Nim gulped at his bloody mary, which had arrived while he was talking.

"All right," Laura Bo said; her voice was harder, less friendly than when they started. "I've sat here through all you've had to say. Now it's my turn, and you listen carefully." She pushed her plate away, only half of the salad eaten.

"All your thinking, Nim, and that of others like you is near-term. Environmentalists, including the Sequoia Club, are looking at the long range future. And what we intend to halt, by any means, is three centuries of spoliation of this earth."

He interjected, "In some ways you've already done that."

"Nonsense! We've scarcely made a dent, and even the little we've achieved will be undone if we let ourselves be seduced by voices of expediency. Voices like yours."

:'All that I'm pleading for is moderation."

'What you call moderation I see as a step backwards. And taking it won't preserve a habitable world."

Nim said scornfully, not bothering to conceal his feelings anymore, "How habitable do you think the kind of world will be which I just described-with less and less electric power?"

"It might surprise all of us by being better than you think," Laura Bo answered calmly. "More important, we'd be moving the way civilization should-toward less waste, less opulence, a lot less greed, and a less materialistic standard of living which would be a good thing for us all."

She paused, as if weighing her words, then continued, "We've lived so long here with the notion that expansion is good, that bigger is better and more is mightier, that people are brainwashed into believing it's true. So they worship 'gross national product' and 'full employment,' overlooking the fact that both are suffocating and poisoning us. In what was once 'America the Beautiful' we've created an ugly, filthy concrete wasteland, belching ashes and acids into what used to be clean air, all the while destroying natural life-human, animal and vegetable. We've turned sparkling rivers into stinking sewers, glorious lakes into garbage dumps; now, along with the rest of the world, we're fouling the seas with chemicals and oil. All of it happens a little at a time. Then, when the spoilage is pointed out, your kind of people pleads for 'moderation' because, you say, 'This time around we won't kill many fish,' or 'We won't poison much vegetation,' or, 'We'll only destroy a little more beauty.' Well, some of us have seen it happen too long and too often to believe that canard anymore. So what we've done is dedicate ourselves to saving something of what's left. Because we think there are things in this world more important than GNP and full employment, and one of them is preserving some cleanliness and beauty, plus holding back a share of natural resources for generations not yet born, instead of squandering everything here and now. And those are the reasons the Sequoia Club will fight Tunipah, and your Devil's Gate pumped storage plant, and Fincastle geothermal. And I'll tell you something else-I think we'll win."

"I agree with some of what you've said," Nim acknowledged. "You know I do, because we've talked about it before. But the mistake you make is to stomp on every opinion that's different from yours, and set yourself up as God, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, rolled up into one. Laura, you're part of a tiny group which knows what's best for everyone -or thinks it does-and you're prepared to ignore practicalities and damn the rest of us while you have your way like spoiled children. In the end you may destroy us all."

Laura Bo Carmichael said coldly, "I don't believe we have anything more to say to each other." She beckoned their waiter. "Please bring our separate checks."

13.

Ardythe Talbot led the way into her living room.

"I thought you'd never call," she said. "If you hadn't, in a day or two I was going to call you."

"We've had more trouble and I'm afraid it kept me busy," Nim told her.

"I suppose you heard about it."

It was early evening. Nim had driven to Ardythe's-as be put it to himself, "on the way home." This afternoon, depressed by his meeting with Laura Bo Carmichael and blaming himself for the antagonism with which it ended, he had telephoned Ardythe on impulse. Predictably, she was warm and friendly. "I've been feeling lonely," she confided, "and I'd love to see you. Please come out after work and have a drink."

But when he arrived a few minutes ago it was clear that what Ardythe had in mind was more than a drink. She had greeted him with an embrace and kiss which left no doubt of her intentions. Nim wasn't averse to what seemed likely to follow, but for a while over drinks they settled for conversation.

"Yes, I did hear what happened," Ardythe said. "Has the whole world gone mad?"

"I guess it always has been. When it's close to home you notice it more."

