Karen was now white with fear, and sweating.
By this time she knew that something serious had happened to prevent Josie coming back.
She had tried to telephone again and again. Still, all that she could get was the recorded voice. She considered maneuvering her wheelchair and causing it to bang against the outside apartment door in the hope that someone might be passing and would hear, but to move the chair at all would drain, even faster, whatever strength remained in the battery. Karen knew, through experience and calculation, that the battery could not last long, even to power her respirator.
In fact, there was barely a quarter of an hour’s life remaining in the battery. On returning from the shopping trip, its power was even more reduced than Karen supposed.
Karen, whose religious beliefs had never been strong, began to pray. She begged God and Jesus Christ to send Josie, or Jiminy, or her parents, or Nimrod, or Cynthia, or anyone—anyone!
“All they have to do, God, is connect that other battery. The one down there, Jesus! Anybody can do it! I can tell them how. Oh please, God! Please …”
She was still praying when she felt the respirator begin to slow, her breathing become slow and inadequate.
Frantically, she tried the telephone again. “This is a recorded announcement. All circuits are busy. Please hang up and …”
A high-pitched buzzer, connected to the respirator and powered by a small nickel cadmium cell, sounded a warning that the respirator was about to stop. Karen, her consciousness already diminishing, heard it dimly, as if from a long distance away.
As she began to gasp, helplessly craving air she could not take in unaided, her skin turned red, then blue as she became cyanotic. Her eyes bulged. Her mouth worked wildly. Then, as air ceased coming entirely, she choked; intense pain gripped her chest.
Soon, mercifully, the battery died and, with it, Karen.
Just before her death, her head slumped sideways and, as it touched the telephone microswitch, a voice responded. “Operator. May I help you?”
19
In some ways, Nim thought, it was like the rerun of an old movie as he explained to the assembled press group, including TV and radio crews, what had happened at La Mission plant to cause the latest blackout.
He reflected: Was it really just ten months ago that Walter Talbot and the others died, and Big Lil suffered bomb damage which caused last summer’s blackout? So much had happened since, that the gap in time seemed wider.
Nim was aware of one difference today. It was the attitude of the media people, compared with ten months earlier.
Today, there seemed a genuine awareness of the problems GSP & L faced, and a sympathy which had previously been lacking.
“Mr. Goldman,” Oakland Tribune asked, “if you get green lights to build the plants you need, how long will it take to catch up?”
“Ten years,” Nim answered. “Oh, if we had a real crash program, maybe eight. But we need a lot of permits and licenses before we can even begin. So far there isn’t any sign of them.”
He had come here, to a press conference in the observation gallery of the Energy Control Center, at Teresa Van Buren’s request, shortly after the shutdown of all La Mission’s remaining generators and the resultant blackout. Nim’s first intimation that anything was wrong was when the lights in his office went briefly off and on. That was because special circuitry was protecting the utility’s headquarters, and vital installations like the Energy Control Center, from loss of power.
Nim, guessing that something was wrong, had gone to Energy Control at once where Ray Paulsen, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, filled him in on what had happened.
“Ostrander did the right thing, and I’ll back him up on it,” Paulsen said. “If I’d been there, I’d have done the same.”
“Okay, Ray,” Nim acknowledged. “When I talk with the press I’ll take that line.”
“Something else you can tell them,” Paulsen said, “is that we’ll have all power back on in three hours or less. And by tomorrow, La Mission 1, 2, 3, and 4 will be on line again, and all geothermal units.”
“Thanks. I will.”
It was noticeable, Nim thought, that, in the press of events, the antagonism between him and Paulsen seemed to have evaporated. Perhaps it was because both of them were too busy for it.
Now, in the press conference, Nancy Molineaux asked, “Does this change any of the scheduled blackouts?”
“No,” Nim responded. “They’ll have to begin tomorrow, as planned, and continue every day after that.”
Sacramento Bee inquired, “Will you be able to restrict them to three hours only?”
“It’s unlikely,” Nim said. “As our oil supplies diminish, the blackouts will have to be longer—probably six hours a day.”
Someone whistled softly.
A TV newsman asked, “Have you heard there’s been some rioting—demonstrations against the ‘anti’s?”
