It was a memory from a long-ago summer's day in Minnesota, soon after Georgos' tenth birthday, During school holidays he I-lad gone to stay with a farming family-he had forgotten exactly why or bow-and a young son of the house and Georgos had gone ratting in an old barn. They killed several rats cruelly, using rakes with sharp prongs to spear them, and then one large rat became cornered. Georgos remembered the creature's gleaming, beady eyes as the two boys closed in. Then, in desperation, the rat sprang, leaping, sinking its teeth into the other boy's hand. The boy screamed. But the rat survived only seconds because Georgos swung his rake, knocking the creature to the floor, then slammed the prongs through its body.

For some reason, though, Georgos always remembered that rat's defiant gesture before its inevitable end. Now, in his North Castle hideaway, be felt a kinship with the rat.

It was almost eight weeks since Georgos had gone into hiding. In retrospect, the length of time surprised him. He had not expected to survive so long, especially after the outpouring of publicity, about himself and Friends of Freedom, which followed the Christopher Columbus Hotel bombing. Descriptions of Georgos had been widely circulated, and photos of him, found in the Crocker Street house, appeared in newspapers and on TV. He knew, from news reports, that a massive manhunt with himself as the objective had been mounted in the North Castle district and elsewhere. Daily since going underground Georgos had expected to be discovered, the apartment hideaway surrounded and invaded.

It hadn't happened.

At first, as the hours and days went by, Georgos' principal emotion was relief. Then, as the days extended into weeks, he began wondering if a rebirth of Friends of Freedom might be possible. Could be recruit more followers to replace the dead Wayde, Ute and Felix? Could be obtain money, locate an outside liaison who would become another Birdsong? Could they resume, once more, Georgos' war against the hated establishment enemy?

He had considered the idea, wistfully and dreamily, for several days. Then, facing the hardness of reality, he reluctantly abandoned it. There was no way. No way a revival of Friends of Freedom could happen and no way, either, that Georgos could survive. The past seven plus weeks had been an unexpected brief reprieve, a postponement of the inevitable; that was all.

Georgos knew he was near the end of the line.

He was being hunted by every law enforcement agency and would continue to be for as long as he lived. His name and face were known; his chemically stained hands had been described; it was only a matter of time before someone, somewhere, recognized him. He was without resources or help, there was nowhere else to go, and-most critical of all -the money he had brought with him to the hideaway was almost gone. Therefore, capture was unavoidable-unless Georgos chose to anticipate it by ending his life defiantly, in his own way.

He intended to do exactly that.

Like the rat he remembered from his boyhood, he would make one last fighting gesture and, if necessary, die as he had lived, doing harm to the system he hated. Georgos had decided: He would blow up a critical part of a GSP & L generating station. There was a way it could be done to cause maximum effect and his plans were taking shape.

They were based on an attack be had intended to make-aided by other freedom fighters-before Davey Birdsong's idea of bombing the NEI convention intervened. Now Georgos was reviving the original plan, though he would have to execute it alone. He had already moved part way toward his objective by a daring risk he had taken on the same day he went into biding. The first thing Georgos realized that day, on reviewing his situation, was the need for transportation. He had to have wheels. He had abandoned the red "Fire Protection Service" truck because he could not have used it without being recognized, but a substitute was essential. To buy a vehicle of any kind was out of the question. For one thing, it was too risky. For another, he had insufficient money because the bulk of the Friends of Freedom cash reserve had been in the Crocker Street house. So the only possibility, Georgos reasoned, was to retrieve his Volkswagen van, which might, or might not, have been discovered by the pigs and be under surveillance.

He had kept the van in a privately owned parking garage not far from Crocker Street. Aware of the risk he was taking, gambling on being ahead of the police, Georgos walked to the parking garage the same morning, using side streets as much as he could. He arrived without incident, paid the garage owner what was owing, then drove the van away. No one questioned him, nor was he stopped on his way back to North Castle. By midmorning the Volkswagen was safely inside the locked garage adjoining the hideaway apartment. Emboldened by his success, Georgos ventured out again later, after dark, to buy groceries and a late edition of the California Examiner. From the newspaper he learned that a reporter named Nancy Molineaux had provided a description of his Volkswagen van and that police were searching for it. The next day's paper carried a further report on the same subject, disclosing that the parking garage had been visited by police only a half hour after Georgos left.

Knowing that a description of his van had been circulated, Georgos refrained from using it. Now he would use it only once-for what might be his final mission.

There were several other reasons why retrieving the VW had been important.