Today, Nim thought, Ardythe seemed greatly improved from the grim day nearly a month ago when she learned of Walter's death. Then, and at the funeral-which was the last time she and Nim had seen each other-she seemed drawn and old. In the meantime, clearly, Ardythe's vitality and attractiveness had returned. Her face, arms and legs were tanned, and the shapely outline of her body beneath a snug print dress reminded him again of the excitement they aroused in each other last time he was here. Nim remembered, years ago, coming across a book called In Praise of Older Women. Though he recalled little more about it than the title, he had a notion now of what the author must have had in mind.

"Walter always believed," Ardythe said, "that everything that happens in the world-wars, bombings, pollution, all the rest-are a necessary part of the balance of nature. Did he ever talk to you about that?"

Nim shook his head. Though he and the dead chief engineer had been friends, their talk was usually practical, seldom philosophic.

"Usually Walter kept that kind of thinking to himself," Ardythe said.

"He'd tell me, though. He used to say, 'People think human beings have control over the present and future, but we really don't.' And: 'Man's apparent free will is a delusion; human peryersity is just one more instrument of the balance of nature.' Walter believed even war and disease have a purpose in nature-to thin out populations which the earth can't support. 'Humans,' he once said, 'are like lemmings who over-multiply, then rush over a cliff to kill themselves-except that humans do it more elaborately."'

Nim was startled. Though Ardythe's words were not in Walter Talbot's broad Scots accent, just the same Nim could hear an uncanny echo of Walter, who, when alive, expressed himself in just that thoughtful, half-sardonic way. How strange, too, that Walter should have stripped his mind bare for Ardythe, whom Nim had never regarded as a deep thinker. Or was it strange at all? Perhaps, Nim reasoned, he was learning about a mental intimacy of marriage which he himself had never known.

He wondered how Laura Bo Carmichael would react to Walter's conviction that environmental pollution was a needed part of nature's balance, a facet of some dimly perceived master plan. Then remembering his own spiritual questing recently, he asked Ardythe, "Did Walter equate the balance of nature with God?"

"No. He always maintained that that was too easy, too elementary he said God was 'man-created, a straw grasped at by small minds afraid of darkness . ..'" Ardythe's voice trailed off. Suddenly Nim saw tears course down her face.

She wiped them away. "This is the time of day I miss Walter most. It's the time we would talk."

For a moment there was an awkwardness between them, then Ardythe said firmly, "No, I won't let myself go on being depressed." She had been sitting near Nim and now moved closer. He became aware of her perfume, the same perfume which so aroused him the last time he was here. She said softly, with a smile, "I think all that talk of nature has affected me."

Then, as they reached for each other, "Make love to me, Nim! I need you more than ever."

His arms around her tightened as they kissed fiercely. Ardythe's lips were moist and giving and she sighed with pleasure as their hands explored each other, both remembering the time before. Nim's own desire, never far below the surface, surged urgently so that he cautioned with a whisper, "Let's slow down! Wait!"

She whispered back, "We can go to my bedroom. It will be better." He felt her stir; she stood up. So did Nim.

Still close, they ascended the stairs. Except for the sound of their movements, the house was silent. Ardythe's bedroom was at the end of a short landing and the door was open. Inside, Nim saw, the coverlet and top sheet were already folded back. Ardythe had clearly made her plans before he got here. He remembered, from a conversation long ago, that Ardythe and Walter had occupied separate bedrooms. Though no longer troubled by the inhibitions of a month ago, Nim was glad they would not be in Walter's bed.

He helped Ardythe off with the tight-fitting dress he had admired and shed his own clothes quickly. They sank together onto the bed, which was soft and cool. "You were right," he murmured happily, "it is better here." then impatience conquered them. As be entered her, she thrust her body forward and cried aloud with joy. Minutes later, passion expended, they lay contented and entwined. Nim reflected on something he had once heard: That the sex act left some men drained and depressed, wondering why they had gone to all the trouble which preceded it. But it never happened that way to Nim. Once more, as always, he felt uplifted and renewed. Ardythe said softly, "You're a sweet, tender man. Is there any way you can stay the night?"

