Arthur Hailey - Overload

"Why?"

Nim shrugged. "I have no idea. I guess we'll find out at the public hearing."

"Okay," the TV man said. "Carry on with your propaganda spiel."

Remembering his resolve, Nim curbed a sharp reply. With media people, be thought, it was so often an uphill battle, a fight against disbelief no matter how straightforward anyone involved with industry and business tried to be. Only radical crusaders, and never mind bow misinformed, seemed to have their viewpoints quoted verbatim, without question.

Patiently, he explained pumped storage-"the only known method of hoarding large quantities of electricity for use later at times of peak demand.

In a way, you could think of Devil's Gate 2. as an enormous storage battery."

There would be two levels of water, Nim continued-the new reservoir and Pineridge River, far below. Connecting the two levels would be massive underground pipes-or penstocks and tailrace tunnels. The generating plant would be between the reservoir and river, the penstocks ending at the plant, where the tailrace tunnels start.

"When the plant is producing electricity," Nim said, "water from the reservoir will flow downward, drive the turbines, then discharge into the river beneath the river surface."

But at other times the system would operate the opposite way around. When electrical demands everywhere were light-mostly during the night-no electricity would be produced by Devil's Gate 2. Instead, water would be pumped upward from the river-some three hundred million gallons an hour-to replenish the reservoir, ready for next day.

"At night we have great quantities of spare electric power elsewhere in the GSP & L system. We'd simply use some of it to operate the pumps."

New West said, "Con Edison in New York has been trying to build a plant like that for twenty years. Storm King, they call it. But ecologists and lots of others are against it."

“There are also responsible people who are for it," Nim said.

"Unfortunately nobody is listening."

He described one demand of the Federal Power Commission-proof that Storm King would not disturb fish life in the Hudson River. After several years of study the answer was: there would be a reduction of only four to six percent in the adult fish population.

"Despite that," Nim concluded, "Con Edison still doesn't have approval, and someday the people of New York will wake up to regret it."

"That's your opinion," Nancy Molineaux said.

"Naturally it's an opinion. Don't you have opinions, Miss Molineaux?"

Los Angeles Times said, "Of course she doesn't. You know how totally unprejudiced we servants of the truth are."

Nim grinned. "I'd noticed."

The black woman's features tightened, but she made no comment.

A moment earlier, when speaking about Hudson River fish, Nim had been tempted to quote Charles Luce, Con Edison's chairman, who once declared in a public moment of exasperation, “There comes a point where human environment must prevail over fish habitat. I think in New York we've reached it." But caution prevailed. The remark had got Chuck Luce into trouble and produced a storm of abuse from ecologists and others. Why join him?

Besides, Nim thought, he already had public image problems himself over that damned helicopter. It was coming this afternoon to Devil's Gate to return him to the city where urgent work was piled up on his desk. He had made sure, though, that the chopper would not arrive until after the press contingent had departed by bus.

Meanwhile, disliking this chore and relieved that it would end soon, he continued fielding questions.

* * *

At 2 pm, at Devil's Gate Camp the last few stragglers were climbing aboard the press bus, which had its motor running and was ready to leave. The group had lunched; their journey back to the city would take four hours. Fifty yards away, Teresa Van Buren, who was also going on the bus, told Nim, "Thanks for all you did, even though you hated some of it."

He said with a smile, "I get paid to do a few things, now and then, that I'd rather not. Was anything accomplished, do you . . . ?"

Nim stopped, not certain why, except for a sudden chilling instinct that something was wrong in the scene around him, something out of place. They were standing roughly where be had been this morning when he paused en route to breakfast; the weather was still beautiful clear sunshine highlighting a profusion of trees and wild flowers, with a breeze stirring the fragrant mountain air. Both bunkhouses were visible, the bus in front of one, a couple of off-duty employees sunning themselves on a balcony of the other. In the opposite direction, over by the staff houses, a group of children was playing; a few minutes earlier Nim had noticed among them the redheaded boy Danny, whom be had spoken to this morning. The boy was flying a kite, perhaps a birthday present, though at the moment both boy and kite had disappeared from view. Nim's gaze moved on to a GSP & L heavy-duty service truck and a cluster of men in work gear. among them he caught a glimpse of the trim, bearded figure of Wally Talbot Jr. Presumably Wally was with the transmission line crew he had mentioned earlier. On the road leading into camp a small blue tradesman's van appeared.

Someone at the bus called over impatiently, "Tess, let's go!"

Van Buren said curiously, "Nim, what is it?"

"I'm not sure. I . . ."

An urgent, frantic shout cut across the camp clearing and all other sounds.

"Danny! Danny! Don't move! Stay where you are!"

Heads turned-Nim's and Van Buren's simultaneously-seeking the source of the voice.

Another shout, this time close to a scream. "Danny! Do you hear me?"

"Over there." Van Buren pointed to a steep path, partially hidden by trees, on the camp's far side. A red-haired man-the technician, Fred Wilkins-was racing down it, shouting as he ran.

"Danny! Do what I tell you! Stop! Don't move!"

Now the children had stopped playing. Bewildered, they turned together in the direction where the shouting was aimed. Nim did the same.

"Danny! Don't go any further! I'm coming for you! Keep still!"

"Oh Christ!" Nim breathed.

Now he could see. High overhead, on one of the towers carrying high voltage lines across the camp, the small boy, Danny Wilkins, was ascending. Clinging tightly to a steel support member more than halfway from the tower base, he was clambering upward, slowly, steadily. His objective was visible above him-the kite he had been flying, now entangled in a transmission line atop the tower. A flash of sunlight showed Nim what moments earlier he had seen, so swiftly and briefly that it barely registered-the reflection from a slim aluminum pole the boy was clutching, a pole with a hook at one end. Clearly, Danny planned to use it to retrieve the kite. His small face was set determinedly as his sturdy body moved higher, and either he failed to bear his father's shouts or was ignoring them.

Nim and others began running hard toward the tower, but with a sense of helplessness as the small boy continued climbing steadily toward the high voltage lines. Five hundred thousand volts.

Fred Wilkins, still some distance away, was forcing himself to even greater speed, his face despairing.

Nim joined the shouting. "Danny! the wires are dangerous! Don't move!

Stay there!"

This time the boy paused and glanced down. Then he looked up again at the kite and continued climbing, though more slowly, the aluminum pole extended out in front. He was now only a few feet from the nearest power line.

Then Nim saw that a new figure, nearer to the tower than anyone else, had sprung into action. Wally Talbot. Shooting forward, his stride long, feet barely seeming to touch the ground, Wally was racing like an Olympic sprinter.

The press reporters were scrambling from the bus.