Perhaps we deserve what we are getting. Whether we do or not, the time has come for serious reappraisal of some long held views-our own and others'.

"There!" Ruth declared, putting down the newspaper. "What do you all think of that?"

Benjy said, "I think they should have mentioned Dad."

Ruth reached out and mussed his hair affectionately.

"It's a smooth piece of writing," Nim said. "Unfortunately, that's all it is. Oh yes, and it's five years late."

"I don't care," Ruth said. "I suppose I should care, but I don't. All I care about right now is being home, and loving you all."

In the afternoon, despite it being Sunday, Nim went to GSP&L headquarters and his office. There was plenty of activity, and decisions needing to be made. In a way, with regular blackouts only three days away, the utility was entering new and uncharted territory. As the chief dispatcher put it when Nim dropped into the Energy Control Center, "We assume everything will go smoothly and, as much as we can, we've all made sure it will. But there's always factor 'u'-for the unexpected, Mr. Goldman.

I've seen that devil bollix things too many times to believe it won't happen anywhere at any moment."

"We've had quite a few unexpected things already," Nim pointed out.

"Always room for one more, sir; sometimes two," the dispatcher said cheerfully. "Anyhow, that's the way I see it."

On his way home later, Nim wondered about the week to come, and the dispatcher's factor "u."

An hour or two after Nim went home, Georgos Archambault ventured out from his North Castle apartment. Now that his day for action-Tuesday-was so near, Georgos was more edgy and nervous than at any time since going into hiding. He sensed an observer or pursuer around each corner and in every shadow. But it proved to be imagination only. He obtained food, without incident, at a delicatessen, buying enough to last him until his departure for La Mission on Tuesday evening.

He also bought the Sunday newspapers and, on his way back to the apartment, mailed the envelope which contained that stupid Consumer Survey from Golden State Piss & Lickspittle. Briefly, Georgos hesitated at the mailbox, wondering if he should mail the letter after all. But, observing that the box had already had its single Sunday collection, and would not be cleared again until midmorning Monday, be dropped the envelope in.

16.

Monday, relatively speaking, passed uneventfully. Tuesday, in the early morning hours, did not.

Nature, as if conspiring to embarrass GSP&L at a troubling time, mounted its own onslaught at the utility's geothermal field in the mountains of Sevilla County.

Deep in the earth beneath "Old Desperado," the wellhead which had once blown out of control and was never capped entirely, a subsidence of rock and subsoil released new geothermal steam under enormous pressure. The steam rushed to the surface with the force of twenty locomotives. Then, in a spectacular display which rivaled Dante's Inferno, hot mud, stones and rock were hurled high into the air with apocalyptic force.

Obeying another natural phenomenon, namely, "what goes up must come down," the tons of muck splattered widely over other portions of the geothermal field.

By sheer good luck, the blowout occurred at 2 am when only a handful of workers was on duty, and all were under cover. Consequently, there were neither deaths nor injuries, which would have been inevitable if the blow had happened in the daytime.

But the geothermal field's switching and transformer yard was less fortunate. It was deeply covered in wet muck, as were transmission lines nearby. The muck was a conductor of electricity. As a result, everything shorted out and the flow of power from all geothermal-driven generators; to the GSP & L transmission system was instantly cut off. No great or lasting damage was done. All that was needed was a massive cleanup job which would take two days. As for Old Desperado, its bout of mischief over, it settled back to sporadic, harmless steaming like a simmering kettle.

But for forty-eight hours, until the cleaning was complete, GSP & L would be deprived of seven hundred thousand kilowatts from its normally reliable geothermal source, and would need to find an equivalent amount of power elsewhere. The only way it could be done was by bringing more oil-powered generators on line, and thus the utility's precious reserve of oil was further, and unexpectedly, depleted.

One other question mark hung over Tuesday's operations.

Because of the time of year, out of the company's more than two hundred generating units, an unusually large number were removed from service and undergoing maintenance in preparation for the summer peak-load period. Thus, with the abrupt loss of Big Lil four days earlier, and now all geothermals, GSP&L's total generating capacity irrespective of the oil shortage-would be stretched thin for the next two days.

