The bulky, bearded figure of Davey Birdsong-a broad smile on his face as usual-was visible at the demonstration's rear. As the two watched, Birdsong raised a walkie-talkie radio to his lips.

"He's probably talking to someone inside," London said, "He's already been in and out twice; be has one share of stock in his name. I checked."

"One share is enough," Nim pointed out. "It gives anyone a right to be at the annual meeting."

"I know. And probably some more of his people have the same. They've something else planned. I'm sure of it."

Nim and London returned inside the hotel unnoticed. Outside, the demonstrators seemed noisier than before.

In a small private meeting room off a corridor behind the ballroom stage, J. Eric Humphrey paced restlessly, still reviewing the speech he would shortly make. Over the past three days a dozen drafts had been typed and retyped, the latest an hour ago. Even now, as be moved, silently mouthing words and turning pages, be would pause occasionally to pencil in a change.

Out of deference to the chairman's concentration, the others present-Sharlett Underhill, Oscar O'Brien, Stewart Ino, Ray Paulsen, a half-dozen directors-bad fallen silent, one or two of the directors mixing drinks at a portable bar.

Heads turned as an outside door opened. It framed a security guard and, behind him, Nim, who came in, closing the door.

Humphrey put down the pages of his speech. "Well?"

"It's a mob scene out there." Nim described tersely his observations in the ballroom, overflow hall and outside the hotel.

A director inquired nervously, "Is there any way we can postpone the meeting?"

Oscar O'Brien shook his head decisively. "Out of the question. It's been called legally. It must go on."

"Besides," Nim added, "if you did there'd be a riot."

The same director said, "We may have that anyway."

The chairman crossed to the bar and poured himself a plain soda water, wishing it were a scotch but observing his own rule of no drinking by officers during working hours. He said testily, "We knew in advance this was going to happen so any talk of postponement is pointless. We simply have to do the best we can." As he sipped his soda: "Those people out there have a right to be angry-at us, and about their dividends. I'd feel the same way myself. What can you tell people who put their money where they believed it was safe, and suddenly find it isn't after all?"

"You could try telling them the truth," Sharlett Underhill said, her face flushing with emotion. "The truth that there isn't any place in this country were the thrifty and hard-working can put their money with an assurance of preserving its value. Not in companies like ours anymore; certainly not in savings accounts or bonds where the interest doesn't keep pace with government-provoked inflation. Not since those charlatans and crooks in Washington debased the dollar and keep right on doing it, grinning like idiots while they ruin us. They've given us a dishonest fiat paper currency, unbacked by anything but politicians' worthless promises. Our financial institutions are crumbling. Bank insurance-the FDIC-is a facade. Social Security is a bankrupt fraud; if it were a private concern those running it would be in jail. And good, decent, efficient companies like ours are pushed to the wall, forced into doing what we've done, and taking the blame unfairly."

There were murmurs of approval, someone applauded, and the chairman said drily, "Sharlett, maybe you should make the speech instead of me." He added thoughtfully, "Everything you say is true, of course. Unfortunately most citizens aren't ready to listen and accept the truth, not yet."

"As a matter of interest, Sharlett," Ray Paulsen asked, "where do you keep your savings?"

The financial vice president snapped back, "In Switzerland-one of the few countries where there's still financial sanity-and the Bahamas -in gold coins and Swiss francs, the only honest currencies left. If you haven't already, I advise the rest of you to do the same."

Nim was looking at his watch. He went to the door and opened it. "It's a minute to the hour. Time to go."

"Now I know," Eric Humphrey said as he led the way out, "how the Christians felt when they had to face the lions."

The management representatives and the directors filed quickly onto the platform, the chairman going directly to a podium with a lectern, the others to chairs on his right. As they did so the hubbub in the ballroom stilled briefly. Then, near the front, a few scattered voices shouted, "Boo!" Instantly the cry was taken up until a cacophony of boos and catcalls thundered through the hall. On the podium J. Eric Humphrey stood impassively, waiting for the disapproving chorus to subside. When it lessened slightly he leaned forward to the microphone in front of him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my opening remarks on the state of our company will be brief. I know that many of you are anxious to ask questions . ."

His next words were drowned out in another uproar. amid it were cries of "You're damned right!" . . . "Take questions now!" "Cut the horseshit!" . . . "Talk dividend!"

When he could make himself heard again, Humphrey countered, "I certainly do intend to talk about dividends but first there are some matters which must . . ."

"Mr. Chairman, Mr. Chairman, on a point of order!"

