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himself for his own failure in an aspect of the Revolutionary Catechism

(attributed to the nineteenth-century Russians, Bakunin and Nechayev),

which read in part:

The revolutionary is a lost man; he has no interests of his own, no

feelings, no babits, no belongings . . . Everything in him is absorbed

by a single, exclusive interest, one thought, one passion-the revolution

. . . He has broken every tie with the civil order, with the educated

world and all laws, conventions and . . . with the ethics of this world.

All the tender feelings of family life, of friendship, love, gratitude

and even honor must be stilled in him . . . Day and night he must have

one single thought, one single purpose: merciless destruction . . .

The character of the true revolutionary has no place for any

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romanticism, sentimentality, enthusiasm or seduction . . . A]ways and

everywhere he must become not what his own inclination would have him

become, but what the general interest of the revolution demands.

Georges closed his journal, reminding himself that the war communiquc,

with its just demands, must arrive at one of the city's radio stations

later today.

As usual, it would be left in a safe location, then the radio station

advised by phone. The radio idiots would fall all over themselves to pick

it up.

The communiqu6, Gcorgos thought with satisfaction, would make a lively

itern on the evening news.

12

"First of all," Laura Bo Carmichael said when tbcN,, bad ordered drinks

-a martini for her, a bloody marv for Nim Goldinin-"I'd like to sav how

sorry I am about your president, Mr. Fenton. I didn't know him, but what

happened was shameful and tragic. I hope the people responsible are found

and punished."

The Sequoia Club chairman was a slender, svelte woman in her late sixties

with a normally brisk manner and alert, penetrating eyes. She dressed

severely, wore flat-beeled shoes, and had her hair cropped short, as if

to exorcise her femininity. Perhaps, Nim thought, it was because, as an

early atomic scientist, Laura Bo Carmichael had competed in a field which

at the time, was dominated by men.

They were in the elegant Squire Room of the Fairhill Hotel, where they

had met for lunch at Nim's suggestion. It was a week and a half later

than he had intended, but the turmoil which followed the latest bombing

at GSP&L had kept him occupied. Elaborate security measures, which Nim

had shared in planning, were now in force at the giant utility's

headquarters. More work had also conic his way as a result of the

critical need for a rate increase, now being considered by the Public

Utilities Commission.

Acknowledging the remark about Fraser Fenton, he admitted, "It was a

shock, particularl ' ~ after the earlier deaths at La Mission. I guess

we're all running scared right now."

And it was true, lie thought. The company's senior executives, from the

chairman down, were insisting on low profiles. They did not want

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to be in the news and thereby expose themselves to terrorist attention.

J. Eric Humphrey had given orders that his name was no longer to be used

in company announcements or news releases, nor would he be available to

the press, except possibly for off-the-record sessions. His home address

had been withdrawn from all company records and was now a guarded

secret-as much as anything of that kind could be. Most senior executives

already had unlisted home phone numbers. ne chairman and senior officers

would have bodyguards during any activity where they might be considered

targets-including weekend golf games.

Nim was to be the exception.

His assistant, the chairman had made clear, would continue to be GSP &

L's policy spokesman, Nim's public appearances, if anything, increasing.

It put him, Nim thought wryly, squarely on the firing line. Or, more

precisely, the bombing line.

The chairman had also, quietly, increased Nim's salary. Hazardous duty

pay, Nim thought, even though the raise was overdue.

"Although Fraser was our president," he explained to Laura Bo, "be was

not the chief executive officer and, in some ways, wasn't in the

mainstream of command. He was also five months from retirement."

"nat makes it even sadder. How about the others?"

"One of the injured died this morning. A woman secretary." Nim had known

her slightly. She was in the treasurer's department and had authority to

open all mail, even that marked "private and confidential." The privilege

had cost her her life and saved that of her boss, Sharlett Underhill, to

whom the booby-trapped envelope was addressed. Two of the five bombs

which exploded had injured several people who were nearby; an

eighteen-year-old billing clerk bad lost both hands.

A waiter brought their drinks and Laura Bo instructed him, "These are to

be on separate checks. And the lunch."

"Don't worry," Nim said, amused. "I won't suborn you with my company

expense account."

"YOU couldn't if you tried. However, on principle I won't take anything

from someone who might want to influence the Sequoia Club."

"Any influencing I try will be out in the open. I simply thought that

over a meal was a good way to talk."

"I'll listen to you anytime, Nim, and I'm happy to have lunch. But I'll

still pay for my own."

They had first met, years before, when Nim was a senior at Stanford and

Laura Bo was a visiting lecturer. She had been impressed by his

penetrating questions, be by her willingness to address them franklv.

