So much of him I like:
His quiet ways, warmth,
A gentle wit, and intellect,
An honest face, kind eyes, a ready smile.
"Friend" is not easily defined. And yet,
These things mean that to me
Concerning one whom, even now,
I hope to see again
And count the days and hours
Until a second meeting.
What else was it Karen had said that day in her apartment? "I can use a typewriter. It's electric and I work it with a stick in my teeth."
With a flash of emotion Nim pictured her toiling-slowly, patiently -over the words be had just read, her teeth gripping the stick tightly, her blonde head-the only part of her she could move-repositioning itself after each laborious effort to touch a keyboard letter. He wondered how many drafts Karen had done before the letter-perfect final version she had sent him.
Unexpectedly, be realized, his mood had changed. The sourness of a moment earlier was gone, a warmth and gratitude replacing it.
* * *
On his way to join the press party at breakfast, Nim was surprised to meet Walter Talbot Jr. Nim had not seen Wally since the day of his father's funeral. Momentarily, Nim was embarrassed, remembering his recent visit to Ardythe, then rationalized that Wally and his mother led separate, independent lives.
Wally greeted him cheerfully. "Hi, Nim! What brings you here?"
Nim told him about the two-day press briefing, then asked, "And you?"
Wally glanced at the high voltage lines above them. "Our helicopter patrol found broken insulators on one of the towers-probably a hunter using them for target practice. My crew will replace the whole string, working with the line hot. We hope to be finished this afternoon."
While they talked, a third man joined them. Wally introduced him as Fred Wilkins, a company technician.
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Goldman. I've heard of you. Seen you a lot on TV."
The newcomer was in his late twenties, had a shock of bright red hair and was healthily suntanned.
"As you can see from the look of him," Wally said, "Fred lives out here."
Nim asked, "Do you like the camp? Doesn't it get lonely?"
Wilkins shook his head emphatically. "Not for me, sir, or the wife. Our kids love it, too." He inhaled deeply. "Breathe that air, man! A lot better'n you'll get in any city. And there's plenty of sunshine, all the fishing you need."
Nim laughed. "I might try it for a vacation."
"Daddy!” a child's voice piped. "Daddy, has the mailman come?"
As the trio turned their heads, a small boy ran toward them. He had a cheerful, freckled face and bright red hair, making his parentage unmistakable.
"Just the company mailman, son," Fred Wilkins said. “The post office van'll be another hour." He explained to the others, "Danny's excited because it's his birthday. He's hoping for some packages."
"I'm eight," the small boy volunteered; be looked strong and sturdy for his age. "I had some presents already. But there might be more."
"Happy birthday, Danny!" Nim and Wally said together.
Moments later they parted company, Nim continuing toward the visitors' bunkhouse.
16
In the tailrace tunnel's semi-darkness, above the mighty thunderous sound of confined rushing water, Oakland Tribune shouted, "When I get through these two days I'm gonna ask for a quiet week on the obit desk."
Several others nearby smiled but shook their heads, unable to bear the words for two reasons-the all-enveloping water sound and plugs of absorbent cotton in their ears. Material for the plugs, which muffled the echoing tunnel noise a little, had been handed them outside by Teresa Van Buren. That was after the group scrambled down a steep rock stairway to where the tailrace of Devil's Cate 1 generating plant emptied boisterously into Pineridge River, twenty feet below.
As they fiddled with the earplugs, preparing to enter the tunnel, someone had called out, "Hey, Tess! Why you takin' us in by the back door?"
"It's the tradesmen's entrance," she answered. "Since when did you characters deserve better? Besides, you're always sounding off about needing color for your stories. Here it is."
"Color? In there?" Los Angeles Times had said skeptically, peering forward into the blackness which was punctuated only by a few dim light bulbs. The tunnel was approximately circular, hewn out of solid rock, with the walls left rough and unfinished as at the time of excavation.
The light bulbs were near the roof. Suspended halfway between them and the turbulent water was a narrow catwalk on which the visitors would walk. Ropes on either side of the catwalk could be grabbed as handholds. Earlier, following breakfast, Nim Goldman had explained what they would be seeing-"a hydroelectric plant that's completely underground, inside a mountain. Later we'll talk about the proposed Devil's Gate pumped storage plant which will also be underground-entirely out of sight."
He continued, “The tailrace, where we're going, is actually the end of the generating process. But it will give you an idea of the kind of forces we're dealing with. The water you'll see has passed through the turbine blades after having been used to spin the turbines, and comes out in tremendous quantities."
The massive flow had been evident outside the tunnel to some who had leaned over a metal guardrail above the river, watching the awesome torrent join the already angry maelstrom below.
"By God! I'd hate to fall in," KFSO Radio observed. He asked Van Buren,
"Has anyone ever?"
"Once that we know of. A workman slipped from here. He was a strong swimmer, even had some medals we found out after, but the flow in the tailrace pulled him under. It was three weeks before the body came up."
Instinctively, those nearest the guardrail took a step backward.
Something else Nim had told them in advance was that this particular tailrace was unique. “The tunnel is a third of a mile long and was cut horizontally into the side of a mountain. While the tunnel was being built, and before any water was let in, there were points where two construction trucks could pass side by side."
Nancy Molineaux had pointedly stifled a yawn. "Shit! So you got a long, fat, wet cave. Is that news?"
"It doesn't have to be news. This entire two-day deal is for background,"
Van Buren pointed out. "That was explained to everyone beforehand, including your editors."
"Did you say 'background' or 'craparound?"' Ms. Molineaux asked.
The others laughed.
"Never mind," Nim said. "I'd finished anyway."
Some twenty minutes later, after a short bus ride, be had led the way into the tailrace tunnel.
The cool dampness was in contrast to the warm, sunny day outside. As the group moved forward in single file, only a few feet above the foam-flecked water rushing beneath them, the circle of daylight behind receded to a pinpoint. Ahead, the few dim light bulbs seemed to stretch into limitless distance. Now and then someone would pause to look down, all the while clinging tightly to the guide ropes.
At length, the end of the tunnel and a vertical steel ladder came in sight. At the same time a new sound intruded-a hum of generators, growing to a mighty roar as the ladder was reached. Nim motioned upward and ascended first, the others following.
They passed through an open trapdoor into a lower generating chamber, then, by way of a circular staircase, to a brightly lighted control room two floors above. Here, to general relief, the noise level was diminished, only a faint hum penetrating the insulated walls.
A wide, plate glass window provided a view of two huge generators, both in operation, immediately below.
In the control room a solitary technician was writing in a logbook as he studied an array of dials, colored lights and graphic pen recorders which occupied one wall. Hearing the group enter, he turned. Even before that, Nim recognized him from his shock of red hair.