A new, unseen voice was booming through the PA system. Simultaneously a red light glowed on the chairman's lectern, indicating that a microphone in the overflow room was being used.

Humphrey spoke loudly into his own mike. "What is your point of order?"

"I object, Mr. Chairman, to the manner in which .

Humphrey interrupted. "State your name, please."

"My name is Homer F. Ingersoll. I am a lawyer and I hold three hundred shares for myself, two hundred for a client."

"What is your point of order, Mr. Ingersoll?"

"I started to tell you, Mr. Chairman. I object to the way in which inadequate, inefficient arrangements were made to hold this meeting, with the result that I and many others have been relegated, like second class citizens, to another hall where we cannot properly participate . . ."

"But you are participating, Mr. Ingersoll. I regret that the unexpectedly large attendance today . ."

"I am raising a point of order, Mr. Chairman, and I hadn't finished."

As the booming voice cut in again, Humphrey said resignedly, "Finish your point of order, but quickly, please."

"You may not know it, Mr. Chairman, but even this second ball is now jampacked and there are many stockholders outside who cannot get into either one. I am speaking on their behalf because they are being deprived of their legal rights."

"No," Humphrey acknowledged, "I did not know it. I am genuinely sorry and I concede our preparations were inadequate."

A woman in the ballroom stood up and cried, "You should all resign! You can't even organize an annual meeting."

Other voices echoed, "Yes, resign! Resign!"

Eric Humphrey's lips tightened; for a moment, uncharacteristically, he appeared nervous. Then, with an obvious effort, he controlled himself and tried again. "Today's attendance, as many of you know, is unprecedented."

A strident voice: "So was cutting off our dividends!"

"I can only tell you-I had intended to say this later but I'll state it now-that omission of our dividend was an action which I and my fellow directors took with great reluctance . . ."

The voice again: "Did you try cutting your own fat salary?"

". . . and with full awareness," Humphrey persisted, "of the unhappiness, indeed hardship, which . . ."

Several things then happened simultaneously.

A large, soft tomato, unerringly aimed, struck the chairman in the face. It burst, leaving a mess of pulp and juice which dripped down his face, suit and shirtfront.

As if on signal, a barrage of more tomatoes and several eggs followed, splattering the stage and the chairman's podium. Many in the ballroom audience jumped to their feet; a few were laughing but others, looking around them for the throwers, appeared shocked and disapproving. At the same time a new disturbance could be heard, with raised voices growing in volume, immediately outside.

Nim, also on his feet near the center of the ballroom where he had gone when the management group occupied the platform, was searching for the source of the fusillade, ready to intervene if he could find it. Almost at once he saw Davey Birdsong. As he had been doing earlier, the p & lfp leader was speaking into a walkie-talkie; Nim guessed that he was giving orders. Nim tried to push his way toward Birdsong but found it impossible. By now the scene in the ballroom was one of total confusion.

Abruptly Nim found himself face to face with Nancy Molineaux. For an instant she betrayed uncertainty.

His anger flared. "I suppose you're loving all of this so you can write about us as viciously as usual."

"I just try to be factual, Goldman." Her self-assurance returning, Ms. Molineaux smiled. "I do investigative reporting where I think it's needed."

"Yeah, investigative, meaning one-sided, slanted!" Impulsively he pointed across the room to Davey Birdsong and his walkie-talkie. "Why not investigate him?"

"Give me one good reason why I should."

I believe he's creating a disturbance here."

"Do you know he is?"

Nim admitted, "No."

"Then let me tell you something. Whether he helped or not, this disturbance happened because a lot of people believe that Golden State Power & Light isn't being run the way it should be. Or don't you ever face reality?"

With a contemptuous glance at Nim, Nancy Molineaux moved away.

Then the noise outside increased still further and, adding to the ballroom shambles, a phalanx of newcomers pushed their way in. Behind them were still more people, among them bearers of anti GSP & L signs and placards.

What had happened-as became clear later-was that a few individuals among those shareholders denied access to both halls had urged others to join them in using force to enter the ballroom. Together they had shoved aside temporary barriers and overwhelmed the security guards and other GSP & L staff. At virtually the same moment the crowd of demonstrators in the hotel forecourt had rushed the police lines and this time broken them. The demonstrators poured into the hotel, heading for the ballroom, where they reinforced the invading shareholders.

As Nim suspected but could not prove, Davey Birdsong orchestrated all movements, beginning with the tomato throwing, by issuing com-1mands through the walkie-talkie. As well as arranging the forecourt demonstration, the p & lfp had infiltrated the shareholders' meeting by the simple-and legitimate-device of having a dozen of its members, including Birdsong, purchase single shares of GSP&L stock several months earlier.