He shook his head. "Not this time."

"I suppose I shouldn't have asked." She traced a finger down his face, following the lines around his mouth. "I promise I won't be greedy, Nim, or bother you. Just come sometimes, when you can."

He promised he would, though wondering how to manage it amid the pressures and complications which grew in number daily. While they were dressing, Ardythe said, "I've been going through Walter's papers and there are some I'd like to turn over to you. Things he brought home from the office. They ought to go back."

"Sure, I'll take them," Nim agreed.

Ardythe showed him where the papers were-in three large cardboard cartons in what had been Walter's den. Nim opened two of the cartons and found the contents to consist of filed reports and letters. He riffled through a few while Ardythe was in the kitchen making coffee; he had declined another drink.

The papers appeared to concern matters in which Walter Talbot had taken a special personal interest. A good many were several years old and no longer relevant. One series of files contained copies of Walter's original report on theft of service and correspondence afterward. At the time, Nim remembered, the report attracted wide attention in the utility industry and was circulated far beyond GSP & L. As a result, Walter had taken on the coloration of an expert. There had even been a court case in the East in which he appeared as an expert witness, part of his report being admitted into evidence. Later, the case had gone to higher courts, Walter's report along with it. Nim had forgotten the eventual outcome; not that it mattered now, he thought.

He glanced through more correspondence, then replaced the files and closed the cartons. After that be carried them out to the hallway so be would remember to take them with him to his car.

14.

The earth underfoot vibrated. A great roaring, like a covey of jet airplanes taking off together, shattered the near-silence and a fat plume of steam shot violently skyward. Instinctively, those in the small group standing on a knoll pressed hands over their ears in self-protection. A few appeared frightened.

Teresa Van Buren, uncovering her own ears momentarily, waved her arms and shouted, urging a return to the chartered bus in which the group arrived, No one heard the shouts but the message was clear. The twenty or so men and women moved hastily toward the bus parked fifty yards away.

Inside the air-conditioned vehicle, with doors closed tightly, the noise from outside was less intense.

"Jesus H. Christ!" one of the men protested. "That was a lousy trick to pull, and if I've lost my hearing I'll sue the goddamned utility."

Teresa Van Buren asked him, "What did you say?"

"I said if I've frigging well gone deaf . . ."

"I know," she interrupted, "I heard you the first time. Just wanted to make sure you hadn't."

Some of the others laughed.

"I swear to you," the GSP & L public relations director told the group of reporters on the press tour, "I had no idea that was going to happen.

The way it worked out, we just got lucky. Because, folks, what you had the privilege of seeing was a new geothermal well come in."

She said it with the enthusiasm of a wildcatter who has just brought in a Texas gusher.

Through windows of the still stationary bus, they looked back at the drill rig they had been watching when the unscheduled eruption occurred.

In appearance it was the same kind of tower-topped mechanism used in an oil field; it could, in fact, be moved and converted to oil exploration at any time. Like Teresa Van Buren, the hard-hatted crew clustered around the rig was beaming.

Not far away were other geothermal wellheads, their natural pressurized steam deflected into huge insulated pipes. An aboveground network of the pipes, covering several square miles like a plumber's nightmare, conveyed the steam to turbine generators in a dozen separate buildings, severe and square, perched on ridges and in gullies. Combined output of the generators was, at this moment, better than seven hundred thousand kilowatts, more than enough electricity to sustain a major city. The new well would supplement this power.

Within the bus, Van Buren regarded a TV cameraman who was busy switching film containers. "Did you get pictures when it happened?"

"Damn right!" Unlike the reporter who had complained-a minor league stringer for some small-town papers-the TV man looked pleased. He finished his film changing. "Ask the driver to open the door, Tess. I want a shot from another angle."