“Yes, I have. And in my opinion it doesn’t help anybody, including us.”
The demonstrations had happened last night. Nim read about them this morning. Stones were hurled through windows of the Sequoia Club and headquarters of the Anti-Nuclear League. Demonstrators at both places, who described themselves as “Ordinary Joe Citizens,” had clashed with police and several demonstrators were arrested. Later they were released without being charged.
It was being freely predicted that there would be more demonstrations and rioting, presumably across the country, as unemployment increased because of power cuts.
Amid it all, GSP & L’s former critics and opponents were strangely silent.
Finally at the press conference, somebody asked, “What’s your advice to people, Mr. Goldman?”
Nim grinned weakly. “Switch off everything you don’t need to survive.”
It was about two hours later, shortly after 6 P.M., when Nim returned to his office.
He told Vicki, who was working late—it was getting to be a habit—“Call Redwood Grove Hospital and ask to speak to Miss Sloan.”
She buzzed him a few minutes later. “The hospital says they have no Miss Sloan registered.”
Surprised, he queried, “Are they sure?”
“I asked them to make sure, and they checked twice for me.”
“Then try her home number.” He knew that Vicki had it, though he found it hard to believe that Karen would not have left her apartment for the hospital.
This time, instead of buzzing, Vicki opened his office door and came in. Her face was serious.
“Mr. Goldman,” she said, “I think you’d better take this call.”
Puzzled, he picked up the phone. “Is that you, Karen?”
A choked voice said, “Nimrod, this is Cynthia. Karen is dead.”
“Can’t we go any faster?” Nim asked the driver.
“I’m doing my best, Mr. Goldman.” The man’s voice was reproachful. “There’s a lot of traffic, and more people than usual on the streets.”
Nim had ordered a company car and chauffeur to be at the main doorway, rather than lose time getting his Fiat and driving himself. He arrived on the run and had given the address of Karen’s apartment building. They were on the way there.
Nim’s thoughts were in turmoil. He had obtained no details from Cynthia, only the bare fact that the power cut had been responsible for Karen’s death. Nim already blamed himself—for failing to follow through, for not checking sooner to be sure Karen had gone to Redwood Grove.
Though knowing it was too late, he burned with impatience to arrive.
As a diversion, looking through the car’s windows at the streets in gathering dusk, he considered what the driver had just said. There were many more people out than usual. Nim recalled reading about New York City during blackouts—people came out-of-doors in droves but, when asked, few knew why. Perhaps they were seeking instinctively to share adversity with their neighbors.
Others, of course, had taken to the New York streets to break the law, and burn, a
nd plunder. Maybe, as time went on, both things would happen here.
Whether they did or didn’t, Nim thought, one thing was certain: Patterns of life were changing significantly, and would change still more.
The city’s lights were either on or coming on. Soon, the few remaining pockets without power would have theirs restored too.
Until tomorrow.
And the day after.
And, after that, who knew how prolonged or drastic the departure from normal life would be?
“Here you are, Mr. Goldman,” the driver announced. They were at Karen’s apartment building.
Nim said, “Please wait.”
“You can’t come in,” Cynthia said. “Not now. It’s too awful.”
She had come out into the corridor when Nim arrived at the apartment, closing the door behind her. While the door was briefly open, Nim could hear someone inside having hysterics—it sounded like Henrietta Sloan—and a wailing which he thought was from Josie. Cynthia’s eyes were red.
She told him as much as she knew about the series of misfortunes which added up to Karen’s terrible, lonely death. Nim started to say what he had already thought, about blaming himself, when Cynthia stopped him.
“No! Whatever the rest of us did or didn’t do, Nimrod, no one in a long time did as much for Karen as you. She wouldn’t want you to feel guilt or blame yourself. She even left something for you. Wait!”
Cynthia went back inside and returned with a single sheet of blue stationery. “This was in Karen’s typewriter. She always took a long time with anything like this and was probably working on it before … before …” Her voice choked; she shook her head, unable to finish.
“Thank you.” Nim folded the sheet and put it in an inside pocket. “Is there anything at all I can do?”
Cynthia shook her head. “Not now.” Then, as he started to leave, she asked, “Nimrod, will I see you again?”
