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doubtful. "He said I ought to have started a long time ago."

Was there an accusation in Benjy's small precise voice? It was entirely

possible-in fact, probable-Nim thought, that Benjy at ten understood a

great deal more than his elders assumed. Therefore did Benjy's questions

now reflect the same instinctive search for identification with his

ancestry which Nim had been aware of in himself, and had subdued, though

not entirely? He wasn't sure. Nothing, however, lessened Nim's anger at

the way all this had surfaced, though he curbed another sharp answer,

knowing it would do harm, -not good.

"Look, son, what you said just now simply isn't true. If we decide you

should be bar mitzvahed there's plenty of time. You have to realize your

grandparents have some views which your mother and I don't agree with."

Nim wasn't sure how true that was of Ruth, but she wasn't around to

contradict. He went on, "As soon as your mother is back, and you come

home, we'll talk all this over. Okay?"

Benjy had said "okay" a touch reluctantly and Nim realized he must keep

his promise or lose credibility with his son. He considered the idea of

flying his father in from New York and having him stay for a while, which

would expose Benjy to a counterbalancing influence. Old Isaac Goldman,

while frail and in his eighties, was still acid, cynical and biting about

Judaism and enjoyed slamming baymakers into Orthodox Jewish arguments.

But no, Nim decided. That would be just as unfair as the Neubergers were

being now.

After the phone call, and while mixing himself a scotch and water, Nim

caught sight of a portrait of Ruth; it was in oils, painted several years

ago. The artist had caught, with remarkable fidelity, Ruth's graceful

beauty and serenity. He crossed to the painting and studied it. Tbe face,

especially the soft gray eyes, was exceptionally good; so was the

hair-shiny black, neatly and impeccably arranged, as always. For the

sittings Ruth had worn a strapless evening gown; the flesh tones of her

graceful shoulders were uncannily real. There was even, on one shoulder,

the small dark mole which she had had removed surgically soon after the

portrait was done.

Nim's thoughts returned to Ruth's serenity; it was what the painting

showed best. I could use some of that serenity right now, he thought, and

wished he could talk to Ruth about Benjy and a bar mitzvah. Dammit! Where

in hell has she gone for two weeks and who is the man? Nim was sure the

Neubergers would have some idea. At the very least they would know where

Ruth could be contacted; Nim knew his wife too well to believe she would

cut herself off completely from the children. Equally certain: Her

parents would be closemouthed about the arrangement. Tbe thought refueled

the anger at his in-laws.

Following a second scotch and more perambulating, be returned to the

telephone and dialed Harry London's home number. They hadn't talked in

a week, which was unusual.

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When London answered, Nim asked him, "Want to drive out to my house and

booze a little?"

"Sorry, Nim; I'd like to, but I can't. Got a dinner date. Leaving here

soon. Did you hear about the latest bombing?"

"No. When?"

"Happened an hour ago."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Not this time-but that's the only good part."

Two powerful bombs bad been planted at a GSP & L suburban substation, Harry

London reported. As a result more than six thousand homes in the area were

now without electric power. Mobile transformers, mounted on flatbed trucks,

were being rushed in, but it was unlikely that full service would be

restored until tomorrow.

"'nose crazies are getting smart," London said. "They're learning where

we're vulnerable, and where to put their firecrackers to do the most

damage."

"Do we know yet if it's the same group?"

"Yep. Friends of Freedom. They phoned Channel 5 News just before it

happened, saying where it would happen. Too late to do anything, though.

That makes eleven bombings we've bad in two months. I just added up."

Knowing that London, while not directly involved in the investigation,

still had pipelines of information, Nim asked, "Have the police or FBI made

any progress?"

"Nil. I said the people doing it are getting smart; so they are. It's a

safe bet they study the targets before they hit, then decide where they can

get in and out fast, unnoticed, and do the most damage. This Friends of

Freedom mob know, just as we do, that we'd need an army to guard

everything."

"And there haven't been clues?"

"Nil again. Remember what I said before? If the cops solve this one it'll

be through a lucky break or because somebody got careless. Nim, it ain't

the way it is on TV or in novels where crimes always get solved. In the

real police world they often don't."

"I know that," Nim said, mildly irritated that London was slipping into his

lecturer's role again.

"There is one thing, though," the Property Protection chief said

thoughtfully.

"What's that?"

"For a while the bombings slowed down, almost stopped. Now suddenly they've

perked up, making it look as if the people doing them have got a new source

of explosives, or money, or both."

Nim pondered, then changed the subject. "What's new with theft of service?"

"Not a hell of a lot. Oh sure, we're working hard and catching some small

fry. There's a couple dozen new cases of meter tampering we'll

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take to court. But it's like plugging a hundred leaks when you know there's

ten thousand more out there if you just had the people and time to find

'em."

