anything. By using the helicopter indiscreetly as you did, you dumped an opportunity in her lap."

On the point of snapping back, Nim decided to keep quiet. Taking blame unfairly, he supposed, could be considered part of an assistant's job. Only two weeks earlier the chairman had told his senior aides at an informal meeting, "If you can save yourself half a day's travel, and do your job faster and more efficiently, use a company helicopter because it's cheaper in the long run. I realize we need those aircraft for transmission line patrols and emergencies, but when they're not in use that way, it costs very little more to have them in the air than it does to keep them on the ground."

Something else Eric Humphrey had presumably forgotten was asking Nim to take on the two-day press briefing and to represent him at an important Chamber of Commerce meeting the morning of the first day of the press tour.

There was no way Nim could have done both without using the helicopter.

However, Humphrey was a fair man and would probably remember later. Even if he failed to, Nim reasoned, it didn't much matter.

But that three-day combination of events had left him exhausted and melancholy. Thus, when Harry London, who knew some-though not all-of the reasons behind Nim's depression, had dropped in to suggest some drinking after work, Nim accepted promptly.

Now he felt the liquor taking hold and, while he wasn't any happier, an increasing numbness was somehow comforting. In a corner of his brain still functioning with clarity, Nim. despised himself for what he was doing, and the implied weakness. Then he reminded himself it didn't happen often-he couldn't remember the last time he had had too much to drink-and maybe just letting yourself go once in a while, saying to hell with everything, could be therapeutic.

"Let me ask you something, Harry," Nim said thickly. "You a religious man? Do you believe in God?"

Once more London drank deeply, then used a handkerchief to wipe beer foam from his lips. "No to the first. About the second, put it this way: I've never made a big deal about not believing."

"How about personal guilt? You carry a lot of that around?" Nim was remembering Ardythe, who had asked: "Doesn't your religion teach you to believe in God's anger and punishment?" This afternoon he had dismissed the question. Since then, annoyingly, it had replayed itself in his mind several times.

"I guess everybody's got some guilt." London seemed inclined to end his statement there, then changed his mind and added, "I sometimes think about two guys in Korea, close buddies of mine. We were on a recce patrol near the Yalu River. Those two were further forward than the rest of us, then we were all pinned down by enemy fire. The two guys needed help to get back. I was a topkick, in charge, and should have led the rest of us right then, taking a chance to reach them. While I was still dithering, making up my mind, the gooks found them; a grenade blew them both to bits. That's a guilt I carry around; that and some others."

He drank again, then said, "You know what you're doing, pal? You're getting us both . . . what's that word?"

"Maudlin," Nim said, having trouble pronouncing it.

"You got it! . . . maudlin." Harry London nodded solemnly as the cocktail bar pianist began playing As Time Goes By.

PART TWO.

1.

Davey Birdsong, who had been inspecting the Sequoia Club's impressive headquarters, inquired cheekily, "Where's the chairman's private sauna?

And after that I'd like to see your solid gold toilet seat."

"We don't have either," Laura Bo Carmichael said, a trifle stiffly. She was not entirely at case with the bearded, portly, jesting Birdsong, who, though a naturalized American for many years, still exhibited some of the rough outback manners of his native Australia. Laura Bo, who had met Birdsong a few times previously at outside meetings, equated him with the "Jolly Swagman" in Waltzing Matilda.

Which was ridiculous, of course, and she knew it. Though Davey Birdsong seemed to make a point of sounding uncultured and dressed the same way-today be wore shabby, patched jeans and running shoes with string for laces-the Sequoia Club chairman was well aware he was a scholar of stature, holding a master's degree in sociology, as well as being a part-time lecturer at the University of California at Berkeley. He had also put together a coalition of consumer, church and left-wing political groups which called itself p & lfp-or, power & light for people. (the lower case initials were, in Birdsong's words, "to emphasize we are not capitalists.") The declared aim of p & lfp was "to fight the profit-bloated monster GSP & L on all fronts." In various confrontations so far, p & lfp had opposed rate increases for electricity and gas, had fought licensing of a nuclear power plant, had objected to GSP & L public relations activities" ruthless propaganda unwillingly paid for by consumers," was bow Birdsong and p & lfp described it-and had urged a compulsory takeover of the power company by municipalities. Now, Birdsong's movement was seeking to join forces with the prestigious Sequoia Club in opposing the latest GSP & L expansion plans. That proposal was to be reviewed at a meeting with top club officials, due to begin shortly.

"Geez, Laura baby," Birdsong observed, his gaze still roaming the imposing paneled boardroom where they were talking, "I guess it's real 1soul-inspiring to work in a ritzy layout like this. You should see my dump.

Compared with what you got here it's a bum's nightmare."

She told him, "Our headquarters was deeded to us many years ago as part of a bequest. A condition was that we occupy the building; otherwise we would not receive the substantial income which accompanies it." At certain moments-this was one of them-Laura Bo Carmichael found the stately Cable Hill mansion, which the Sequoia Club occupied, something of an embarrassment. It was once a millionaire's town house which still bespoke wealth, and personally she would have preferred simpler quarters. To move, however, would have been financial madness. She added, "I'd prefer you not call me 'Laura baby."'

"I'll make a note of that." Grinning, Birdsong produced a notebook, unclipped a ball-point pen and wrote something down.

Putting the notebook away, he regarded the slight, trim figure of Mrs. Carmichael, then said reflectively, "Bequests, eh? From dead donors. I guess that, and those big live donors, is what keeps the Sequoia Club so rich."