He stopped. It was a clear and obvious invitation, just as he remembered the same invitation once before.
“Oh Christ, Cynthia,” Nim said. “I don’t know.”
The damnable thing was, he thought, he wanted Cynthia, who was warm and beautiful and eager to give love. Wanted her, despite his reconciliation with Ruth, despite loving Ruth devotedly.
“If you need me, Nimrod,” Cynthia said, “you know where I am.”
He nodded as he turned away.
In the car, going back to GSP & L headquarters, Nim took out, and unfolded, the sheet of Karen’s familiar stationery which Cynthia had given him. Holding it under a dome light, he read:
Is it so strange, my dearest Nimrod,
That lights should be extinguished?
Rush lights have failed;
All fires that men have started
Burn low, and die.
Yet light, like life, survives:
The meanest gleam, a flaming brand,
Each holds a
What did they hold? he wondered. What last sweet, loving thought of Karen’s would he never know?
20
A rollaway bed had been brought into Nim’s office. It was there when he returned, made up with sheets, a blanket and a pillow, as he had asked for it to be.
Vicki had gone home.
Thoughts of Karen still filled his mind. Despite Cynthia’s words, his sense of guilt persisted. It was a guilt, not only for himself, but for GSP & L, of which he was a part, and which had failed her. In modern life, electricity had become a lifeline—for those like Karen, literally—and it should not be broken, no matter what the cause. Reliability of service was, above all, the first duty, a near-sacred trust, of any public utility like GSP & L. And yet the lifeline would be broken—tragically, sadly, in a sense needlessly—again and again, beginning with tomorrow. Nim was sure that as rolling blackouts continued, there would be other losses and hardships, many unforeseen.
Would he ever shake off his guilt about Karen, he wondered? In time, perhaps, but not yet.
Nim wished there were someone he could talk to at the moment, in whom he could confide. But he had not told Ruth about Karen, and couldn’t now.
He sat at his desk and put his face in his hands. After a while, he knew he must do something which would divert him mentally. For an hour or two, at least.
The events of the day—trauma piled on trauma—had prevented him from dealing with the accumulated papers on his desk. If he failed to clear some of them tonight, he knew there would be twice as many tomorrow. But as much for mental relief as any other reason, he settled down to work.
He had been concentrating for ten minutes when he heard the telephone in the outer office ring. He answered it on his extension.
“I’ll bet,” Teresa Van Buren’s voice said, “you thought you were through being the company’s mouthpiece for today.”
“Since you mention it, Tess,” he told her, “the idea had occurred to me.”
The p.r. director chuckled. “The press never sleeps; more’s the pity. I have two more people over here who’d like to see you. One is AP, who has some supplementary questions for a national story on our rolling blackouts. The other is Nancy Molineaux, who won’t say what the hell she wants, but wants something. How about it?”
Nim sighed. “Okay, bring them over.”
There were moments—this was one—when he regretted the defection and departure of Mr. Justice Yale.
“I won’t stay,” the p.r. director said a few minutes later. She introduced AP, an elderly male reporter with rheumy eyes and a smoker’s cough. Nancy Molineaux had elected to wait in the outer office until AP was through.
The wire service man’s questions were professional and thorough and he scribbled Nim’s answers, in his own version of shorthand, on a batch of copy paper. When they had finished, he got up to go and asked, “Shall I send the doll in?”
“Yes, please.”
Nim heard the outer door close, then Nancy entered.
“Hi!” she said.
As usual, she was stylishly, though simply, dressed—tonight in a silk shirtwaist dress, coral-colored, a perfect complement to her flawless black skin. Her handsome, high-cheekboned face seemed to have lost some—though not all—of its haughtiness, Nim thought, perhaps because she had been friendlier, ever since their meeting in the Christopher Columbus Hotel, and the shattering events which followed it.
She sat down opposite him, crossing her long, shapely legs. Nim regarded them briefly, then looked away.
“Hi!” he acknowledged. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s this.” She got up and placed a long strip of paper on the desk in front of him. He saw it was a carbon copy of a teletype.
“It’s a story that just broke,” Nancy said. “The morning papers will have it. We’d like to develop it with some comments—yours for one—for the afternoon.”
Swinging his chair to where the light was better, Nim said, “Let me read this.”