"How about that big office building? The one where you're keeping watch?"

"Zaco Properties. We still have surveillance on it. Nothing's happened yet.

I guess we're going through a flat spell." Uncharacteristically, Harry

London sounded depressed. Maybe it was infectious; perhaps he had

transmitted his own low spirits, Nim thought as be said good night and hung

up.

He was still restless, alone in the silent house. So who else could he

call?

He considered Ardythe, then dismissed the idea. Nim was not ready yet-if he

ever would be-to cope with Ardythe Talbot's onset of religion. But thinking

of Ardythe reminded him of Wally Jr., whom Nim had visited in the hospital

twice recently. Wally was now out of danger and removed from intensive

care, though ahead lay months, perhaps years, of tedious, painful plastic

surgery. Not surprisingly, Wally's spirits had been low. They had not

discussed his sexual incapacity.

Half guiltily, as he remembered Wally, Nim reminded himself that his own

sexual ability was unimpaired. Should he call one of his women friends?

There were several whom be had not seen for months but who, quite probably,

would be available for drinks, a late dinner somewhere, and whatever

followed. If he made the effort, he need not spend the night alone.

Somehow he couldn't be bothered.

Karen Sloan? No. As much as he enjoyed her company, he wasn't in the mood.

Work, then? There was work aplenty piled on his office desk at GSP&L

headquarters. If he went there now it would not be the first time he had

toiled at night taking advantage of the quietness to accomplish more than

was possible in daytime. It might also be a good idea. The Tunipah hearings

were already consuming much of Nim's available time, and the demand would

continue, though his normal work load bad to be fitted in somehow.

But no, not that either; not desk work in his present mood. How about some

other kind of work to occupy his mind?

What could he do, be wondered, to prepare himself for his debut Monday on

the witness stand? He was already well briefed. But there was always

something more to be prepared for-the unexpected.

An idea jumped into his mind, from out of nowhere, like bread emerging from

a pop-up toaster.

Coalf

Tunipah was coal. Without coal-to be freighted from Utah to Califomia-no

Tunipah electric generating plant was feasible. And yet,

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while Nim's technical expertise on coal was considerable, his practical

experience was limited. There was a simple reason. As yet, no coal-burning

electric generating plant existed inside California. Tunipab would be the

first in history.

Surely . . . somehow, he thought . . . between now and Monday morning he

must go-as if on a pilgrimage-to a coal-fueled plant. And from it he would

return to the Tunipah hearings with the sight, sound, taste and smell of

coal fresh in his senses. Nim's instincts, which were often right, advised

him he would be a better, stronger witness if he did.

It would also solve the problem of his weekend restlessness.

But a coal-burning plant where?

When the easy answer occurred to him he mixed another scotch and water.

Then, with the drink at his side, he sat at the telephone once more and

dialed directory assistance in Denver, Colorado.

10

Flight 46o of United Airlines made an on-time departure from the West Coast

at 7:15 A.m. As the Boeing 727-2oo became airborne and climbed steeply, the

morning sun, which minutes before had cleared the eastern horizon, tinted

the landscape below a soft red-gold. The world seemed clean and pure, Nim

thought, as it always does at dawn, a daily illusion lasting less than half

an hour.

While the jet steadied on an easterly course, Nim settled back in his

comfortable first-class seat. He had no hesitation in making the trip this

way, at company expense, since reflection this morning while driving to the

airport in darkness confirmed the good sense of last night's impulse. It

would be a two-hour-twenty-minute non-stop flight to Denver. An old friend,

Thurston Jones, would meet him there.

A chirpy, personality-packed young hostess-tbe kind United seemed to have

a knack for recruiting-served an omelette breakfast and persuaded Nim to

accompany it with California wine, early as it was. "Oh, come on!" she

urged when she saw him hesitate. "You've 'shed the surly bonds of earth,'

so unzip that psyche! Enjoy!" He did enjoy-a Mirassou Riesling, not great

but good-and arrived at Denver more relaxed than be had been the previous

night.

At Denver's Stapleton International Airport, Thurston Jones shook Nim's

hand warmly, then led the way directly to his car since Nim's only baggage

was a small overnigbter be was carrying.

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Thurston and Nim had been students together, as well as roommates and close

friends, at Stanford University. In those days they had shared most things,

including women whom they knew, and there was little about either which was

unknown to the other. Since then the friendship had endured, even though

they met only occasionally and exchanged infrequent letters.

In outward mannerisms the two had differed, and still did. Thurston was

quiet, studious, brilliant and good-looking in a boyish way. His manner was

self-effacing, though he could exercise authority when needed. He had a