He thought of his thousands of miles of power-line. In their great spans the 220,000-volt wires hung from the high steel towers—dipping and rising in their perfect curves, mile after mile. In never-varying sets of three the graceful waves of copper crossed hill and valley, spanned river and canyon, formed the sky-line along foothill ridges—165,000-volt, 110,000-volt. Less majestic, the 60,000-volt wires hung from sturdy cross-arms upon wooden poles. And below the high-voltage system came the low-voltage distribution lines, a mileage of them that was dizzying to contemplate.

Yet the wires were not all. They headed up at the power-houses, but above the power-houses were penstocks and canals and dams and lakes like inland seas. Then, mixed in with the power-lines were sub-stations with maze-like bus-structures and myriads of switches.

It was all his responsibility, and it all lay open—open as the face of the town clock—to every storm. You could hardly blame him if now and then he inconsistently wished for a dry year.

To be sure, he was neither single-handed, nor defenseless, nor unprepared. Except in occasional nightmares, he felt himself master of the situation. First of all, his ally, the age-long experience of man against the weather, stood behind him. Next came the half-century of trial and error which his predecessors had undergone—and paid for. Brains long since moldered had discovered for him the proper length of span and height of tower, the strength of wire, and toughness of wood and steel. He was wise with the knowledge gained as men died in blinding flashes, or lay crushed beneath broken poles.

Every wire in that system, every tower and pole, every dam, yes—he thought—the strength and courage of every maintenance-man was figured to balance the power of that old storm-bringer, the southeast wind. The lines were strong enough to stand average bad weather; beyond that they had a margin of safety for any bad weather of record. Moreover, during the autumn all lines had been patrolled. Men had inspected every doubtful point with field-glasses, and had replaced worn wire, spotted insulators, and uncertain cross-arms.

In spite of it all, the L. D. did not scoff at storms. The system was so large that concealed in it here and there must lie countless flaws—faulty material, slips of workmanship, totally unpredictable injuries. All those flaws now lay quiescent; or cropping up one by one, they could be repaired in good weather by routine maintenance-gangs. In rain, wind, snow, and clinging ice, many might let go all at once and under conditions which would make their repair a tenfold problem.

It was a condition of his life. To build equipment so strong that it never broke down was not economically feasible, even if it were practically possible. The system had gone through ’16 and ’38; it could keep on going.

The door opened and Terry stood there again, telephone on chest.