"Rich is a relative word." Laura Bo Carmichael wished the three of her colleagues who were to join her for this meeting would arrive. "It's true our organization is fortunate in having national support, but we have substantial expenses."

The big bearded man chuckled. "Not so many, though, that you couldn't spread some of that bread around to other groups-doing your kind of work-which need it."

"We'll see. But," Mrs. Carmichael said firmly, "please don't assume we are so naive that you can come here posing as a poor relation, because we know better." She consulted some notes she had not intended to use until later.

"We know, for example, that your p & lfp has some twenty-five thousand members who pay three dollars a year each, collected by paid door-to-door canvassers, which adds up to $75,000 Out of that you pay yourself a salary of $20,000 a year, plus unknown expenses."

"Fella hasta make a living."

"A remarkably good one, I'd say." Laura Bo continued reading. "In addition there are your university lecture fees, another fixed salary from an activist training organization, and payment for articles you write, all of which is believed to bring your personal income as a protester to $60,000 a year."

Davey Birdsong, whose smile had grown broader while he listened, seemed not in the least taken aback. He commented, "A right nifty job of research."

It was the Sequoia Club chairman's turn to smile. "We do have an excellent research department here." She folded the notes and put them away. "None of the material I have quoted is for outside use, of course. It's merely to make you aware of our awareness that professional protesters like you have a good thing going. That mutual knowledge will save time when we get down to business."

A door opened quietly and a neat, elderly man with iron-gray hair and rimless glasses entered the boardroom.

Laura Bo said, "Mr. Birdsong, I believe you know our manager-secretary, Mr. Pritchett."

Davey Birdsong put out a large, meaty hand. "We met on the battlefield a time or two. Hiya, Pritchy!"

When his band had been pumped vigorously the newcomer said drily, "I hadn't considered environmental hearings to be battlefields, though I suppose they could be construed that way."

"Damn right, Pritchy! And when I go into battle, especially against the people's enemy, Golden State Power, I fire every big gun and keep on firing. Tough 'n' tougher, that's the prescription. Oh, I'm not saying there isn't a place for your kind of opposition. There is!-you people bring a touch of class. I'm the one, though, who makes headlines and gets on TV news. By the way, did you kids see me on TV with that GSP & L prick, Goldman?"

"The Good Evening Show," the manager-secretary acknowledged. "Yes, I did.

I thought you were colorful, though-to be objective Goldman was shrewd in resisting your baiting." Pritchett removed his glasses to polish them.

"Perhaps, as you say, there is a place for your kind of opposition to GSP & L. Possibly, even, we need each other."

"Attaboy, Pritchy!"

"The correct pronunciation is Pritchett. Or, if you prefer, you may call me Roderick."

"I'll make a note of that, Roddy old man." Grinning broadly at Laura Bo, Birdsong went through his notebook routine once more.

While they were talking two others had come in. Laura Bo Carmichael introduced them as Irwin Saunders and Mrs. Priscilla Quinn, the remaining members of the Sequoia Club executive committee. Saunders was a balding, gravel-voiced lawyer who handled big-name divorce cases and was frequently in the news. Mrs. Quinn, fashionably dressed and attractive in her late forties, was the wife of a wealthy banker and noted for her civic zeal, also for limiting her friendships to other wealthy or important people. She accepted Davey Birdsong's outstretched band with reluctance, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and distaste.

The chairman suggested, "I think we might all be seated and get on with business."

The five grouped themselves near one end of a long mahogany table, Laura Bo at the head.

"We are all concerned," she said, "about recent proposals of Golden State Power & Light which the Sequoia Club has already decided would 1be harmful to the environment. We will actively oppose them at forthcoming hearings."

Birdsong thumped the table loudly. "And I say: three bloody cheers for the Sequoia mob!"

Irwin Saunders appeared amused. Mrs. Quinn raised her eyebrows.

"What Mr. Birdsong has suggested in connection with that opposition," the chairman continued, "are certain liaison arrangements between our organization and his. I'll ask him to describe them."

Attention swung to Davey Birdsong. For a moment he eyed the other four amiably, one by one, then plunged into his presentation.

"The kind of opposition all of us are talking about is a war-with GSP & L the enemy. To regard the scene otherwise would be to court defeat. Therefore, just as in a war, an attack must be mounted on several fronts."

Noticeably, Birdsong had shed his clown's veneer and the earlier breeziness of language. He proceeded, "To carry the war simile a stage further-as well as doing combat on specific issues, no opportunity should be lost to snipe at GSP & L whenever such an opening occurs."

"Really," Mrs. Quinn injected, "I'm aware you advised us it was a simile, but I find this talk of war distasteful. After all . . ."

The lawyer, Saunders, reached out to touch her arm. "Priscilla, why not let him finish?"

She shrugged. "Very well."

"Causes are often lost, Mrs. Quinn," Birdsong declared, "because of too much softness, an unwillingness to face the hard nub of reality."

Saunders nodded. "A valid point."

"Let's get to specifics," Pritchett, the manager-secretary, urged. "Mr. Birdsong, you referred to 'several fronts! Precisely which?"

"Right!" Birdsong became businesslike again. "Fronts one, two and three-the public bearings on the announced plans for Tunipah, Fincastle Valley and Devil's Gate. You people will fight on all of them. So will my gallant p & lfp."

"As a matter of interest," Laura Bo inquired, "on what grounds will you oppose?"