In the ensuing turmoil only a few heard J. Eric Humphrey announce over the PA system, "This meeting stands recessed. It will resume in approximately half an hour."

6.

In the living room of her apartment Karen bestowed on Nim the same radiant smile he remembered so well from their previous encounter. Then she said sympathetically, "I know this week has been difficult for you. I read about your company's annual meeting and saw some of it on television."

Instinctively Nim grimaced. The TV coverage had concentrated on riotous aspects, ignoring the complex issues aired during five hours of business-questions, discussion, voting on resolutions-which had followed the enforced recess. (To be fair, Nim acknowledged, the television cameras had only external film shots to work with; using hindsight, be realized it would have been better to have allowed them in.) During the half-hour recess, order was restored and the marathon business session ensued. At the end nothing had changed except that all participants were weary, but much that needed to be said had been brought into the open. To Nim's surprise next day the most comprehensive and balanced view of the proceedings had appeared in the California Examiner under Nancy Molineaux's by-line.

"If you don't mind," be told Karen, "our annual circus is something I'd like to blot out for a while."

"Consider it blotted, Nimrod. What annual meeting? I never even heard of one."

He laughed, then said, "I enjoyed your poetry. Have you published any?"

She shook her head and he was reminded again, as she sat in the wheelchair opposite him, that it was the only part of her body she could move.

He had come here today partly because he felt the need to get away, even if briefly, from the turmoil of GSP & L. He had also wanted, very much, to see Karen Sloan, a desire now reinforced by her charm and re-1markable beauty. The last was just as he remembered-the shining shoulder-length blonde hair, perfectly proportioned face, full lips and flawless, opalescent skin.

A touch whimsically, Nim speculated on whether he was falling in love. If so, it would involve a reversal, he thought. On plenty of occasions he had experienced sex without love. But with Karen it would be love without sex.

"I write poetry for pleasure," Karen said. "What I was working on when you came was a speech."

He had already noticed the electric typewriter behind her. It contained a partially typed sheet. Other papers were spread out on a table alongside.

"A speech to whom? And about what?"

"It will be to a convention of lawyers. A State Bar group is working on a report about laws which apply to disabled persons-those in most states and other countries. There are some laws which work; others don't. I've made a study of them."

"You're telling lawyers about the law?"

"Why not? Lawyers get cocooned in theory. They need someone practical to tell them what really happens under laws and regulations. That's why they've asked me; besides, I've done it before. Mostly I'll talk about para- and quadriplegics and also clear up some misconceptions."

"What kind of misconceptions?"

From the adjoining room, while they talked, kitchen sounds were audible.

When Nim had telephoned this morning, Karen invited him for lunch. Now, Josie, the aide-cum-housekeeper whom Nim had met on his previous visit, was preparing the meal.

"Before I answer that," Karen said, "my right leg is getting uncomfortable. Will you move it for me?"

He stood up and approached the wheelchair uncertainly. Karen's right leg was crossed over her left.

"Just arrange them the other way. Left over right, please." She said it matter-of-factly and Nim reached out, suddenly aware that her nylon covered legs were slim and attractive. And they were warm, momentarily exciting, to the touch.

"Thank you," Karen acknowledged. "You have gentle hands." When he appeared surprised, she added, "That's one of the misconceptions."

"What is?"

"That all paralyzed people are deprived of normal feeling. It's true that some can't feel anything anymore, but post-polios like me can have all their sensory abilities intact. So although I can't move my limbs, I have as much physical sensation as anyone else. It's why a leg or arm can get uncomfortable or 'fall asleep, and need its position changed, the way you did just now."

He admitted, "You're right. I guess I did think the way you said, subconsciously."

"I know." She smiled mischievously. "But I could feel your hands on my legs and, if you want to know, I rather liked it."

A sudden, startling thought occurred to him, then he dismissed it and said, "Tell me another misconception."

"That quadriplegics shouldn't be asked to talk about themselves. You'd be surprised how many people are reluctant or embarrassed to have any contact with us, some even frightened."

"Does that happen often?"

"All the time. Last week my sister Cynthia took me to a restaurant for lunch. When the waiter came he wrote down Cynthia's order then, without looking at me, he asked, 'And what will she have?' Cynthia, bless her, said, 'Why don't you ask her?' But even then, when I gave my order, he wouldn't look at me directly."

Nim was silent, then be reached out, lifted Karen's hand and held it.