Overload

Georgos Winslow Archambault stopped. Writing tired him. Also, be realized, he was drifting out of the revolutionary jargon which (he had also learned in Cuba) was important, both as a psychological weapon and an emotional outlet. But it was sometimes bard to sustain.

He stood up, stretched and yawned. He had a good, lithe body and kept himself fit with a rigid daily exercise schedule. Glancing in a small, cracked wall mirror be fingered his bushy but trim moustache. He had grown it immediately after the attack on the La Mission generating plant when be had posed as a Salvation Army officer. According to news reports the following day, a plant security guard had described him as clean-shaven, so the moustache might at least confuse identification, if it ever came to that. The Salvation Army uniform had, of course, been destroyed long since.

The memory of the La Mission success pleased Georgos, and he chuckled.

One thing he had not done, either before or after La Mission, was grow a beard. That would be like a signature. People expected revolutionaries to be bearded and unkempt; Georgos was careful to be precisely the reverse. Whenever he left the modest east-side house lie had rented he could be mistaken for a stockbroker or banker. Not that that was difficult for him since he was fastidious by nature and dressed well. The money which the Athens lawyer still paid regularly into a Chicago bank account helped with that, though the amount was less than it used to be, and Georgos needed considerably more cash to finance the future plans of Friends of Freedom.

Fortunately be was already getting some outside help; now the amount from that source would have to be increased.

Only one factor contradicted the cultivated bourgeois image was Georgos’ hands.

In the early days of his interest in chemicals, and then explosives, he had been careless and worked without protective gloves. As a result his hands were scarred and discolored. He was more careful now but the damage was done. He had considered seeking skin grafts, but the risks seemed high. The best he could do, when away from the house, was keep his hands out of sight as much as possible.

The agreeable odor of lunch-stuffed bell peppers-drifted down to him from above. His woman, Yvette, was an accomplished cook who knew what Georgos liked and tried to please him. She was also in awe of his learning, having had a minimum of schooling herself.

He shared Yvette with the three other young freedom fighters who lived in the house-Wayde, a scholar like Georgos and a disciple of Marx and Engels; Ute, an American Indian who nursed a burning hatred of the institutions which eclipsed his people’s nationhood; and Felix, a product of Detroit’s inner city ghetto, whose philosophy was to burn, kill or otherwise destroy everything alien to his own bitter experience since birth.

But, for all the sharing with the others, Georgos had a proprietorial feeling, bordering on affection, for Yvette. At the same time, he despised himself for his own failure in an aspect of the Revolutionary Catechism (attributed to the nineteenth-century Russians, Bakunin and Nechayev), which read in part:

The revolutionary is a lost man; he has no interests of his own, no feelings, no habits, no belongings . . . Everything in him is absorbed by a single, exclusive interest, one thought, one passion-the revolution. . . He has broken every tie with the civil order, with the educated world and all laws, conventions and . . . with the ethics of this world.

All the tender feelings of family life, of friendship, love, gratitude and even honor must be stilled in him . . . Day and night he must have one single thought, one single purpose: merciless destruction . . .

The character of the true revolutionary has no place for any romanticism, sentimentality, enthusiasm or seduction . . . in ways and everywhere he must become not what his own inclination would have him become, but what the general interest of the revolution demands.

Georges closed his journal, reminding himself that the war communiqué, with its just demands, must arrive at one of the city’s radio stations later today. As usual, it would be left in a safe location, then the radio station advised by phone. The radio idiots would fall all over themselves to pick it up.

The communiqué, Georgos thought with satisfaction, would make a lively item on the evening news.

12

"First of all," Laura Bo Carmichael said when they had ordered drinks -a martini for her, a bloody mary for Nim Goldman-"I’d like to say how sorry I am about your president, Mr. Fenton. I didn’t know him, but what happened was shameful and tragic. I hope the people responsible are found and punished."

The Sequoia Club chairman was a slender, svelte woman in her late sixties with a normally brisk manner and alert, penetrating eyes. She dressed severely, wore flat-heeled shoes, and had her hair cropped short, as if to exorcise her femininity. Perhaps, Nim thought, it was because, as an early atomic scientist, Laura Bo Carmichael had competed in a field which at the time, was dominated by men.

They were in the elegant Squire Room of the Fairhill Hotel, where they had met for lunch at Nim’s suggestion. It was a week and a half later than he had intended, but the turmoil which followed the latest bombing at GSP&L had kept him occupied. Elaborate security measures, which Nim had shared in planning, were now in force at the giant utility’s headquarters. More work had also conic his way as a result of the critical need for a rate increase, now being considered by the Public Utilities Commission.

Acknowledging the remark about Fraser Fenton, he admitted, "It was a shock, particularly after the earlier deaths at La Mission. I guess we’re all running scared right now."

And it was true, lie thought. The company’s senior executives, from the chairman down, were insisting on low profiles. They did not want to be in the news and thereby expose themselves to terrorist attention. J. Eric Humphrey had given orders that his name was no longer to be used in company announcements or news releases, nor would he be available to the press, except possibly for off-the-record sessions. His home address had been withdrawn from all company records and was now a guarded secret-as much as anything of that kind could be. Most senior executives already had unlisted home phone numbers. no chairman and senior officers would have bodyguards during any activity where they might be considered targets-including weekend golf games.

Nim was to be the exception.

His assistant, the chairman had made clear, would continue to be GSP & L’s policy spokesman, Nim’s public appearances, if anything, increasing.

It put him, Nim thought wryly, squarely on the firing line. Or, more precisely, the bombing line.

The chairman had also, quietly, increased Nim’s salary. Hazardous duty pay, Nim thought, even though the raise was overdue.

"Although Fraser was our president," he explained to Laura Bo, "he was not the chief executive officer and, in some ways, wasn’t in the mainstream of command. He was also five months from retirement."

"That makes it even sadder. How about the others?"

"One of the injured died this morning. A woman secretary." Nim had known her slightly. She was in the treasurer’s department and had authority to open all mail, even that marked "private and confidential." the privilege had cost her her life and saved that of her boss, Sharlett Underhill, to whom the booby-trapped envelope was addressed. Two of the five bombs which exploded had injured several people who were nearby; an eighteen-year-old billing clerk had lost both hands.

A waiter brought their drinks and Laura Bo instructed him, “These are to be on separate checks. And the lunch."

"Don’t worry," Nim said, amused. "I won’t suborn you with my company expense account."

"You couldn’t if you tried. However, on principle I won’t take anything from someone who might want to influence the Sequoia Club."

"Any influencing I try will be out in the open. I simply thought that over a meal was a good way to talk."

"I’ll listen to you anytime, Nim, and I’m happy to have lunch. But I’ll still pay for my own."

They had first met, years before, when Nim was a senior at Stanford and Laura Bo was a visiting lecturer. She had been impressed by his penetrating questions, be by her willingness to address them frankly.

They had kept in touch and, even though they were adversaries at times, respected each other and stayed friends.

Nim sipped his bloody mary. "It’s about Tunipah mostly. But also our plans for Devil’s Gate and Fincastle."

"I rather thought it would be. It might save time if I told you the Sequoia Club intends to oppose them all."

Nim nodded. The statement did not surprise him. He thought for a moment, then chose his words carefully.