“But—” Singer had started to protest yet again. Unticlass="underline"
“Be quiet!” The leader had roared, furious now. “Talk when I’m done, if by then you still have something to say.”
And as Singer shrank down somewhat, growling under his breath but nevertheless shuffling back into the crush, Big Jon had addressed a pale-faced, balding, nervous little man in the front rank:
“Speak, Andrew Fielding. Ned Singer has a question, even an accusation! And it seems to me that as the head tech you’re the best one to answer it; not only to inform Ned but also the clan in generaclass="underline" which was, of course, my main reason for calling you from your very important work. So speak now, Andrew, and let us all know how things are come to such a pass.”
While Big Jon was speaking, Singer had returned to his previous position central in the crowd, between Garth Slattery and a girl called Layla Morgan. Layla, a seamstress in animal-hides and a teacher to the clan’s younger children, was barely a year Garth’s senior; her mother was a long time dead—of radiation induced cancer—and her father had died just six months ago in a rockfall where new habitats were being excavated. While Garth had only rarely come into contact with her, he had always found Layla disarmingly attractive…
And meanwhile Andrew Fielding had begun to speak his piece:
“I can only report what happened, telling it as it was and as it is…” But the little man had no sooner started to reply to Big Jon’s request, nervously addressing the clan in general, than he stopped short to clear his throat, from which his initial sentence had emerged as little more than a croak. At which:
“Aye, go on, choke on your words—you little weasel!” Ned Singer muttered low under his breath, so that only those in his immediate vicinity could hear him. “Bone-idle tech that you are, with your ancient instruments and sputtering radios, your pills and powders whose strength was already on the wane five or more decades ago! Your only real work lies in servicing the generators! Other than that, what earthly use is a scrawny thing such as you? You should come out with me and my scavs one night, see what real work is!” With which Singer had elbowed Garth, almost as tall as himself, in the ribs, growling: “What say you, ’prentice Slattery?”
Garth had shrugged. “It seems to me that keeping the generators working is very important,” he replied, reasonably enough. “The refuge is vast and we have need of the light; down here in the dark no one could work without it! Also, Andrew Fielding is small, not sturdy enough to be a scav. So it’s probably as well that he’s a tech, with knowledge of radios and motors, instruments and…and other such things.” Feeling that he’d finished lamely Garth shrugged again—and noticed Layla frowning at him from Singer’s far side. Now why was that, he wondered? Probably because she considered his answer weak—or maybe she believed he shouldn’t have answered at all? Garth couldn’t say, and meanwhile Ned Singer had turned him a scowling, narrow-eyed glance.
“Huh!” The man gave a snort, then muttered half to himself: “A lesson learned, Ned lad: ask a pup for his opinion, expect a hesitant, wishy-washy answer…”
“Pup?” Garth bristled, but mainly from the tense atmosphere in the huge cavern, which was getting to him. “I’m sixteen pushing seventeen—which is old enough to go out with your scavs!”
“True,” Singer nodded, elbowing Garth again but harder this time. “You’re old enough to go out with us, but only as my apprentice—so watch your lip ‘pup!’ Damn me, but every time you open your mouth, it’s like I’m listening to your gimpy father!”
Garth drew a breath that swelled his broad chest…but on the far side of Ned Singer Layla Morgan had once again moved to the fore, from where she stared at Garth and shaped her expressive mouth into a silent warning unseen by Singer: “No!”
Good and timely advice, Garth supposed. And saying nothing, relaxing as best he was able, he kept the peace.
Meanwhile Andrew Fielding had been speaking for some little while, much of which had now been lost to Garth. Still angry at Singer’s insults—more especially the reference to his father—he nevertheless succeeded in ignoring his bruised feelings in order to concentrate on the head tech’s comments. By which time Fielding was midway into a sentence:
“…background radiation has ever fluctuated; by day it increases naturally, most likely due to the influence of the sun. However, in the event of any unacceptable increase in levels in the water—an event outside every previous experience, but one governed by an ancient SOP—we are tasked with releasing anti-radiation compounds into the tanks and reservoirs, hopefully to absorb any dangerous excess. Alas, it should be noted that down the decades the potency of these infusions has suffered considerably…but of course we still treat our drinking water with what few chemicals remain—for what good they do—and in addition the water is always filtered before use…
“Many years ago, before my time—indeed in the time of my great-grandfather, also a tech—in order to conserve compounds that were even then scarce, the techs stopped treating and even monitoring water from the animal well. In those days such measures were deemed wasteful; the water, with a source deep in the earth, was always so very pure. Well, that was then. But—
“Twelve days ago the farmers notified us of a slight deterioration in the health of certain of the beasts. Without delay, we techs examined these animals, discovering that they suffered the first symptoms of radiation poisoning! We immediately separated out every affected animal and bird, seeing to it that they were destroyed, and at once isolated the tank of initial influx from the overflow system, thus preventing any further spread of the contamination. Moreover, we cut back on the already limited supply of water to the lake; as Big Jon has mentioned, the fish are barely edible and continuing to maintain their habitat only depletes our human needs…” Here Fielding had paused and drawn a rasping breath, then very quickly continued:
“Obviously affairs were now most serious. But, so as not to cause alarm, only Big Jon and the heads of the various affected crafts were initially informed. Now: from the beginning we kept a close watch on the second tank of influx from the wells, regularly monitoring the radiation level. On the fourth day we discovered a taint, but so slight it was scarcely worse than normal background radiation levels. Nevertheless we isolated this tank also; which was just as well, for in four more days the radiation levels had increased to lethal degrees!
“All of which events were reported to Big Jon Lamon even as they occurred. Which brings us up to date. We techs continue to be vigilant, of course, but as for now…there you have it.”
In the crowd Ned Singer had grunted: “There we have it, eh? None of which addresses the so-called problem!” A number of the people close by had turned to stare at him, nodded their agreement, a few of the men muttering low and even cursing.
From his elevated position on the loading bay platform, Big Jon had been aware of this disturbance in the otherwise stunned assembly, and so was quick to intervene before full-scale panic set in. “Now hold!” he called out, “Listen to me! Andrew Fielding’s techs are not the only ones who have been working on this. Since first learning of the situation, I’ve debated a course of action with the elders and brought into play a contingency plan of sorts—as I shall explain in just a moment.
“But first…I would like to remind you of something that happened eleven months ago, when we received a radio message—our first human contact in a great many years—from the people of a refuge far to the north: an event that caused much excitement in the clan at that time.