Nim learned of the geothermal failure and the potential capacity shortage on coming in to work on Tuesday morning.

His first thought was: How uncanny that the chief dispatcher's factor "u"-the unexpected-had intruded, precisely as the dispatcher said it might. His second was that until geothermal was back on line, GSP & L could not withstand and absorb another factor "u" episode.

The realization made him decide, before he started work, to telephone Karen Sloan.

"Karen," Nim said when she came on the line, "You've arranged to go to Redwood Grove Hospital tomorrow. Right?"

"Yes," she answered, "I'll be there in plenty of time before the afternoon blackout."

"I'd prefer it if you went today," he told her. "Could you do that?"

"Yes, of course, Nimrod. But why?"

"We're having a few problems-some we weren't expecting-and it's possible there could be a non-scheduled power cut. It may not happen, in fact it probably won't, but I'd feel easier if you were at the hospital and close to that standby generator."

"You mean I should go now?"

"Well, fairly soon. It's just a long-shot precaution."

"All right," Karen said. "Josie's here and we'll get ready. And, Nimrod."

"Yes?"

"You sound tired."

"I am," he admitted. "I guess we all are over here. It hasn't been the best of times, not lately."

"Take care of yourself," she told him. "And Nimrod, dear bless you!"

After Nim hung up, he thought of something else and dialed his home number.

Ruth answered. He told her about Old Desperado, the geothermal cutoff, and the doubtful capacity situation.

She said sympathetically, "Things do seem to happen all at once."

"I guess that's the way life works. Anyway, with all this, and rolling blackouts starting tomorrow, I'd better not come home tonight. I'll sleep on a cot in the office."

"I understand," Ruth said. "But be sure you get some rest, and 3remember that the children and I all need you for a long time to come."

He promised to do both.

The special staff which had been assembled to process the so-called Consumer Survey in North Castle had been totally disbanded two weeks earlier. The basement room at GSP&L headquarters, where returned questionnaires had at first flooded in, was now in use for another purpose.

Sporadically, a few completed questionnaires straggled in. Some days there were one or two, on other days none.

Those that did arrive were routed by the mailroom to an elderly secretary in public relations, Elsie Young, who had been on the special staff but had since returned to her regular job. The questionnaires, in their distinctive postage-paid envelopes, were placed on her desk and, when she had time and inclination, she opened and inspected them, still comparing each with a sample of the handwriting from Georgos Archambault's journal.

Miss Young hoped the damn things would stop coming soon. She found them tedious, time-wasting, and an intrusion on more interesting work.

On Tuesday, around midmorning, Elsie Young observed that one of the special Consumcr Survey envelopes had been dropped into her in-tray by a messenger, along with a sizable batch of interoffice mail. She decided to deal with the interoffice stuff first.

Seconds after Karen concluded her conversation with Nim by touching the phone microswitch with her head, she remembered something she forgot to tell him.

She and Josie had planned to go shopping this morning. Should they still do the shopping, and afterward go to Redwood Grove, or should they cancel the shopping trip and leave for the hospital now?

Karen was tempted to call Nim back and ask his advice, then remembered the strain in his voice and the pressures he must be working under. She would make the decision herself.

What was it be had said about a possible power cut before tomorrow's scheduled one? "It may not happen, in fact it probably won't". And later: "It's just a long-shot precaution."

Well . . . obviously! the sensible thing was to go shopping first, which Karen and Josie both enjoyed. Then they would come back briefly and afterward leave for Redwood Grove. They could still be there by early afternoon, perhaps sooner.

"Josie, dear," Karen called out in the direction of the kitchen. "I just had a call from Nimrod, and if you'll come in I'll tell you about our new plans."

Georgos Archambault possessed a certain animal instinct about danger. In the past, the instinct had served him well and he had learned to rely on it.

Near noon on Tuesday, as he paraded back and forth restlessly in the confined North Castle apartment, the same instinct warned him that danger was close. A crucial question was: Should he obey the instinct and, taking a large chance, leave immediately and head for La Mission and the cooling pumps he planned to destroy? Alternatively, should be disregard the instinct and remain until darkness, then leave as originally planned?