One was a secret compartment under the van's floor. In it, carefully packed in foam rubber to prevent vibration, were a dozen cylindrical bombs, each containing Tovex water-gel explosive and a timing mechanism.

Also in the van was a small, inflatable rubber dinghy, in a tight package, just as Georgos had bought it at a sporting goods store a month or so earlier, and scuba diving gear, most of it purchased at the same time.

All the items were essential to the daring attack he now proposed.

In the days which followed his recovery of the van, Georgos left the apartment occasionally, but only after dark and, when he had to buy food, was careful never to use the same store twice. He also wore light gloves to conceal his hands and, in an attempt to change his appearance slightly, had shaved off his moustache.

The newspaper reports about Friends of Freedom and the hotel bombing were important to him, not only because he liked to read about himself, but because they provided clues as to what the police and FBI were doing, the abandoned "Fire Prevention Service" truck, found in North Castle, was mentioned several times, but there was also speculation that Georgos had somehow managed to slip out of the city and was now in the East. One report claimed he had been seen in Cincinnati. Good! Anything which drewhattention away from where he actually was was welcome and helpful.

On reading the Examiner that first day, he had been surprised to discover how much was known about his own activities by the reporter Nancy Molineaux. Then, as Georgos read on, he realized it was Yvette who had somehow learned of his plans and had betrayed him. Without that betrayal, the Battle of the Christopher Columbus Hotel (as lie now thought of it) would have been a magnificent victory for Friends of Freedom instead of the inglorious rout it had become.

Georgos ought to have hated Yvette for that. Somehow, though, either then or later, be couldn't manage it. Instead, with a weakness of which he was ashamed, he pitied her and the manner of her death (as described by the newspaper) on Lonely Hill.

Incredibly, he missed Yvette more than he would have believed possible. Perhaps, Georgos thought, because his own time was running out, he was becoming maudlin and foolish. If so, he was relieved that none of his fellow revolutionaries would ever know about it. Something else the newspapers had done was dig deeply into Georgos' personal history. An enterprising reporter, who tracked down the record of Georges' birth in New York City, learned he was the illegitimate son of a onctime Greek movie goddess and a wealthy American playboy named Winslow, the grandson of an auto industry pioneer.

Piece by piece, it all came out.

The movie goddess hadn't wanted to admit having a child, fearing it would destroy her youthful image. The playboy hadn't cared about anything except avoiding entanglements and responsibility.

Georgos was therefore kept well out of sight and, during various stages of his childhood, assigned to successive sets of foster-parents, none of whom be liked. The name Archambault came from a branch of his mother's family.

By the age of nine, Georgos had met his father once, his mother a total of three times. After that be saw neither. As a child he wanted, with a fierce determination, to know his parents, but they were equally determined-for differing, selfish reasons-not to know him.

In retrospect, Georges' mother appeared to have possessed more conscience than his father. She, at least, sent substantial sums of money to Georgos through an Athens law firm, money which permitted hirn to attend Yale and obtain a Ph.D., and later finance Friends of Freedom.

The former movie actress, now far removed from a goddess in appearance, professed to be shocked when informed by news reporters of the use to which some of her money had been put. Paradoxically, though, she seemed to enjoy the attention Georgos now brought her, perhaps because she was living in obscurity, in a grubby apartment outside Athens and drinking heavily. She had also been ill, though she would not discuss the nature of her ailment.

When Georgos' activities were described to her in detail, she responded, "That is not a son, it is an evil animal."

However when asked by a woman reporter if she did not believe her own neglect of Georgos had been largely responsible for what he had become, the ex-actress spat in the questioner's face.

In Manhattan, the aging-playboy father of Georgos dodged the press for several days. Then, when discovered by a reporter in a Fifty-ninth Street bar, he at first denied any intervenement with the Greek movie star, including having sired her child. Finally, when documentary proof of his fatherhood was shown to him, he shrugged and delivered the statement: "My advice to the cops is to shoot the bastard on sight-to kill."

Georgos, in due course, read both comments by his parents. Neither surprised him, but they intensified his hatred of almost everything. So now, in the final week of April, Georgos concluded that the time was near for action. On the one hand, he reasoned, he could not hope to remain in hiding, undetected, much longer-only two nights ago, when shopping for food at a small supermarket, he caught sight of another customer, a man, looking at him with what seemed more than casual curiosity; Georgos left the place hastily. On the other hand, the initial impact of all the publicity, and circulation of his photograph, should have moderated by now, at least a little.

The plan which Georgos had worked out was to blow up the huge cooling water pumps at the La Mission generating plant, the same plant where-nearly a year ago, and disguised as a Salvation Army officer-he placed a bomb which damaged the generator the newspapers called Big Lil.

