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"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 1take 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 had 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.
Coal.
Tunipah was coal. Without coal-to be freighted from Utah to California-no Tunipah electric generating plant was feasible. And yet, 1while 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. Tunipah 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 Dewer, Colorado.
10
Flight 460 of United Airlines made an on-time departure from the West Coast at 7:15 am 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 Dewer. An old friend, Thurston Jones, would meet him there.
A chirpy, personality-packed young hostess-the 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 Dewer more relaxed than be had been the previous night.
At Dewer'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 overnighter be was carrying. 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 cheerful sense of humor. Coincidentally, Thurston had followed the same career route as Nim and now was Nim's opposite number-vice president of planning-for Public Service Company of Colorado, one of the nation's most respected producers and distributors of electricity and natural gas.
Thurston also had what Nim lacked-wide practical experience in power generation by coal.
"How's everything at home?" Nim asked on their way to the airport parking lot. His old friend had been married happily for eight years or so to a bubbly English girl named Ursula, whom Nim knew and liked.
"Fine. The same with you, I hope."
"Not really."
Nim hoped he had conveyed, without rudeness, a reluctance to discuss his own and Ruth's problems. Apparently so, because Thurston made no comment and went on, "Ursula's looking forward to seeing you. You'll stay with us, of course."
Nim murmured thanks while they climed into Thurston's car, a Ford Pinto.
His friend, Nim knew, shared his own distaste for cars with wasteful fuel habits.
Outside it was a bright, dry, sunny day. As they drove toward Dewer, the snowcapped front range of the Rocky Mountains was clear and beautiful to the west.
A trifle shyly, Thurston remarked, "After all this time it's really good to have you here, Nim." He added with a smile, "Even if you did just come for a taste of coal."
"Does it sound crazy, Thurs?"
Nim had explained last night on the telephone his sudden desire to visit a coal-fired generating plant and the reasoning behind it.
"Who's to say what's crazy and what isn't? Those endless hearings nowadays are crazy-not the idea of having them, but the way they're run. In Colorado we're in the same kind of bind you are in California. Nobody wants to let us build new generation, but five or six years from now when the power cuts start, we'll be accused of not looking ahead, not planning for a crisis."
“The plants your people want to build-they'd be coal-burning?"
"Damn right! When God set up natural resources he was kind to Colorado. He loaded this state with coal, the way he handed oil to the Arabs. And not just any old coal, but good stuff-low in sulfur, clean burning, most of it near the surface and easily mined. But you know all that."
Nim nodded because he did know, then said thoughtfully, “There's enough coal west of the Mississippi to supply this country's energy needs for three and a half centuries. If we're allowed to use it."
Thurston continued threading the little car through Saturday morning traffic, which was light. "We'll go directly to our Cherokee plant, north of the city," be announced. "It's our biggest. Gobbles up coal like a starving brontosaurus."
* * *
"We burn seven and a half thousand tons a day here, give or take a little." the Cherokee plant superintendent shouted the information at Nim, doing his best to be heard above the roar of pulverizer mills, fans and pumps. He was an alert, sandy-haired young man whose surname-Folger-was stenciled on the red hard bat he wore. Nim had on a white hard hat labeled "Visitor." Thurston Jones had brought his own.
They were standing on a steel plate floor near one side of a gargantuan boiler into which coal-which had just been pulverized to a fine dust-was being air-blown in enormous quantities. Inside the boiler the coal ignited instantly and became white hot; part of it was visible through a glass-enclosed inspection port like a peephole glimpse of hell. This heat transferred itself to a latticework of boiler tubes containing water which promptly became high-pressure steam and ripsnorted to a separate superheater section, emerging at a thousand degrees Fahrenbeit. The steam, in turn, rotated a turbine generator which-along with other boilers and turbines at Cberokee-supplied almost three quarters of a million kilowatts to power-hungry Dewer and environs.