They had kept in touch and, even though they were adversaries at times,

respected each other and stayed friends.

Nim sipped his bloody mary. "It's about Tunipah mostly. But also our

plans for Devil's Gate and Fincastle."

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"I rather thought it would be. It might save time if I told you the

Sequoia Club intends to oppose them all."

Nim nodded. The statement did not surprise him. Ile thought for a moment,

then chose his words carefully.

" What I'd like you to consider, Laura, is not just Golden State Pov,,cr

& Light, or the Sequoia Club, or even the environment, but a whole wider

spectrum. You could call it 'basic civilized values,' or 'the life we

lead,' or maybe-more accurately-'minimum expectations."'

"Actually, I think about those things a good deal."

"Most of us do, but lately not enough-or realistically. Because ev-

crytbing under all those headings is in peril. Not just in part, not a

few biis and pieces of life as we know it, but everything. Our entire

system is in danger of coming apart, of breaking up."

"That isn't a new argument, Nim. I usually hear it in conjunction with

a line like, 'If this particular application-to build a polluting this

or that, exactly where and how we want it-is not approved by tomorrow at

the latest, then disaster will be swift and sure."'

Nim shook his head. "You're playing dialectics with me, Laura. Sure, wbat

you just said is stated or implied sometimes; at Golden State we've been

guilty of it ourselves. But what I'm speaking of now is overall-and not

posturing, but reality."

Their ~Naiter reappeared and prc~ented two ornate menus Nvitb a flourish.

Laura Bo ignored hers. "An avocado and grapefruit salad with a glass of

skim milk."

Nim banded back his own menu. "I'll have the same."

The waiter went away looking disappointed.

"What seems impossible for more than a handful of people to grasp," Nim

continued, "is the total effect when you add together all the resource

changes and calamities-natural plus political-which have happened,

virtuallv at once."

"I follow the news, too." Laura Bo smiled. "Could it be I've missed

something?"

"Probably not. But have you done the addition?"

"I think so. But give me your version."

"Okay. Number one, North America is almost out of natural gas. All that

remains is seven or eight years' supply, and even if new gas reserves arc

found, the best we can hope for is to serve existing users. No new

customers can be taken on-now or later. So for large-scale, unlimited use

we're at the end of the line, except for gasification of our coal

reserves, and stupidity in Washington has slowed that to a walk. Do you

agree?"

"Of course. And the reason we're running out of natural gas is because

the big utility companies-yours and otbers-put profits abead of

conservation and squandered a resource which could have lasted half a

century more."

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Nim grimaced. "We responded to public demand, but never mind. I'm talking

hard facts, and how all that natural gas got used is history. It can't

be undone." On his fingers he ticked off a second point. "Now, oil. There

are still big supplies untapped, but the way oil is being guzzled, the

world could be scraping the bottom of its wells by the turn of the

century-which isn't far away. Coupled with that, all industrialized free

world nations are dependent more and more on imported oil, which leaves

us open, any damn day the Arabs want to kick us in the ass again, to

political and economic blackmail."

He stopped, then added, "Of course, we should be liquefying coal, just

as the Germans did in World War II. But the politicians in Washington can

get more votes by holding televised hearings where they vilify the oil

companies."

"You have a certain glib persuasiveness, Nim. Have you ever thought of

running for office?"

"Should I try at the Sequoia Club?"

"Perhaps not."

"All right," he said, "so much for natural gas and oil. Next, consider

nuclear power."

"Must we?"

He stopped, regarding her curiously. At the mention of "nuclear," Laura

Bo's face had tightened. It always did. In California and elsewhere she

was an impassioned foe of nuclear power plants, her opinions listened to

respectfully because of her association with the World War 11 Manhattan

Project, which produced the first atomic bombs.

Nim said, without looking at her, "That word is still like a dagger in

the heart to you, isn't it?"

Their lunch had arrived, and she paused until the waiter had gone before

replying.

"I imagine you know by now that I still see the mushroom cloud."

"Yes," be said gently. "I know, and I think I understand."

"I doubt that, You were so young, you don't remember. You weren't

involved, as I was."

Though her words were controlled, the agony of years still seethed

beneath them. Laura Bo bad been a young scientist who came to the atomic

bomb project in the last six months before Hiroshima. At the time she bad

wanted desperately to be a part of history, but after the first bomb-code

name: Little Boy-had been dropped, she was horrified and sickened. What

gave her greatest guilt, however, was that she had not protested, after

Hiroshima, the dropping of the second bomb-code name: Fat Man-on

Nagasaki. True, there had been only three days between the two. Equally