Arthur Hailey - Overload

Laura Bo Carmichael listened, making a contribution here and there, at the same time weighing mentally the way her vote should go. If she opposed co-operating with Birdsong there would be a 2-2 stalemate which would have the same effect as outright rejection. If she voted "for," it would be a decisive 3-1-Her inclination was to cast a "no." While seeing merit in Saunders' and Pritchett's pragmatism, Laura Bo's instincts about Davey Birdsong paralleled Priscilla Quinn's. The trouble was, she didn't particularly want to be linked with Priscilla Quinn-an undoubted snob, a society ill do-gooder forever in the social columns, married to old California money, and thus representing many things which Laura Bo abhorred.

Something else she was aware of: If she sided with Priscilla against the other two it would be a clear case of the women versus the men. Never mind that Laura Bo would not intend it that way and was capable of judging any issue irrespective of her sex, that was the way it would look. She could imagine Irwin Saunders, a male chauvinist, thinking: the damn women stuck together, even if not saying it aloud. Saunders had not been one of Laura Bo's supporters when she was a candidate for the Sequoia Club chairmanship; he had backed a male contender. Now Laura Bo, as the first woman to assume the club's highest office, wanted to show that she could fill that post as well and impartially as any man, perhaps a good deal better.

And yet . . . There was still her instinct that the Birdsong connection would be wrong.

"We're going in circles," Saunders said. "I suggest we take a final vote."

Priscilla Quinn asserted, "My vote remains 'no."'

Saunders growled, "Strongly-'yes."'

"Forgive me, Mrs. Quinn," Pritchett said. "I vote 'yes."'

The eyes of the other three were focused on Laura Bo. She besitited, reviewing once more the implications and her doubts. Then she said decisively, "I will vote 'yes."'

"That does it!" Irwin Saunders said. He rubbed his bands together.

"Priscilla, why not be a good loser? join the rest of us and make it unanimous."

Tight-lipped, Mrs. Quinn shook her head negatively. "I think you will all regret that vote. I wish my dissent to be recorded."

While the Sequoia Club committee continued its discussion in his absence, Davey Birdsong left the club's headquarters building humming a jaunty tune. He had not the least doubt what the outcome would be. The Quinn woman, be knew, would be against him; he was equally sure the other three-for individual reasons-would see the situation his way. The fifty thousand smackeroos was in the bag.

He retrieved his car-a beat-up Chevrolet-from a nearby parking lot and drove through the city's center, then southeast for several miles. He stopped on a nondescript street where he had never been before but which was the sort of location where he could leave the car for several hours without its attracting attention. Birdsong locked the car, memorized the street name, then walked several blocks to a busier thoroughfare where, he had observed en route, several bus lines operated. He took the first westhound bus which came along.

On the way from the car he had donned a hat which he normally never wore and also put on horn-rimmed glasses which he didn't need. The two additions changed his appearance surprisingly, so that anyone used to seeing him on TV or elsewhere would almost certainly fail to recognize him now.

After riding the bus for ten minutes, Birdsong got off and bailed a cruising taxi which he directed to drive northward. Several times be glanced through the taxi's rear window, inspecting other traffic following. The inspections seemed to satisfy him and he ordered the taxi to stop and paid it off. A few minutes later he boarded another bus, this time going east. By now his journey since parking the car had assumed the approximate shape of a square.

As he left the second bus, Birdsong inspected the other passengers getting off, then began walking briskly, turning several corners and glancing back each time. After about five minutes of walking he stopped at a small row house, then ascended a half-dozen steps to a recessed front door. He depressed a bell push and stood where he could be seen from the other side of the door through a tiny one-way peephole. Almost at once the door opened and he went inside.

In the small dark hallway of the Friends of Freedom hideaway Georgos Archambault asked, "Were you careful in coming here?"

Birdsong growled, "Of course I was careful. I always am." He said accusingly, "You botched the substation job."

"There were reasons," Georgos said. "Let's go below." He led the way down a flight of cement stairs to the basement workroom with its usual clutter of explosives and accessories.

On a makeshift couch against one wall a girl lay stretched out. She appeared to be in her twenties. Her small round face, which in other circumstances might have been pretty, was waxen pale. Stringy blonde hair, in need of combing, spilled over a grubby pillow. Her right hand was heavily bandaged, the bandage stained brown where blood had seeped through and dried.

Birdsong exploded. "Why is she here?"

"That's what I was going to explain," Georgos said. "She was helping me at the substation and a blasting cap went off. It took off two of her fingers and she was bleeding like a pig. It was dark; I wasn't sure if we'd been heard. I did the rest of the job in a big hurry."

"And where you put the bomb was stupid and useless," Birdsong said. "A firecracker would have done as much damage."

Georgos flushed. Before he could answer, the girl said, "I ought to go to a hospital."

"You can't and you won't." Birdsong exhibited none of the affability which was his trademark. He told Georgos angrily, "You know our arrangement. Get her out of here!"

Georgos motioned with his head and unhappily the girl got off the couch and went upstairs. He had made another mistake, Georgos knew, in allowing her to stay. The arrangement Birdsong had mentioned-a sensible precaution-was that only be and Georgos should meet face-to-face. Davey Birdsong's connection was unknown to the others in the underground group-Wayde, Ute and Felix-who either left the house or kept out of sight when a visit from the Friends of Freedom outside conduit-Birdsong-was expected. The real trouble was, Georgos realized, he had become soft about his woman, Yvette, which was not good. It had been the same way when the blasting cap went off; at that moment Georgos had been more concerned about Yvette's injuries than the job in hand, so that wanting to get her away safely was the real reason he had hurried-and botched.

When the girl had gone, Birdsong said, low-voiced, "Just make damn sure-no hospital, no doctor. There'd be questions and she knows too much.

If you have to, get rid of her. There are easy ways."

"She'll be all right. Besides, she's useful." Georgos was uncomfortable under Birdsong's scrutiny and changed the subject. “The truck depot last night went well. You saw the reports?"

The big man nodded grudgingly. “They should all go that way. There isn't time or money to waste on bummers."

Georgos accepted the rebuke silently, though he didn't have to. He was the leader of Friends of Freedom. Davey Birdsong's role was secondary, as a link to the outside, particularly to those supporters of revolution-"drawing room Marxists"-who favored active anarchy but didn't want to share its risks. Yet Birdsong, by his nature, liked to appear dominant, and sometimes Georgos let him get away with it because of his usefulness, particularly the money be brought in.

Money was the reason right now for avoiding an argument; Georgos needed more since his earlier sources had abruptly dried up. His bitch of a mother, the Greek movie actress who had supplied him with a steady income for twenty years, had apparently hit hard times herself; she wasn't getting film parts anymore because not even makeup could conceal the fact she was fifty, her young goddess looks gone forever. That part Georgos was delighted about and hoped things would get progressively worse for her. If she were starving, he told himself, he wouldn't give her a stale biscuit. Just the same, a notification from the Athens lawyers-impersonal as usual-that no more payments would be made into his Chicago bank account. Georgos' cash needs involved current costs and future plans. One project was to build a small nuclear bomb and explode it in or near the headquarters of Golden State Power & Light. Such a bomb, Georgos reasoned, would destroy the building, the exploiters and lackeys in it, and also much else around-a salutary lesson to the capitalist oppressors of the people.