One chance must not be taken, he reasoned. The truck could not be left too close to the apartment; otherwise it would betray his whereabouts, He, was approaching- North Castle. How near to- his destination dare be drive? He decided: Within one mile. When Georgos estimated he was that distance away, he pulled to the curb, switched off the engine and got out, not bothering to lock the truck or take the ignition key. He reasoned further: the police might well assume be had had a parked car waiting and changed vehicles, or he had boarded a late night bus or taxi, any of which assumptions would leave his general whereabouts in doubt.

What Georges did not know was that a drunk, recovering from a quart of cheap wine consumed earlier, was propped up in a doorway opposite where the "Fire Protection Service" truck had stopped. The drunk was sufficiently lucid to observe the truck's arrival and Georgos' departure on foot.

For his part, Georgos began walking briskly. The streets were silent, almost deserted, and he was aware of being conspicuous. But no one accosted or appeared to notice him and, in a quarter of an hour, he was unlocking the apartment door. With relief he went inside.

At about the same time, a cruising police patrol spotted the red pickup for which an alert had gone out a short time earlier. The patrolman who transmitted a radio report noted that the radiator was still warm.

Moments later, the same officer noticed the drunk in the doorway opposite and elicited the information that the driver of the truck had left on foot, and in which direction. The police car sped away, but failed to locate Georgos.

The police patrol did return, however, and-with base ingratitude took their informant into custody, charging him with being drunk in public.

Davey Birdsong was arrested, shortly after 5:30 am, outside the apartment building where he lived.

He had just returned there by car after the lecture and study group session which kept him outside the city through the night.

Birdsong was shocked. He protested heatedly to the two plainclothes detectives who made the arrest, one of whom promptly informed him of his legal right to remain silent. Despite the warning, Birdsong declared, "Listen, you guys, whatever this is about, I want to tell you I've been away since yesterday. I left my apartment at six o'clock last night and haven't been back since. I have plenty of witnesses to that."

The detective who had cautioned Birdsong wrote the statement down, and-ironically-the "alibi" proved Birdsong's undoing.

When Birdsong was searched at police headquarters, the p & lfp press statement deploring "the bombing at the Christopher Columbus Hotel last night" was found in a jacket pocket. The statement was later proved to have been typed on a machine kept in Birdsong's apartment -the apartment he claimed he had not entered since six o'clock the previous evening, nearly nine hours before the bombing became public knowledge. As if this were not enough, two torn-up, earlier drafts of the statement, in Birdsong's handwriting, were also discovered in the apartment.

Other evidence proved equally damning. The cassette tape recordings of conversations between Georgos Archambault and Davey Birdsong matched a voiceprint of Birdsong, made after his arrest. The young black taxi driver, Vickery, whom Nancy Molineaux employed, made a statement confirming Birdsong's devious journey to the house at 117 Crocker Street. Birdsong's purchase of fire extinguishers, which had been converted to bombs, was also attested to.

He was charged with six counts of first-degree murder, conspiracy to commit a felony, and a "shopping list" of other charges. Bail was set at one million dollars, a sum which Birdsong could not raise and no one else seemed inclined to. Hence, he remained in custody, pending his trial.

Of the remaining Friends of Freedom, Wayde, the young Marxist intellectual, and Felix, from Detroit's inner city, were killed in the gun battle with police at 117 Crocker Street. Ute, the embittered Indian, turned a gun on himself and died as police stormed the house.

The evidence of revolutionary activity at number 117 was captured intact, including the journal of Georgos Winslow Archambault.

7.

Around the California Examiner newsroom and the Press Club bar, they were already saying that Nancy Molineaux was a shoo-in for a Pulitzer.

She had it all.

As the managing editor was heard to tell the publisher: "That classy broad has come through with the whole goddam, zipped-up, total Erector set of the hottest story this side of the second coming."

After leaving the Christopher Columbus Hotel, and going to the paper, Nancy wrote continuously right up to the Examiner's 6:30 am first deadline. Through the remainder of the morning and early afternoon, she updated and amplified the earlier material for the later three editions. And, as reports of new developments came in, they were funneled through her.

In case of any query about Friends of Freedom, Georgos Archambault, Davey Birdsong, p&lfp, the Sequoia Club's money, the hotel bombing, the life and death of Yvette, the password was, "Ask Nancy."

Just as in a reporter's dream, almost the entire front page under a banner headline, was Nancy Molineaux's.

The newspaper put a copyright slug over her story, which meant that any TV or radio station or other newspaper using her exclusive coverage was obliged to quote the Examiner as its source.

Because Nancy was an integral part of the story herself-her discovery of 117 Crocker Street, the meetings with Yvette, and her possession of the only copy of the tapes established that-she achieved personal celebrity status.

