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He continued, “The tailrace, where we’re going, is actually the end of the generating process. But it will give you an idea of the kind of forces we’re dealing with. The water you’ll see has passed through the turbine blades after having been used to spin the turbines, and comes out in tremendous quantities."

The massive flow had been evident outside the tunnel to some who had leaned over a metal guardrail above the river, watching the awesome torrent join the already angry maelstrom below.

"By God! I’d hate to fall in," KFSO Radio observed. He asked Van Buren,

"Has anyone ever?"

"Once that we know of. A workman slipped from here. He was a strong swimmer, even had some medals we found out after, but the flow in the tailrace pulled him under. It was three weeks before the body came up."

Instinctively, those nearest the guardrail took a step backward.

Something else Nim had told them in advance was that this particular tailrace was unique. “The tunnel is a third of a mile long and was cut horizontally into the side of a mountain. While the tunnel was being built, and before any water was let in, there were points where two construction trucks could pass side by side."

Nancy Molineaux had pointedly stifled a yawn. "Shit! So you got a long, fat, wet cave. Is that news?"

"It doesn’t have to be news. This entire two-day deal is for background,"

Van Buren pointed out. "That was explained to everyone beforehand, including your editors."

"Did you say ‘background’ or ‘craparound?"’ Ms. Molineaux asked.

The others laughed.

"Never mind," Nim said. "I’d finished anyway."

Some twenty minutes later, after a short bus ride, be had led the way into the tailrace tunnel.

The cool dampness was in contrast to the warm, sunny day outside. As the group moved forward in single file, only a few feet above the foam-flecked water rushing beneath them, the circle of daylight behind receded to a pinpoint. Ahead, the few dim light bulbs seemed to stretch into limitless distance. Now and then someone would pause to look down, all the while clinging tightly to the guide ropes.

At length, the end of the tunnel and a vertical steel ladder came in sight. At the same time a new sound intruded-a hum of generators, growing to a mighty roar as the ladder was reached. Nim motioned upward and ascended first, the others following.

They passed through an open trapdoor into a lower generating chamber, then, by way of a circular staircase, to a brightly lighted control room two floors above. Here, to general relief, the noise level was diminished, only a faint hum penetrating the insulated walls.

A wide, plate glass window provided a view of two huge generators, both in operation, immediately below.

In the control room a solitary technician was writing in a logbook as he studied an array of dials, colored lights and graphic pen recorders which occupied one wall. Hearing the group enter, he turned. Even before that, Nim recognized him from his shock of red hair.

"Hullo, Fred Wilkins."

"Hi, Mr. Goldman!" the technician offered a brief "good morning" to the visitors, then continued writing.

"Where we are standing," Nim announced, "is five hundred feet underground. This plant was built by sinking a shaft from above, the way you would for a mine. There’s an elevator goes from here to the surface and, in another shaft, high voltage transmission lines."

"Not many people working here," Sacramento Bee commented. He was looking through the window at the generator floor where no one was in sight.

The technician closed his logbook and grinned. "In a couple of minutes you won’t see any."

"this is an automated generating plant," Nim explained. "Mr. Wilkins here comes in to make a routine check"-he queried the technician-"how often?"

"Just once a day, sir."

"Otherwise," Nim continued, "the place stays tightly locked and unattended, except for occasional maintenance or if something goes wrong,"

Los Angeles Times asked, "How about starting up and shutting down?"

"It’s done from the control center a hundred and fifty miles away. Most new hydroelectric plants are designed this way. They’re efficient, and there’s a big saving in labor costs."

"When something is wrong, and there’s a panic," New West inquired, "what then?"

"Whichever generator is affected-or even both-will send a warning to control, then shut down automatically until a service crew gets here."

"It’s this kind of generating plant," Teresa Van Buren interjected, "that Devil’s Gate z, the proposed pumped storage plant, will be removed from view so it won’t mar the landscape, also non-polluting and economic."

Nancy Molineaux spoke for the first time since coming in. “There’s one teensy item you left out of that snow job, Tess. The goddam great reservoir that would have to be built and the natural land which would be flooded."

"A lake in these mountains, which is what it will be, is every bit as natural as dry wilderness," the PR director retorted. "What’s more, it will provide fishing . . ."

Nim said gently, "Let me, Tess." He was determined, today, not to let Nancy Molineaux or anyone else ruffle him.

"Miss Molineaux is right," he told the group, "to the extent that a reservoir is needed. It will be a mile from here, high above us and visible only from airplanes or to nature lovers willing to make a long, hard climb. In building it we’ll observe every environmental safeguard . . ."

“The Sequoia Club doesn’t think so," a male TV reporter interrupted.

"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?