No. 1 was the first converter around which National Atomic had built its present monopoly in artificial radioactives, back in the days when shields were still inefficient to one part in a thousand and the materials handled were milder than the modern ones. They still used it for the gentle reactions, prices of converters being what they were; anyhow, if reasonable precautions were taken, there was no serious danger.
“A tenth percent will kill; five percent there of is one two-hundredth; five percent of that is one four-thousandth; and five percent again leaves one eighty-thousandth, safe for all but fools.” Blake sing-songed the liturgy solemnly, then chuckled. “You’re getting old, Doc; you used to give them a thousand times. Well, if you get the chance, you and Mrs. Ferrel drop out and say hello, even if it’s after midnight. Anne’s gonna be disappointed, but she ought to know how it goes. So long.”
“Night.” Ferrel watched him leave, still smiling faintly. Some day his own son would be out of medical school, and Blake would make a good man for him to start under and begin the same old grind upward. First, like young Jenkins, he’d be filled with his mission to humanity, tense and uncertain, but somehow things would roll along through Blake’s stage and up, probably to Doc’s own level, where the same old problems were solved in the same old way, and life settled down into a comfortable, mellow dullness.
There were worse lives, certainly, even though it wasn’t like the mass of murders, kidnapings and applied miracles played up in the current movie series about Dr. Hoozis. Come to think of it, Hoozis was supposed to be working in an atomic products plant right now — but one where chrome-plated converters covered with pretty neon tubes were mysteriously blowing up every second day, and men were brought in with blue flames all over them to be cured instantly in time to utter the magic words so the hero could dash in and put out the atomic flame barehanded. Ferrel grunted and reached back for his old copy of the “Decameron.”
Then he heard Jenkins out in the surgery, puttering around with quick, nervous little sounds. Never do to let the boy find him loafing back here, when the possible fate of the world so obviously hung on his alertness. Young doctors had to be disillusioned slowly, or they became bitter and their work suffered. Yet, in spite of his amusement at Jenkins’ nervousness, he couldn’t help envying the thin-faced young man’s erect shoulders and flat stomach. Years crept by, it seemed.
Jenkins straightened out a wrinkle in his white jacket fussily and looked up. “I’ve been getting the surgery ready for instant use, Dr. Ferrel. Do you think it’s safe to keep only Miss Dodd and one male attendant here — shouldn’t we have more than the bare legally sanctioned staff?”
“Dodd’s a one-man staff,” Ferrel assured him. “Expecting accidents tonight?”
“No, sir, not exactly. But do you know what they’re running off?”
“No.” Ferrel hadn’t asked Palmer; he’d learned long before that he couldn’t keep up with the atomic engineering developments, and had stopped trying. “Some new type of atomic tank fuel for the army to use in its war games?”
“Worse than that, sir. They’re making their first commercial run of Natomic I-713 in both No. 3 and 4 converters at once.”
“So? Seems to me I did hear something about that. Had to do with killing off boll weevils, didn’t it?” Ferrel was vaguely familiar with the process of sowing radioactive dust in a circle outside the weevil area, to isolate the pest, then gradually moving inward from the border. Used with proper precautions, it had slowly killed off the weevil and driven it back into half the territory once occupied.
Jenkins managed to look disappointed, surprised and slightly superior without a visible change of expression. “There was an article on it in the Natomic Weekly Ray of last issue, Dr. Ferrel. You probably know that the trouble with Natomic I-344, which they’ve been using, was its half life of over four months; that made the land sowed useless for planting the next year, so they had to move very slowly. I-713 has a half life of less than a week and reached safe limits in about two months, so they’ll be able to isolate whole strips of hundreds of miles during the winter and still have the land usable by spring. Field tests have been highly successful, and we’ve just gotten a huge order from two States that want immediate delivery.”
“After their legislatures waited six months debating whether to use it or not,” Ferrel hazarded out of long experience. “Hm-m-m, sounds good if they can sow enough earthworms after them to keep the ground in good condition. But what’s the worry?”
Jenkins shook his head indignantly. “I’m not worried. I simply think we should take every possible precaution and be ready for any accident; after all, they’re working on something new, and a half life of a week is rather strong, don’t you think? Besides, I looked over some of the reaction charts in the article, and—What was that?”
From somewhere to the left of the infirmary, a muffled growl was being accompanied by ground tremors; then it gave place to a steady hissing, barely audible through the insulated walls of the building. Ferrel listened a moment and shrugged. “Nothing to worry about, Jenkins. You’ll hear it a dozen times a year. Ever since the Great War when he tried to commit hara-kiri over the treachery of his people, Hokusai’s been bugs about getting an atomic explosive bomb which will let us wipe out the rest of the world. Some day you’ll probably see the little guy brought in here minus his head, but so far he hasn’t found anything with short enough a half life that can be controlled until needed. What about the reaction charts on I-713?”
“Nothing definite, I suppose.” Jenkins turned reluctantly away from the sound, still frowning. “I know it worked in small lots, but there’s something about one of the intermediate steps I distrust, sir. I thought I recognized… I tried to ask one of the engineers about it. He practically told me to shut up until I’d studied atomic engineering myself.”
Seeing the boy’s face whiten over tensed jaw muscles, Ferrel held back his smile and nodded slowly. Something funny there; of course. Jenkins’ pride had been wounded, but hardly that much. Some day, he’d have to find out what was behind it. Little things like that could ruin a man’s steadiness with the instruments, if he kept it to himself. Meantime, the subject was best dropped.
The telephone girl’s heavily syllabized voice cut into his thoughts from the annunciator. “Dr. Ferrel. Dr. Ferrel wanted on the telephone. Dr. Ferrel, please!”
Jenkins’ face blanched still further, and his eyes darted to his superior sharply. Doc grunted casually. “Probably Palmer’s bored and wants to tell me all about his grandson again. He thinks that child’s an all-time genius because it says two words at eighteen months.”
But inside the office, he stopped to wipe his hands free of perspiration before answering; there was something contagious about Jenkins’ suppressed fears. And Palmer’s face on the little television screen didn’t help any, though the director was wearing his usual set smile. Ferrel knew it wasn’t about the baby this time, and he was right.
“’Lo, Ferrel.” Palmer’s heartily confident voice was quite normal, but the use of the last name was a clear sign of some trouble. “There’s been a little accident in the plant, they tell me. They’re bringing a few men over to the infirmary for treatment — probably not right away, though. Has Blake gone yet?”
“He’s been gone fifteen minutes or more. Think it’s serious enough to call him back, or are Jenkins and myself enough?”
“Jenkins? Oh, the new doctor.” Palmer hesitated, and his arms showed quite clearly the doodling operations of his hands, out of sight of the vision cell. “No, of course, no need to call Blake back, I suppose — not yet, anyhow. Just worry anyone who saw him coming in. Probably nothing serious.”