The day the story broke she was interviewed, at her newsroom desk, for TV. That night the film appeared on the national network news of NBC, ABC and CBS.

Even so, the Examiner management made the TV crews wait, fuming, until Nancy had finished her own reporting and was good and ready.

Newsweek and Time, following the TV crowd, got the same treatment.

Over at the Chronicle-West, the city's morning, competitive paper, there was unconcealed ewy and much scurrying to catch up. The Chronicle's editor, however, was big enough to send Nancy a half dozen roses next day (a dozen, be thought, would be overdoing it) with a congratulatory note, delivered to her Examiner desk.

The effects of the news story spread outward, not in ripples, but in waves.

To many who read Nancy Molineaux's report, the most shocking revelation was that the Sequoia Club, even if indirectly, had financed the Christopher Columbus bombing.

Indignant Sequoia Club members across the nation telegraphed, phoned or mailed their resignations.

"Never again," thundered California's senior senator in an interview with the Washington Post, "will I trust that despicable organization or listen to anything it advocates." the statement found a thousand echoes elsewhere.

It was generally conceded that the Sequoia Club, its name disgraced and influence diminished, could never be the same again.

Laura Bo Carmichael resigned immediately as the club's chairman. After doing so, she went into seclusion, refusing to take telephone calls from the press or anyone else. Instead, a private secretary read to callers a short statement which concluded, "Mrs. Carmichael considers her public life to be at an end."

The only Sequoia Club figure to emerge with honor was Mrs. Priscilla Quinn, who, Nancy accurately reported, had been the sole opponent of paying fifty thousand dollars to Birdsong's p &lfp. Nancy took satisfaction in recording that the big-league lawyer, Irwin Saunders, was one of those who voted "yes."

If the Sequoia Club attempted to rehabilitate itself, it was predicted that Priscilla Quinn would be the new chairman, with the club's emphasis directed toward social work rather than environmental matters.

Following Nancy's expos6 of Georgos Archambault, and later reports of his disappearance, a small army of police detectives and FBI special agents fanned out through the North Castle district in search of the Friends of Freedom leader. They had no success.

A thorough police search of 117 Crocker Street produced large amounts of evidence, further incriminating Georgos and Davey Birdsong. among the clothes left by Georgos was a denim jumpsuit; lab tests showed that, where the garment was torn, a missing portion matched a small piece of material found at the Millfield substation, snagged on a cut wire, the night the two security guards were killed. Also in the house were voluminous written records, including Georgos' journal; all were turned over to the District Attorney. The existence of the journal was revealed to the press, though its contents were not disclosed.

After Davey Birdsong's part in the whole affair was described in print, Birdsong, in jail, was segregated from other prisoners for his own safety.

Before some of that happened, however, Nancy Molineaux went through a personal crisis of her own. It occurred shortly before noon the day during which her major story broke.

She had been working under deadline pressure since before dawn and, having had no sleep the night before and being sustained only by coffee and orange juice since, was tiring. It showed.

Several times since 7:30 am, when the city editor came on duty in time for the second edition, old "I'm-the-coach" had stopped by Nancy's desk with quiet words of encouragement. Apart from that, there was little need for editorial discussion. Nancy was assembling the facts capably-her own, and others fed to her. She also had a reputation for writing "clean" copy which required little, if any, rewrite.

Occasionally, when she stopped typing and glanced up, Nancy caught the city editor looking over at her. Though his expression was inscrutable, she had a notion they were both thinking the same thing something which, through most of the past few hours, she had pushed determinedly from her mind.

The last thing Nancy had observed before leaving the Christopher Columbus was the shrouded bodies of the dead policemen and firemen being wheeled from the hotel on gurneys to waiting morgue wagons. There were also two men, outside the hotel, putting pieces of something into a plastic bag; it took her a minute to realize they were collecting the remains of the sixth dead man, the one blown to pieces by a bomb.

It was then Nancy faced the stark, grim truth which, until now, she had evaded: That for an entire week she had been in possession of information which, if shared, could have prevented all six deaths and much else.

The same thought bored into her consciousness each time she caught the city editor looking at her. That, and his words of a week ago: "You're supposed to be Part of a team, Nancy, and I'm the coach. I know you prefer being a loner, and you've gotten away with it because you get results. But you can push that game too far."

At the time she had dismissed the advice with a mental, Screw you, Mr. Charlie! Now, she wished vainly, desperately, she hadn't.

At 11:55 am, with two hours and twenty minutes still to go before the final edition deadline, the thought of the six dead bodies could no longer be thrust away, and Nancy was ready to crack.

