Power House Volleys of thunder rolled against my eardrums even above the throb of the turbines. by Robert Jensen In the inky blackness of midnight, ripped apart frequently by the blinding flashes of an approaching electrical storm, the headlights of my car guided me along the narrow, winding road to the mouth of the canyon and to the power house where I worked from midnight until eight in the morning. Uneasy about the violence of the summer storm, the man on duty remarked that he was glad to be getting off work, stepped into his car and quickly drove away. Inside there was the usual hum of giant generators and roar of turbines indicating all was well. There is no premonition in machinery. After the routine check, I hurried out into the night with the hope in me that I should see the storm pass on up the valley, but almost at once the fine tracery and the glare of the greater sweeps of sky-made fire descended upon me. With each con- vulsive flash I could see the high tension lines that led far away from the power station like huge arms of an octopus reaching out to challenge the storm. I realized that before the storm would be over, lightning would probably strike these wires and thus be conducted toward me, perhaps ending me, but quickly and without pain. Still I did not care for the thought of dying. A turbulent wind had now risen and was beating large drops of rain onto my face. The storm was here. I hurried inside and stood before the switchboard, watching the meters and waiting for the trouble that was sure to come. Volleys of thunder rolled against my eardrums even above the throb of the turbines, which themselves seemed trying to compete with the might of the heavens. Suddenly there was a blinding flash. The house lights blinked and all the meters registered abnormal readings, and the generators groaned, complaining that nature was beating them at their own game. It is a wonderful feeling to have might over huge machines, to be able to control thousands of horsepower at one's fingertips; but imagine the weight of helpless terror when these monstrous machines burst out of control and destroy themselves in spasmodic convulsion. Anything can happen in a power house during a severe electrical storm. But both death and damage had passed me by while I hardly knew it. On the wall fifteen feet away was a large black splotch where the lightning had gone to ground in the thunderous crash of a minute before. I had no time to think. Within seconds later, another sight-destroying flash came and a bang as if a gun had been fired against my ear. I was in utter darkness with the roaring noise of the machinery closing in around me and growing greater, the sounds in my terrified state signifying that the great robots had risen in total destruction at last. With palsied fingers, I clutched at the flashlight in my pocket and turned its feeble light on the switchboard. It was there in its usual place, and quickly I flipped the switch that turned on the battery-operated lights. Other corrective measures were also taken, and within a few minutes the mechanical monsters were humming again in their usual way. Out of my own relief and discovery that I had coped with the emergency, I felt that the throb and mutter of the many motors had blended now into a hymn of triumph for my and their accomplishment in withstanding the power of the storm. As I wiped my clammy brow and looked again into the night, the city lights twinkled in the distance as if with their own message, born in thousands of homes from the power of my turbines, "All is well." Page Ten The Calculations of Suzanne by John Davies Suzanne's tower lip was pushed out and her chin quivered. This is about Suzanne, who is very small and blond and exquisitely formed. Her eyes are the bluest of blue, and her complexion would be the envy of any Power's model. Piquant is a good word to use when describing the rest of her face. The nose is just a very pretty little girl's nose. The mouth is tiny with full pink lips and very even white teeth. Suzanne is my daughter and she is two and a half years old. Although she is very young, she has developed a definite personality. One of her favorite habits is finding ways to make us pet and love her. The childish mind works in intricate fashions and arrives at almost remarkable deductions at times. Suzanne's is not an exception to this rule. Like all other children, she has an aversion to going to bed at nights. At times she makes us irritable and we become easily impatient. She invents excuses to stay awake as long as possible. On one particular occasion, for some reason or another she had been kept up later than usual and had become naughty. For several hours Marge and I had been on edge and we desired a few minutes of relaxation before our own bed time. Suzanne knew how things were, and as usual her method of showing us she knew-was to act a bit more perverse- ly. She was in bed at last. We sat in the front room, more or less on the edge of our chairs, ready to jump when she began to ask for things. This was the custom. Several minutes passed, incredibly; then Marge looked at me and I looked at her. We gave a sigh of relief and turned to our reading. In the middle of the second paragraph came the sound of bare feet on the linoleum. I looked up and saw Suzanne peering through the kitchen door. "Mommie?" she asked timidly. "What, dear?" answered Mommie. "I want a cookie," she said boldly. "No, sweetie, you go to bed now and have a cookie tomorrow." The bare feet receded reluctantly and agam it was silent. When I reached the fifth page of my book and happened to let my eyes rove toward the doorway, one yellow curl poked out past the door. Evidently the past few minutes were spent figuring out a way to walk across the kitchen floor without making any noise. This time the voice was very close to a whisper. "Mommie?" "What now, dear?" "I want a drink." This just above a whisper. Marge, now coming quite near the end of her patience, answered a bit crossly. "Now look here, young lady, you've had a drink. Go back to bed and stay there or I'll spank you." With this, little Suzanne ran to bed. I had almost read enough to decide who was the murderer, when again came that very young voice. "Mommie?" Not bothering to ask what was wanted, Marge walked over and administered a sharp whack to the little bottom. Not a sound was heard, except the footsteps across the floor to the bedroom. Marge sat down and peace reigned once again. When I had finally decided that George, the cab driver, was the villain, I laid the book down. I saw Suzanne in the doorway. Her lower lip was pushed out and her chin quivered. One large tear in each eye was ready to fall at the least provocation. She saw me watching her and the quiver grew more pronounced. When Marge glanced at her Suzanne let out one great heartbroken howl and looked at us as if we were the two meanest people on earth. Then between sobs she managed to get out the words "Mommie and Daddie, don't be mad. Just be nice." This, of course, was more than Marge could stand. She rushed over, picked up Suzanne and began to pet and kiss her. This was, of course, the way Suzanne had wanted it. Almost immediately the howls died down, the sobs became fewer and farther between. In about forty-seven seconds she was sound asleep. Page Eleven