He had learned about those pumps while studying textbooks on power generation to determine where GSP & L would be most vulnerable; be also visited the Engineering School of the University of California at Berkeley, where technical drawings of La Mission, and other plants, were available for anyone to inspect.

Georgos knew-again being realistic-that there wasn't a chance of getting inside the main building at La Mission, as he had succeeded in doing before. It was now too well guarded.

But with resourcefulness, and some luck, he could get to the pump house.

The eleven massive, powerful pumps there were essential to the operation of five generating units, including Big Lil. In destroying them he would knock out the entire generating station for months.

It would be like severing a lifeline.

The best approach was from the Coyote River. La Mission was built directly on the riverbank, enabling the plant to draw water for cooling and return it to the river afterward. Getting to the river side of the plant was where the rubber dinghy would come in. After that, Georgos would make use of the scuba diving gear, at which he was expert, having learned underwater demolition during his revolutionary training in Cuba.

Georgos had studied maps and knew he could drive to within a half mile of La Mission and launch the dinghy at a deserted spot. From there the current would help him get downstream. Getting back to the van, and escaping, would be more of a problem, but that aspect he deliberately ignored.

He would enter the pump house underwater, through a metal grating and two wire mesh screens in which he would cut holes; the tools to do it were stored with his underwater equipment. The cylindrical Tovex bombs would be strapped to his waist. Once inside, he would place the bombs, which were in magnetic casings, simply and quickly on the pumps. It was a beautiful scheme!-as it had seemed right from the beginning.

The only remaining question was-when? Today was Friday.

Weighing everything, Georgos decided on the following Tuesday. He would leave North Castle as soon as it was dark, drive the Volkswagen van the fifty-odd miles to La Mission, then, on arrival, launch the dinghy immediately.

Now, the decision taken, he was restless. The apartment-small, dreary, sparsely furnished-was confining, especially during the daytime, though Georgos knew it would be foolish to take chances and go out. In fact, he intended to remain in the apartment until Sunday night, when the purchase of more food would become essential.

He missed the mental exercise of writing in his journal. A few days ago he considered starting a new one, now that the original was lost, captured by the enemy. But somehow he could summon up neither the energy nor the enthusiasm to begin writing again.

Once more, as he had done so many times already, he roamed the apartment's three cramped rooms-a living room, bedroom, and kitchen-dining area.

On the kitchen counter top an envelope caught his eye. It contained a so-called Consumer Survey which had come in the mail to the apartment several weeks ago from-all of sources-Golden State Piss & Lickspittle. It had been addressed to one Owen Grainger, which was not surprising because that was the name under which Georgos rented the apartment and paid three months rent in advance to avoid questions about credit.

(Georgos always paid rent and other bills immediately, by mailing cash. Paying bills promptly was a standard part of terrorist technique when seeking to be inconspicuous. Unpaid bills brought unwelcome inquiries and attention.) One of the items on that stinking Consumer Survey had made Georgos so angry on first reading it that he threw a cup he happened to be holding against the nearest wall and shattered it. The item read: Golden State Power & Light apologizes to its customers for inconveniences as a result of cowardly attacks on company installations by small-time, would-be terrorists who act in ignorance. If there are ways in which you think such attacks could be ended, please give us your views.

Then and there Georgos had sat down and written a forceful, scathing reply which began: "The terrorists you presumptuously describe as small-time, cowardly and ignorant are none of those things. They are important, wise and dedicated heroes. You are the ignoramuses, as well as criminal exploiters of the people. Justice shall overtake you! Be warned there will be blood and death, not mere 'inconvenience' when the glorious revolution . . ."

He had quickly run out of space and used an extra sheet of paper to complete a truly splendid response.

A pity not to have mailed it! He had been on the point of doing so on one of his night excursions when caution warned: Don't! It might be a trap. So he had let the completed questionnaire remain where it was, on the kitchen counter top.

The postage-paid envelope which had come with the questionnaire was still unsealed and Georgos took the enclosure out. What he had written, he realized again, was masterful. Why not send it? After all, it was anonymous; be had already torn off, and discarded, the portion of the questionnaire which had the name "Owen Grainger" and the apartment address. Even that had been printed by a computer, something Georgos recognized instantly, so it was impersonal, as mailings from computers always were.

Someone ought to read what he had written. Whoever it was would be jolted, which was good. At the same time they could not fall-even if reluctantly-to admire the writer's mind.

Making another decision, Georgos sealed the envelope. He would put it in a mailbox when he went out Sunday night.

