Overload

Nim flushed. "Planning can only go so .

The sentence was never finished.

Teresa Van Buren, the public relations director, came into the gallery, from which she had been absent for several minutes. She was a short, plump, bustling woman in her mid-forties who invariably more rumpled linen suits and sensible brown brogues. Often she was untidy and uncombed, and looked more like a harried housewife than the experienced corporation executive she was.

"I have an announcement," Mrs. Van Buren said. Her voice was emotional and a paper in her hand was shaking. The room fell silent.

"We have just learned there have been four deaths, not two. All of the dead are company employees who were working at their jobs at the time of the explosion. Their next of kin are being informed now and we’ll have a list of names for you, with brief biographies, in a few minutes. I’m also authorized to say that, while there is no proof at this moment, sabotage is suspected."

Amid the fusillade of questions which followed, Nim eased his way out.

* * *

Step by step, directed by Energy Control, the disrupted distribution system was returning to a state of order.

At the communications console the chief dispatcher, juggling two telephones and manipulating a battery of buttons, was issuing fast low-key instructions to switchmen, in an attempt to restore interconnections with other utilities; these had separated automatically when Big Lil tripped.

When the Pacific Intertie was re-established, the dispatcher leaned back in his gray metal swivel chair and released an audible sigh, then began pushing buttons to start restoring load. He glanced sideways briefly as Nim returned. "We’re halfway home, Mr. Goldman."

It meant Nim realized, that nearly half the total area affected by sudden blackout had full electric power restored and the process was continuing.

A computer could, and did, shut down the system faster by far than any human agency. But it took direct switching by technicians, supervised from Energy Control, to put the system back together.

Cities and towns had priority and, district by district, were coming electrically alive once more. Suburbs, particularly those with concentrations of industrial plants, were next. Country villages would follow.

Outlying rural areas, at the bottom of the power totem pole, would be last of all.

A few exceptions were made. Hospitals, water and sewage treatment plants and phone company installations rated special preference because of their essential nature. It was true that such institutions usually had standby generators of their own, but these carried only a partial load and outside power was essential for normal functioning. There were also, here and there, pockets of special consideration for individuals.

The chief dispatcher had transferred his attention to an unusual wiring circuitry map which he was discussing on one of his telephones. The map had a series of colored circles dotted over it.

Waiting for a pause in the phoning, Nim asked, "What’s that?"

The dispatcher looked surprised. "You don’t know that one?"

Nim shook his head. Even a vice president of planning could not as-similate, or even see, the thousands of minutely detailed charts in an operation as large as GSP & L’s.

"Life, sustaining equipment in private homes." the dispatcher beckoned one of his assistants and moved out of his seat as the other replaced him.

"I need a break." He ran a hand through his white hair in a gesture of tiredness, then absently popped another Gelusil tablet into his mouth.

Freed from pressures for the moment, the dispatcher positioned the circuitry map between himself and Nim. "Those red circles are iron lungs-respiratory equipment, they mostly call it nowadays. Green is kidney dialysis machines. This orange circle is an oxygen generating unit for an infant. We’ve got maps like this for every division and we keep them up to date. Hospitals, who know where the home equipment is located, help us."

"You’ve just filled a gap in my education," Nim acknowledged. He continued to study the map, which fascinated him.

"Most people relying on life-sustaining equipment have the kind that switches over to batteries in emergency," the dispatcher continued. "Just the same, when outside power fails it’s traumatic for them. So what we do, if there’s a local outage, is check quickly. Then, if there’s any doubt or problem, we rush in a portable generator."

"But we don’t have that many portables-surely not enough for a widespread outage like today’s."

"No, and there aren’t many crews available either. But today we were lucky. Divisions have been checking. No users of life-sustaining equipment at home were in trouble." the dispatcher indicated the map. "Now, in all these spots we have power back on."

The knowledge that a human element so small in numbers was being watched and cared about amid vaster concerns was moving and reassuring. Nim studied the map, his eyes roving. He found a street intersection he knew well. Lakewood and Balboa. One of the red circles marked the site of an apartment house he had driven by many times. A name beside it read "Sloan"-presumably the iron lung user. Who was Sloan? Nim wondered. What was he like?

His musing was interrupted. "Mr. Goldman, the chairman wants to speak to you. He’s calling from La Mission." Nim accepted a telephone which a control room assistant offered.

"Nim," Eric Humphrey said, "you knew Walter Talbot pretty well personally, didn’t you?" Despite the crisis, the chairman’s voice was urbane as usual. Immediately after first reports of the explosion, be had summoned his limousine and left, along with Ray Paulsen, for La Mission.

"Yes," Nim said, "Walter and I were good friends." He was conscious of a catch in his voice, with tears not far away. Almost since Nim’s recruitment to Golden State Power & Light eleven years ago, he and the chief engineer had shared a mutual liking and habitually confided in each other. It seemed inconceivable there would be no more confidences ever again.

"And Walter’s wife? How well do you know her?"

"Ardythe. Very well." Nim sensed the chairman hesitate, and asked, "How is it out there?"

"Grim. I never saw bodies of men burned by superheated steam before. I hope I never do again. There’s virtually no skin left, just a mass of blisters with everything underneath exposed. Faces are unrecognizable."

For a moment Eric Humphrey’s composure seemed to waver, then he recovered it. "That’s why I’d like you to go to Mrs. Talbot as soon as possible.

I understand she’s taken the news badly, which is not surprising. As a friend you may be able to help. I’d also like you to dissuade her, if you can, from viewing her husband’s body."

"Oh Christ, Eric," Nim said. "Why me?"

"For the obvious reason. Someone has to do this, and you knew them both, apparently better than any of us. I’m also asking a friend of Danieli’s to go to his wife for the same purpose."

Nin wanted to retort: Why don’t you go to the wives of all four men killed? You’re our commander-in-chief, paid a princely salary which ought to compensate for an unhappy, messy duty once in a while. Besides, doesn’t dying in the service of the company merit a personal call from the man at the top? But lie didn’t say it, knowing that J. Eric Humphrey, while a hard working administrator, purposely kept a low profile whenever he could, and this was clearly one more occasion, with Nim and some other unfortunates acting as his surrogates.

"All right," Nim conceded, "I’ll do it."

"Thank you. And please convey to Mrs. Talbot my deep personal sympathy.’

Nim brooded unhappily as be returned the telephone. What he had been instructed to do was not the kind of thing be was good at handling. He had known he would see Ardythe Talbot eventually and would have to grope emotionally for words as best lie could. What he hadn’t expected was to have to go to her so soon.

On the way out of Energy Control, Nim encountered Teresa Van Buren. She looked wrung out. Presumably her latest session with the reporters had contributed to that, and Teresa, too, had been a friend of Walter Talbot’s. "Not a good day for any of us," she said.

"No," Nim agreed. He told her where he was going and about the instructions from Eric Humphrey.

The PR vice president grimaced, "I don’t envy you. That’s tough duty.

By the way, I hear you had a run-in with Nancy Molineaux."

He said feelingly, "That bitch!"

"Sure, she’s a bitch, Nim. She’s also one spunky newspaperwoman, a whole lot better than most of the incompetent clowns we see on this beat."