A second question, equally important: Was his present instinct genuine or the product of a heightened nervousness?

Georgos wasn't sure as he debated, within himself, the pros and cons.

He intended to make his final approach to the La Mission plant pump house underwater. Therefore, if he could get safely on the river and reasonably close to the plant, be would submerge and, from then on, the likelihood of his being seen was minimal, even in daylight. In fact, daylight, filtering downward, would help him locate his underwater point of entry more easily than in total darkness.

But could he launch the dinghy and get into it, wearing scuba gear, unobserved? Although the spot he had chosen as a launch-point-a half-mile from La Mission-was normally deserted, there was always the possibility of someone being there and seeing him, especially during the daytime. Georgos assessed that particular risk as: fair.

The really big hazard in daylight-a horrendous one-was to drive his Volkswagen van through North Castle, and then to La Mission, another fifty miles. A description of the van, and undoubtedly its license number, was in the possession of police, sheriff's departments and the Highway Patrol. If he were spotted, there was no way he could outrun pursuit. On the other hand, it was eight weeks since the description had been issued and the pigs could have forgotten, or be inattentive. Something else in his favor: there were a lot of beat-up VW vans around and the sight of one more would not be unusual.

Just the same, Georgos assessed the first part of his mission, if undertaken now, as: high risk.

He continued pacing and debating, then abruptly made up his mind. He would trust his instincts about danger. The decision was to go!

Georgos left the apartment at once and went into the adjoining garage.

There he began what he had intended doing tonight: Checking his equipment carefully before departure. He hurried, however, the sense of danger still persisting.

17.

"There's a telephone call for you, Mrs. Van Buren," a waitress announced, "and I was told to tell you it's important."

"Everybody thinks their call is important," the PR director grumbled, "and most times they're dead wrong."

But she got up from the table in the GSP & L officers' dining room where she was lunching with J. Eric Humphrey and Nim Goldman, and went to the telephone outside.

A minute or two later she returned, excitement in her eyes. "One of those Consumer Surveys came back and we've got a match on the Archambault handwriting. A half-wit in my department has been sitting on the thing all morning. I'll ream her out later, but she's on the way to the Computer Center with it now. I said we'd meet her there."

"Get Sharlett," Eric Humphrey said, rising from the table. "Tell her to leave her lunch." the executive vice president of finance could be seen a few tables away.

While Van Buren did so, Nim went outside to the telephone and called Harry London. The Property Protection chief was in his office and, when informed of what was happening, said he would go to the Computer Center too.

Nim knew that Oscar O'Brien, the only other member of the "think group," was out of town for the day.

He joined the others-the chairman, Sharlett Underhill and Van Buren-at the elevator outside the dining room.

They had gone through the usual security formalities in entering the Computer Center. Now, the four who had interrupted lunch, plus Harry London, gathered around a table as Teresa Van Buren opened out the Consumer Survey form and a photographed handwriting sample which a chastened Elsie Young had delivered to her a few minutes ago.

It was Eric Humphrey who expressed what was obvious to everyone. "There's no doubt of it being the same handwriting. Absolutely none."

Even if there were, Nim thought, what was written was a giveaway.

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 . . .

"Why the bell," Harry London said to no one in particular, "did he take so long?"

Sharlett Underhill held out a hand. "Give that to me."

Van Buren passed her the questionnaire and the finance chief took it to the portable "black light" which Nim had seen used during his previous visit to the center. Mrs. Underhill snapped the light on and held the form under it. At the top of the sheet the number "9386" stood out.

She led the way to a computer terminal-a keyboard with a cathode ray screen above it-and sat down.

First, Mrs. Underhill trapped in her personal code: 44SHAUND. (It was her age and a corruption of her two names.) The screen instantly signaled: READY. ENTER REQUEST.

She typed in the project name-NORTH CASTLE SURVEY followed by the secret code, known only to herself and one other, which would release the needed information. The words NORTH CASTHE SURVEY appeared on the screen; the secret code didn't the computer's precaution against others observing and memorizing it.