“Be hard to comment if you don’t,” she said lazily. “Take your time.”
He scanned the news story quickly, then went back to the beginning and studied it carefully.
WASHINGTON, D.C., MAY 3—IN A DRAMATIC MOVE TO RESOLVE THE CURRENT OIL CRISIS, THE UNITED STATES IS TO ISSUE A NEW CURRENCY, TO BE KNOWN AS THE NEW DOLLAR. IT WILL BE BACKED BY GOLD AND BE WORTH TEN EXISTING DOLLARS.
THE PRESIDENT WILL ANNOUNCE THE NEW DOLLAR AT A WHITE HOUSE PRESS CONFERENCE TOMORROW AFTERNOON.
SOME WASHINGTON OFFICIALS HAVE ALREADY DUBBED THE NEW CURRENCY “THE HONEST DOLLAR.”
THE OIL EXPORTING NATIONS OF OPEC WILL BE ASKED TO ACCEPT PAYMENT FOR THEIR OIL IN NEW DOLLARS, WITH PRICE-ADJUSTMENTS TO BE NEGOTIATED.
INITIAL OPEC REACTION HAS BEEN CAUTIOUSLY FAVORABLE. HOWEVER, OPEC SPOKESMAN SHEIK AHMED MUSAED STATED THAT AN INDEPENDENT AUDIT OF UNITED STATES GOLD WOULD BE SOUGHT BEFORE ANY AGREEMENT BASED ON THE NEW DOLLAR COULD BE CONCLUDED.
“WE WOULD NOT GO SO FAR AS TO SUGGEST THAT THE UNITED STATES HAS LIED ABOUT ITS GOLD RESERVES,” SHEIK MUSAED TOLD REPOR
TERS TONIGHT IN PARIS, “BUT THERE HAVE BEEN PERSISTENT RUMORS, WHICH CANNOT BE BRUSHED ASIDE LIGHTLY, THAT THEY ARE NOT AS LARGE AS OFFICIALLY STATED. THEREFORE WE WISH TO MAKE SURE THAT GOLD BACKING OF THE NEW DOLLAR IS REAL AND NOT ILLUSORY.”
THE PRESIDENT IS EXPECTED TO INFORM AMERICANS THAT THEY CAN ACQUIRE NEW DOLLARS BY SURRENDERING THEIR OLD DOLLARS AT THE RATE OF TEN TO ONE. THE CHANGE WILL BE VOLUNTARY AT FIRST BUT, UNDER PROPOSED LEGISLATION, COMPULSORY WITHIN FIVE YEARS. AFTER THAT, THE OLD DOLLAR WILL BE PHASED OUT, HAVING VALUE ONLY AS A COLLECTOR’S ITEM.
AT HIS NEWS CONFERENCE THE PRESIDENT WILL UNDOUBTEDLY BE ASKED …
Nim thought: So the possibility which GSP & L’s Washington lobbyist had mentioned last week had become reality.
He was aware of Nancy Molineaux, waiting.
“I’m no financial genius,” Nim said. “But I don’t think you need to be one to know that what’s happening here”—he tapped the teletype sheet with a finger—“has been inevitable for a long time, since inflation started and, after that, we let ourselves get dependent on imported oil. Unfortunately, a lot of decent, middle-class folk who’ve worked hard and accumulated savings, are the ones who’ll be hurt most when they line up to trade their dollars ten for one. Even now, though, all that this does is buy us some time. Time until we stop purchasing oil we can’t afford, stop spending money we don’t have, and begin developing our own, untapped energy resources.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said; “that’ll do nicely.” She put away a notebook she had been writing in. “Over at the paper, by the way, they seem to think that you’re Sir Oracle. Oh yes, and speaking of which, you might like to know that in Sunday’s edition we’re reprinting what you said at that hearing last September—the one where you blew up and got yourself in the shit. Suddenly it all makes more sense than it seemed to then.” A thought occurred to her. “Do you want to tell me—for the record—how you feel about all that?”
On impulse, Nim opened a drawer of his desk and took out a folder. From it he extracted a sheet of blue stationery and read aloud:
Be, at that harvest moment, forgiving, gracious,
Broad of mind, large-purposed,