"Take a break and come with me," a voice said quietly. When she looked up, old I'm-the-coach was again beside her.

She hesitated and he added, "That's an order."

With unusual docility, Nancy stood up and followed him as he left the newsroom.

A short way down the corridor was a small room, normally kept locked, and sometimes used for management meetings. The city editor used a key to open it and held the door for Nancy to precede him.

Inside, the furnishings were comfortable but simple: A boardroom type table and upholstered chairs, a pair of matching walnut cabinets, soft brown draperies.

With another key the city editor opened one of the cabinets. He motioned Nancy to sit down.

"There's a choice of brandy or scotch. Not the best brands; we don't compete with the Ritz here. I suggest the brandy."

Nancy nodded, suddenly unable to find words.

Her superior poured California brandy into two glasses and sat down facing her. When they had sipped he said, "I've been watching you."

"Yes, I know."

"And we've both been thinking the same thing. Right?"

Again she nodded without speaking.

"Nancy," the city editor said, "as I see it, by the end of today you'll go one of two ways. Either right over the edge, which means a mental breakdown and ending up on some shrink's couch twice a week, ad infinitum, or you'll get a grip on yourself and let what's in the past stay there. I'll say this about the first route: It will louse up your life and benefit nobody except the shrink. As to the second, you've got spunk and intelligence, and you can handle it. But you'll have to make a positive decision, not just let things slide."

Relieved, at last, to say it aloud, she told him, "I'm responsible for last night. If I'd told someone what I knew, the police could have been warned and they'd have iwestigated that Crocker Street house."

"The first statement is false," he told her, "the second true. I'm not saying you won't live with last night for the rest of your life. I think you will. But you're not the first to make an error in judgment which harmed others; you won't be the last either. Also in your defense: You didn't know what would happen; if you bad, you'd have acted differently.

So my advice is this, Nancy: Face up to it accept what you did and didn't do, and remember it-for experience and learning. But otherwise put it behind you."

When she remained silent, he went on, "Now I'll tell you something else. I've been a lot of years in this business-some days I think too many. But in my opinion, Nancy, you're the best damn reporter I've ever worked with."

It was then that Nancy Molineaux did something which had happened only rarely in the past and even then she had never let others see. She put her head in her arms, broke down, and cried.

Old I'm-the-coach went to the window and decently turned his back. Looking down at the street outside, be said, "I locked the door when we came in, Nancy. It's still locked and will stay that way until you're ready, so take your time. And, oh yes-something else. I promise that no one but you and me will ever know what went on in here today."

In a half-hour Nancy was back at her desk, with her face washed and makeup repaired, writing once more, and totally in control.

Nim Goldman telephoned Nancy Molineaux the next morning, baving tried to reach her, unsuccessfully, the day before.

"I wanted to say thank you," he said, "for that call you made to the hotel."

She told him, "Maybe I owed you that."

"Whether you did or didn't, I'm still grateful." He added, a trifle awkwardly, "You pulled off a big story. Congratulations."

Nancy asked curiously, "What did you think of it all? the things that went into the story, I mean."

"For Birdsong," Nim answered, "I'm not in the least sorry, and I hope he gets everything be deserves. I also hope that phony p&lfp never surfaces again."

"How about the Sequoia Club? Do you feel the same way?"

"No," Nim said, I don't."

"Why?"

"The Sequoia Club has been something we all needed-part of our societal system of checks and balances. Oh, I've had disputes with the Sequoia people; so have others, and I believe the club went too far in opposing everything in sight. But the Sequoia Club was a community conscience; it made us think, and care about the environment, and sometimes stopped our side from going to excesses."

Nim paused, then went on, "I know the Sequoia Club is down right now, and I'm genuinely distressed for Laura Bo Carmichael who, despite our disagreements, was a friend. But I hope the Sequoia Club isn't out. It would be a loss to everyone if that happened."

"Well," Nancy said, "sometimes a day is full of surprises." She had been scribbling while Nim talked. "May I quote all that?"

He hesitated only briefly, then said, "Why not?"

In the Examiner's next edition, she did.

8.

Harry London sat brooding, looking at the papers Nim had shown him.

At length he said glumly, "Do you know the way I feel about all this?"

Nim told him, "I can guess."

As if he had not heard, the Property Protection chief went on, "Last week was the worst in a long time. Art Romeo was a good guy; I know you didn't know him well, Nim, but he was loyal, honest, and a friend. When I heard what happened, I was sick. I'd figured when I left Korea and the Marines I was through with hearing about guys I know being blown to bits."

"Harry," Nim said, "I'm desperately sorry about Art Romeo too, What he did that night was something I'll never forget."

London waved the interruption away. "Just let me finish."