Arthur Hailey - Overload

The briefing, with its information and cross-examination, leavened by badinage, rolled on.

The pale blue envelope bore a typewritten address which began:

NIMROD GOLDMAN, ESQUIRE-PERSONAL

A note from Nim's secretary, Vicki Davis, was clipped to the envelope. It read:

Mr. London, himself, put this through the mailroom metal detector. He says it's okay for you to open.

Vicki's note was satisfactory on two counts. It meant that mail arriving at GSP & L headquarters and marked "persona!” (or "private and confidential," as the recent letter bombs had been) was being handled warily. Also, a newly installed detection device was being used.

Something else Nim had become aware of: Since the traumatic day on which Harry London had almost certainly saved the lives of Nim and Vicki Davis, London appeared to have appointed himself Nim's permanent protector. Vicki, who nowadays regarded the Property Protection Department bead with something close to veneration, co-operated by sending him an advance daily schedule of Nim's appointments and movements. Nim had learned of the arrangement accidentally and was unsure whether to be grateful, irritated or amused.

In any case, he thought, he was a long way from Harry's suryeillance now.

Nim, Teresa Van Buren, and the press party had spent last night here at a Golden State Power outpost-Devil's Gate Camp-having continued by bus from Fincastle Valley. It had been a four-hour journey, in part through the breathtaking beauty of Plumas National Forest.

The camp was thirty-five miles from the nearest town and sheltered in a rugged fold of mountains. It comprised a half-dozen company owned houses for resident engineers, foremen and their families, a small school-now closed for summer vacation-and two motel-type bunkhouses, one for GSP & L employees, the second for visitors. High overhead were high voltage transmission lines on steel-gridded towers-a reminder of the small community's purpose.

The press party had been divided by sex, then housed four to a room in the visitors' quarters, which were plain but adequate. There had been mild grumbling about the four-in-a-room arrangement, one implication being that, given more privacy, some bed-hopping might have developed. Nim had a room to himself over in the employees' bunkhouse. After dinner last night he stayed on for drinks with some of the reporters, joined a poker game for a couple of hours, then excused himself and turned in shortly before midnight. This morning be had awakened refreshed, and was now ready for breakfast, which would be in a few minutes, at 7:30 am.

On a veranda outside the employees' bunkhouse, in the clear morning air, be examined the blue envelope, turning it over in his hand.

It had been brought by a company courier, traveling through the night like a modern Paul Revere and bearing company mail for Devil's Gate and other GSP&L frontiers. It was all part of an internal communications system, so the letter for Nim imposed no extra burden. Just the same, he thought sourly, if Nancy Molineaux learned about a personal letter routed that way, her bitchiness would have another workout. Fortunately she wouldn't.

The disagreeable reminder of the Molineaux woman had been prompted by Teresa Van Buren. In bringing Nim his letter a few minutes ago, Tess reported that she, too, had received one-containing information she had asked for yesterday about helicopter costs. Nim was shocked. He protested,

"You're actually going to help that trollop nail us to a board?"

"Calling her nasty names won't change anything," Van Buren had said patiently, then added, "Sometimes you big-wheel executives don't understand what public relations is all about."

"If that's an example, you're damn right!"

"Look-we can't win 'em all. I'll admit Nancy got under my skin yesterday, but when I thought about it some more, I reasoned she's going to write about that helicopter whatever we do or say. Therefore she might as well have the correct figures because if she asks elsewhere, or someone guesses, for sure they'll be exaggerated. Another thing: I'm being honest with Nancy now, and she knows it. In future, when something else comes up, she'll trust me and maybe that time will be a lot more important."

Nim said sarcastically, "I can hardly wait for that acid-mouthed sourpuss to write something favorable."

"See you at breakfast," the PR director had said as she left. "And do yourself a favor - simmer down."

But he didn't. Now, still seething inwardly, be ripped open the blue envelope.

It contained a single sheet of paper, matching the blue envelope. At the top was printed: From Karen Sloan.

Suddenly he remembered. Karen had said: "Sometimes I write poetry. Would you like me to send you some?" And he had answered yes.

The words were neatly typed.

Today I found a friend,

Or maybe he found me,

Or was it fate, chance, circumstance-

Predestination, by whatever name?

Were we like paranoid stars whose orbits,

Devised at time's beginning,

In due season

Intersect?

Though we will never know,

No matter! For instinct tells me

That our friendship, nurtured,

Will grow strong.

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.