Harper laughed. "Ask for Angel's wings and be done with it. You couldn't store such fuel in a rocket; it would Set itself off before it reached the jet chamber."
Erickson's Scandinavian stubbornness was just gathering for another try at the argument when the waiter arrived with the drinks. He set them down with a triumphant flourish. "There you are, suh!"
"Want to roll for them, Izzy?" Harper inquired.
"Don' mind if I do."
The Negro produced a leather dice cup and Harper rolled. He selected his combinations with care and managed to get four aces and jack in three rolls. Israfel took the cup. He rolled in the grand manner with a backwards twist to his wrist. His score finished at five kings, and he courteously accepted the price of six drinks. Harper stirred the engraved cubes with his forefinger.
"Izzy," he asked, "are these the same dice I rolled with?"
"Why, Mistuh Harper!" The black's expression was pained.
"Skip it," Harper conceded. "I should know better than to gamble with you. I haven't won a roll from you in six weeks. What did you start to say, Gus?"
"I was just going to say that there ought to be a better way to get energy out of - " But they were joined again, this time by something very seductive in an evening gown that appeared to have been sprayed on her lush figure. She was young, perhaps nineteen or twenty. "You boys lonely?" she asked as she flowed into a chair.
"Nice of you to ask, but we're not," Erickson denied with patient politeness. He jerked a thumb at a solitary figure seated across the room. "Go talk to Hannigan; he's not busy."
She followed his gesture with her eyes, and answered with faint scorn, "Him? He's no use. He's been like that for three weeks - hasn't spoken to a soul. If you ask me, I'd say that he was cracking up."
"That so?" he observed noncommittally. "Here - " He fished out a five - dollar bill and handed it to her. "Buy yourself a drink. Maybe we'll look you up later."
"Thanks, boys." The money disappeared under her clothing, and she stood up. "Just ask for Edith."
"Hannigan does look bad," Harper considered, noting the brooding stare and apathetic attitude, "and he has been awfully stand - offish lately, for him. Do you suppose we're obliged to report him?"
"Don't let it worry you," advised Erickson, "there's a spotter on the job now. Look." Harper followed his companion's eyes and recognized Dr. Mott of the psychological staff. He was leaning against the far end of the bar and nursing a tall glass, which gave him protective coloration. But his stance was such that his field of vision included not only Hannigan, but Erickson and Harper as well.
"Yeah, and he's studying us as well," Harper added.' "Damn it to hell, why does it make my back hair rise just to lay eyes on one of them?"
The question was rhetorical, Erickson ignored it. "Let's get out of here," he suggested, "and have dinner some where else."
"O.K."
DeLancey himself waited on them as they left. "Going so soon, gentlemen?" he asked, in a voice that implied that their departure would leave him no reason to stay open. "Beautiful lobster thermidor tonight. If you do not like it, you need not pay." He smiled brightly.
"No sea food, Lance," Harper told him, "not tonight. Tell me - why do you stick around here when you know that the pile is bound to get you in the long run? Aren't you afraid of it?"
The tavern keeper's eyebrows shot up. "Afraid of this pile? But it is my friend!"
"Makes you money, eh?"
"Oh, I do not mean that." He leaned toward them confidentially. "Five years ago I come here to make some money quickly for my family before my cancer of the stomach, it kills me. At the clinic, with the wonderful new radiants you gentlemen make with the aid of the Big Bomb, I am cured - I live again. No, I am not afraid of the pile; it is my good friend."
"Suppose it blows up?"
"When the good Lord needs me, he will take me." He crossed himself quickly.
As they turned away, Erickson commented in a low voice to Harper. "There's your answer, Cal - if all us engineers had his faith, the job wouldn't get us down."
Harper was unconvinced. "I don't know," be mused. 'I don't think it's faith; I think it's lack of imagination and knowledge."
Notwithstanding King's confidence, Lentz did not show up until the next day. The superintendent was subconsciously a little surprised at his visitor's appearance. He had pictured a master psychologist as wearing flowing hair, an imperial, and having piercing black eyes. But this man was not overly tall, was heavy in his framework, and fat - almost gross. He might have been a butcher. Little, piggy, faded - blue eyes peered merrily out from beneath shaggy blond brows. There was no hair anywhere else on the enormous skull, and the ape - like jaw was smooth and pink. He was dressed in mussed pajamas of unbleached linen. A long cigarette holder jutted permanently from one corner of a wide mouth, widened still more by a smile which suggested unmalicious amusement at the worst that life, or men, could do. He had gusto. King found him remarkably easy to talk to.
At Lentz' suggestion the Superintendent went first into the history of atomic power plants, how the fission of the uranium atom by Dr. Otto Hahn in December, 1938, had opened up the way to atomic power. The door was opened just a crack; the process to be self perpetuating and commercially usable required an enormously greater knowledge than there was available in the entire civilized world at that time.
In 1938 the amount of separated uranium - 235 in the world was not the mass of the head of a pin. Plutonium was unheard of. Atomic power was abstruse theory and a single, esoteric laboratory experiment. World War II, the Manhattan Project, and Hiroshima changed that; by late 1945 prophets were rushing into print with predictions of atomic power, cheap, almost free atomic power, for everyone in a year or two.
It did not work out that way. The Manhattan Project had been run with the single - minded purpose of making weapons; the engineering of atomic power was still in the future.
The far future, so it seemed. The uranium piles used to make the atom bomb were literally no good for commercial power; they were designed to throw away power as a useless byproduct, nor could the design of a pile, once in operation, be changed. A design - on paper - for an economic, commercial power pile could be made, but it had two serious hitches. The first was that such a pile would give off energy with such fury, if operated at a commercially satisfactory level, that there was no known way of accepting that energy and putting it to work.
This problem was solved first. A modification of the Douglas - Martin power screens, originally designed to turn the radiant energy of the sun (a natural atomic power pile itself) directly into electrical power, was used to receive the radiant fury of uranium fission and carry it away as electrical current.
The second hitch seemed to be no hitch at all. An "enriched" pile - one in which U - 235 or plutonium had been added to natural uranium - was a quite satisfactory source of commercial power. We knew how to get U - 235 and plutonium; that was the primary accomplishment of the Manhattan Project.
Or did we know how? Hanford produced plutonium; Oak Ridge extracted U - 235, true - but the Hanford piles used more U - 235 than they produced plutonium and Oak Ridge produced nothing but merely separated out the 7/10 of one percent of U - 235 in natural uranium and "threw away" the 99% - plus of the energy which was still locked in the discarded U - 238. Commercially ridiculous, economically fantastic!
But there was another way to breed plutonium, by means of a high - energy, unmoderated pile of natural uranium somewhat enriched. At a million electron volts or more U - 238 will fission at somewhat lower energies it turns to plutonium. Such a pile supplies its own "fire" and produces more "fuel" than it uses; it could breed fuel for many other power piles of the usual moderated sort.