As he went out, a smell of hydrogen sulfide-like rotten eggs wafted in.

"Migawd, it stinks!" Nancy Molineaux of the California Examiner wrinkled her delicate nose.

"At European health spas," a middle-aged Los Angeles Times writer told her, "you'd have to pay to breathe that stuff."

"And if you decide to print that," Van Buren assured the L.A, Timesman, "we'll carve it on stone and salute it twice a day."

The press party had traveled from the city, starting early this morning, and was now in the rugged mountains of California's Sevilla County, site of Golden State Power's existing geothermal generating plants. Later they would move on to neighboring Fincastle Valley, where the utility hoped to create a further geothermal power complex. Tomorrow, the same group would visit a hydroelectric plant and the intended site of another.

Both proposed developments were soon to be the subject of public bearings. The two-day excursion was intended as a media preview.

"I'll tell you something about that smell," the PR director continued.

"The hydrogen sulfide in the steam is only present in small amounts, not enough to be toxic. But we get complaints-mostly from real estate people who want to sell land in these mountains for resort development. Well, the smell was always here because steam filtered up through the ground, even before we harnessed it to generate electricity. What's more, old-timers say the smell isn't any worse now than it was originally."

"Can you prove that?" a reporter from the San lose Mercury asked.

Van Buren shook her bead. "Unfortunately no one had the foresight to take air samples before drilling began. So we can never compare the 'before' and 'after,' and we're stuck with the critics."

"Who are probably right" San lose Mercury said sardonically. "Everybody knows a big outfit like Golden State Power bends the truth now and then."

"I'll take that as a joke," the PR director responded. "But one thing is true. We try to meet our critics halfway."

A new voice said skeptically, "Give one example."

"There's one right here. It has to do with the smell. Because of the objections I told you about, we located two recently built power plants on ridges. There are strong air currents there which dissipate all odors quickly."

"So what happened?" Nancy Molineaux asked.

"There have been even more complaints than before-from environmentalists who say we've ruined the skyline."

There was mild laughter and one or two people wrote in notebooks.

"We had another no-win situation," Van Buren said. "GSP & L made a film about our geothermal generating system. When we started, the script had a scene showing bow a hunter named William Elliott discovered this place in 1847. He shot a grizzly bear, then looked up from his rifle sights and saw steam gushing from the ground. Well, some wildlife people read the script and said we ought not to show a grizzly being killed because bears are now protected here. So . . . The script was rewritten. In the film the hunter misses. The bear gets away."

A radio reporter with a tape machine going asked, "What's wrong with that?"

"The descendants of William Elliott threatened to sue us. They said their ancestor was a famous hunter and a crack shot. He wouldn't have missed the grizzly; he'd have shot it. Therefore the film maligned his reputation-and the family's."

"I remember that," the L.A. Timesman said.

Van Buren added: "The point I'm making is: In advance of anything we do-as a public utility-we can be certain we'll be kicked in the butt from one direction or the other, sometimes both."

"Would you prefer us to weep now?" Nancy Molineaux inquired. "Or later?"

The TV cameraman rapped on the bus door and was readmitted.

"If everyone's ready we'll move on to lunch," Van Buren said. She motioned to the bus driver. "Let's go."

A feature writer from New West magazine asked her, "Any booze, Tess?"

"Maybe. If everyone agrees it's off the record." As she looked around inquiringly there were calls of "Okay," "Off the record," and "That's a deal."

"In that case-yes, drinks before lunch."

Two or three in the bus gave a ragged cheer.

Behind the exchange was a piece of recent history.

Two years earlier GSP & L had been generous in supplying food and liquor during a similar press tour. The press representatives had eaten and imbibed with gusto, then, in published reports, some had sniped at GSP & L for extravagant entertaining at a time of rising utility bills. As a result, food supplied to the press nowadays was deliberately modest and, unless an off-the-record pledge was given, liquor was withheld.

The stratagem worked. Whatever else the press criticized, they now kept silent* about their own care and feeding.