He resumed his pacing and-though he didn't really want to start thinking again about that long-ago day and the cornered rat.

14.

At approximately the same moment that Georgos Archambault made his decision to bomb La Mission for the second time, Harry London faced Nim Goldman.

"No!" London said. "Goddammit no! Not for you, Nim, or anybody else."

Nim said patiently, "All I've asked you to do is consider some special circumstances. I happen to know the Sloan family . . ."

The two men were in Nim's office. Harry London, standing, leaned across the desk between them. "You may know the family, but I know the case. It's all in here. Read it!" the Property Protection chief, his face flushed, slammed down a bulky file.

"Calm down, Harry," Nim said. "And I don't need to read the file. I'll take your word about the kind of case it is, and how messy."

A short time ago, remembering his promise to Karen the previous evening, Nim had telephoned Harry London to see if he knew of a theft of service case involving a Luther Sloan.

"You bet I do," had been the answer.

When Nim disclosed his personal interest London had stated, "I'll come up."

Now Harry London insisted, "You're damn right it's a messy case. Your friend Sloan has been bypassing meters-lots of them-for better than a year."

Nim said irritably, "He isn't my friend. His daughter is."

"One of your many women friends, no doubt."

'Knock it off, Harry!" Nim, too, was becoming angry. "Karen Sloan is a quadriplegic."

He went on to describe the Sloan family, how both parents helped Karen financially, and how Luther Sloan had gone into debt to buy a special van for Karen's use. "One thing I'm certain of. Whatever Karen's father did with any money be made, he didn't spend it on himself. "

London said contemptuously. "So does that make thievery any better? Of course it doesn't, and you know it."

"Yes, I know it. But surely, if we also know of extenuating circumstances, we could be less tough."

"Just what did you have in mind?"

Nim ignored the caustic tone. "Well, maybe we could insist on restitution, let Luther Sloan pay back whatever was stolen, giving him some time to do it, but not launch criminal proceedings."

Harry London said coldly, "So that's your suggestion?"

"Yes, it is."

"Nim," London said, "I never thought the day would come when I'd stand here and hear you say what you just did."

"Oh, for Chrissakes, Harry! Who knows what they'll say and do in certain situations?"

"I do. And I know what I'm saying now: the Sloan case will take its course, which means a criminal charge is going to be laid within the next few days. Unless, of course, you decide to fire me and do it your way."

Nim said wearily, "Harry, stop talking bilge."

There was a silence, then London said, "Nim, you're thinking of Yale, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"You're thinking that old man Yale got away with power theft, or at least intervenement in it, so why shouldn't Luther Sloan? You're figuring there was one law for the big cheese, now another law for the little guy -your friend's father. Right?"

Nim nodded. "Yes, I was thinking pretty much along those lines."

"Well, you're right. That's the way it is, and I've seen it happen at other times, in other places. The privileged, the powerful, those with money, can bend the law or get themselves a better deal. Oh, not always, but often enough to make justice unequal. But that's the way 3the system works, and while I may not like it, I didn't make it. However, I'll also tell you this: If I'd had the solid evidence against Mr. Justice Yale that I have against Luther Sloan, I'd never have backed down the way I did."

"Then there is strong evidence?"

London gave a twisted grin. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Okay, so tell me."

"Nim, in the Quayle setup, Luther Sloan was the gas man. They gave him most of the illegal gas work which came their way, probably because he was damn good at it. I've seen some of the jobs he did, and there were plenty; we have details from the Quayle records and the goods on him. Something else: You talked just now about Sloan making restitution. Well, as far as we can estimate, the illicit work he did has cost GSP & L, in gas revenue losses, about two hundred and thirty thousand dollars. And from what you tell me, Sloan might not have that kind of dough."

Nim threw up his hands. "Okay, Harry. You win."

London shook his head slowly. "No, I don't. Nobody wins. Not me, not you, not GSP & L, and certainly not Luther Sloan. I'm simply doing my job, the way I'm supposed to."

"And doing it honestly," Nim said. "Maybe more so than the rest of US."

Nim found himself regretting what had just passed between himself and Harry London. He wondered if their friendship would ever be quite the same again. He rather doubted it.

"Be seeing you, I guess," London said. He picked up the file he had brought with him, and left.

Nim supposed he would have to call Karen and deliver the bad news. He dreaded doing it. However, before he could pick up the telephone, his office door flew open and Ray Paulsen strode in.

The executive vice president of power supply asked brusquely, "Where's the chairman?"

"He had a dental appointment," Nim said. "Anything I can do for you?"