"Christ!" Oakland Tribune protested. "Us real reporters will settle for once around. Let's cut the crap and get on!"
Nim nodded. "Most of the land which should have been explored, long ago, for geothermal potential is federal government property."
"In which states?" someone asked.
"Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico. And lots more sites in California."
Another voice urged, "Keep going!" Heads were down, ball-points racing.
"Well," Nim said, "it took a full ten years of Congressional do-nothing, double-talk and politics before legislation was passed which authorized geothermal leasing on public lands. After that were three more years of delay while environmental standards and regulations got written. And even now only a few leases have been granted, with ninety percent of applications lost in bureaucratic limbo."
"Would you say," San lose Mercury prompted, "that during all this time our patriotic politicians were urging people to conserve power, pay higher fuel costs and taxes, and be less dependent on imported oil?"
Los Angeles Times growled, "Let him say it. I want a direct quote."
"You have one," Nim acknowledged. "I accept the words just used."
Teresa Van Buren broke in firmly. "That's enough! Let's talk about Fincastle Valley. We'll all be driving there as soon as we're finished here."
Nim grinned. "Tess tries to keep me out of trouble, not always succeeding. Incidentally, the helicopter's going back shortly; I'm staying with you through tomorrow. Okay-Fincastle." He produced a map from a briefcase and pinned it to a bulletin board.
"Fincastle-you can see it on the map-is two valleys over to the east.
It's unoccupied land and we know it's a geothermal area. Geologists have advised us there are spectacular possibilities-for perhaps twice the electric power being generated here. Public hearings on our Fincastle plans are, of course, to begin soon."
Van Buren asked, "May I. . . . ?"
Nim stepped back and waited.
"Let's spell out something loud and clear," the PR director told the group. "In advance of the bearings we aren't trying to convert you, or to undercut the opposition. We simply want you to understand what's involved, and where. Thanks, Nim."
"A piece of gut information," Nim continued, "about Fincastle-and also Devil's Gate which we'll visit tomorrow-is this: they represent a Niagara of Arab oil which America will not have to import. Right now our geothermal setup saves ten million barrels of oil a year. We can triple that if . . ."
The briefing, with its information and cross-examination, leavened by badinage, rolled on.
15
The pale blue envelope bore a typewritten address which began:
NIMROD GOLDMAN, ESQUIRE-PERSONAL
A note from Nim's secretary, Vicki Davis, was clipped to the envelope. It read:
Mr. London, himself, put this through the mailroom metal detector. He says it's okay for you to open.
Vicki's note was satisfactory on two counts. It meant that mail arriving at GSP & L headquarters and marked "persona!” (or "private and confidential," as the recent letter bombs had been) was being handled warily. Also, a newly installed detection device was being used.
Something else Nim had become aware of: Since the traumatic day on which Harry London had almost certainly saved the lives of Nim and Vicki Davis, London appeared to have appointed himself Nim's permanent protector. Vicki, who nowadays regarded the Property Protection Department bead with something close to veneration, co-operated by sending him an advance daily schedule of Nim's appointments and movements. Nim had learned of the arrangement accidentally and was unsure whether to be grateful, irritated or amused.
In any case, he thought, he was a long way from Harry's suryeillance now.
Nim, Teresa Van Buren, and the press party had spent last night here at a Golden State Power outpost-Devil's Gate Camp-having continued by bus from Fincastle Valley. It had been a four-hour journey, in part through the breathtaking beauty of Plumas National Forest.
The camp was thirty-five miles from the nearest town and sheltered in a rugged fold of mountains. It comprised a half-dozen company owned houses for resident engineers, foremen and their families, a small school-now closed for summer vacation-and two motel-type bunkhouses, one for GSP & L employees, the second for visitors. High overhead were high voltage transmission lines on steel-gridded towers-a reminder of the small community's purpose.
The press party had been divided by sex, then housed four to a room in the visitors' quarters, which were plain but adequate. There had been mild grumbling about the four-in-a-room arrangement, one implication being that, given more privacy, some bed-hopping might have developed. Nim had a room to himself over in the employees' bunkhouse. After dinner last night he stayed on for drinks with some of the reporters, joined a poker game for a couple of hours, then excused himself and turned in shortly before midnight. This morning be had awakened refreshed, and was now ready for breakfast, which would be in a few minutes, at 7:30 am.
On a veranda outside the employees' bunkhouse, in the clear morning air, be examined the blue envelope, turning it over in his hand.
It had been brought by a company courier, traveling through the night like a modern Paul Revere and bearing company mail for Devil's Gate and other GSP&L frontiers. It was all part of an internal communications system, so the letter for Nim imposed no extra burden. Just the same, he thought sourly, if Nancy Molineaux learned about a personal letter routed that way, her bitchiness would have another workout. Fortunately she wouldn't.
The disagreeable reminder of the Molineaux woman had been prompted by Teresa Van Buren. In bringing Nim his letter a few minutes ago, Tess reported that she, too, had received one-containing information she had asked for yesterday about helicopter costs. Nim was shocked. He protested,
"You're actually going to help that trollop nail us to a board?"
"Calling her nasty names won't change anything," Van Buren had said patiently, then added, "Sometimes you big-wheel executives don't understand what public relations is all about."
"If that's an example, you're damn right!"
"Look-we can't win 'em all. I'll admit Nancy got under my skin yesterday, but when I thought about it some more, I reasoned she's going to write about that helicopter whatever we do or say. Therefore she might as well have the correct figures because if she asks elsewhere, or someone guesses, for sure they'll be exaggerated. Another thing: I'm being honest with Nancy now, and she knows it. In future, when something else comes up, she'll trust me and maybe that time will be a lot more important."
Nim said sarcastically, "I can hardly wait for that acid-mouthed sourpuss to write something favorable."
"See you at breakfast," the PR director had said as she left. "And do yourself a favor - simmer down."
But he didn't. Now, still seething inwardly, be ripped open the blue envelope.
It contained a single sheet of paper, matching the blue envelope. At the top was printed: From Karen Sloan.
Suddenly he remembered. Karen had said: "Sometimes I write poetry. Would you like me to send you some?" And he had answered yes.
The words were neatly typed.
Today I found a friend,
Or maybe he found me,
Or was it fate, chance, circumstance-
Predestination, by whatever name?
Were we like paranoid stars whose orbits,
Devised at time's beginning,
In due season
Intersect?
Though we will never know,
No matter! For instinct tells me
That our friendship, nurtured,
Will grow strong.