Chernobyl

by Frederik Pohl

  It was a fact of life with the RBMK-1000 reactor that it was given to fluctuations in its power output. When they happened, they needed to be controlled. There were three basic ways of doing that. One was to thrust into the mass of uranium and graphite that was the core of the reactor rods of a metal that would soak up neutrons and slow down the reaction. That was the classic, time-honored way. More than forty years before, Enrico Fermi had controlled his first ever nuclear pile in Chicago in just that manner. Another was simply to flood the reactor with additional water to slow it down, or cut down the flow to speed it up; water, too, soaked up neutrons, and the more of it that was present, the fewer atoms would be fractured to release the heat that made the steam.

  The third method was more subtle. Inside the thick containment shell of the RBMK, the graphite bricks, fuel rods, and water pipes that comprised the reactor itself were surrounded by an artificial atmosphere composed of two gases, helium and nitrogen. This was done for two reasons. One was that the helium-nitrogen mixture kept out the oxygen of the air, and therefore the hot graphite bricks could not catch fire. The other reason was part of the control system. The gases did not conduct heat in the same degree, so that by adding one or the other, the heat transfer capacity of that atmosphere could be changed, up or down as desired; the reactor would obediently run a little hotter or a little colder, and so the small glitches in performance could be smoothed out.

  Usually.

  Of course, no human being could watch the instrument readings carefully enough and calculate the necessary measures fast enough to take the right action every time.

  It is the same with modern, high-performance aircraft. If the pilot takes his hands off the controls of a conventional light plane, the thing will continue to fly itself reasonably well, for a while at least. If he takes his hands off the controls of a modern fighter, it will crash. Even if he stays on the controls, he can't fly the plane by himself. That is simply not possible. Too many things must be done too rapidly, and the human brain doesn't work fast enough to do the job. A computer flies the plane, the pilot only tells the computer what he wants it to do.

  It was the same with the RBMK. The human operators only told the cybernetic system what they wanted. The built-in computers dealt with the moment-by-moment fluctuations. The operators could read the instruments, and they were wonderfully sensitive devices, most of them imported at vast expense from Western suppliers, but in any emergency the instant responses would have to come from the computers — which meant, really, that they were the ones upon whom the performance of the entire immense complex depended. Many others could help to make it succeed. But it was only they, and the handful of operators in the control room itself, who could, at any moment, make it catastrophically fail.

  Chapter 3

  Friday, April 25

  Smin's mother, who has been a widow almost as long as Smin has been alive, lives in a four-room flat in an apartment building on the outskirts of Kiev. This causes a lot of talk among her neighbors. The official allowance for housing in the Soviet Union is nine square meters per person, and here this old woman, who does not even have a job, occupies nearly forty. It is true that old Aftasia Smin is a Party member from the earliest days, but it is also true that she has taken no active part for many years. So the talk of the neighbors is not about Aftasia's status as a veteran of the Civil War but about the real reason she has such a fine apartment. It is, her neighbors tell each other wisely, only because her son is in a high position; and in this the neighbors are right.

  When Smin got to his mother's flat he discovered that the surprise was really a surprise. It was an American — two Americans, in fact, for there was a man and his wife.

  Young Vassili Smin, who had been complaining for two hours about the prospect of sleeping another night on Babushka's folding Army cot, stopped complaining when he saw the American and the American's tall, young, blonde wife in the tailored canary-yellow slacks and the American's digital watch that told the time not only in Kiev but in Los Angeles as well. Smin saw that his son had fallen in love. He only hoped that

  Vassili would somehow manage to refrain from offering to buy the watch from the American who, it turned out, was Smin's second cousin. "You remember," Smin's mother crowed, "I told you about my cousin Yerim, who went to America in 1923? This is his grandson! And this is his wife! He makes for television films about a black man!"

  The second cousin's name was nothing like Yerim Skaz-chenko. It was Dean Garfield, but he was still family — family enough to have brought gifts for everyone, although he couldn't have been sure when he left Los Angeles that he would find any particular family members to give gifts to. So they were sort of all-purpose gifts. There was a silver tie clip with a Statue of Liberty on it for Smin, a cashmere sweater for his wife (it was too bad that it was so very tight on her, but apparently it had been cut for an American figure), a pocket calculator for Vassili, a box of liqueur chocolates for everybody, even a wonderfully thick, rich silk scarf which went to Aftasia. Best of all, there was a whole box of video tape cassettes for the whole family, and these were not simply American films which others might have. They were copies of the actual network television program Dean Garfield had actually produced—"Number three in the ratings," Garfield modestly announced.

  What made conversation hard was that Garfield spoke only English, his wife just English and a little Spanish; neither knew anything of Smin's own Russian, Ukrainian, French, or German. Nor were Vassili's two years of English good enough for more than half of what Dean Garfield and his wife, Can-dace, said.

  Smin's mother had provided for that problem. Aftasia had invited a young Ukrainian couple named Didchuk from the flat just below, both teachers of English in the local schools. Smin could see that they were both a little ill at ease in the presence of a senior Party member who drove a black Chaika with yellow fog lights, not to mention two actual Americans, and he put himself out to be nice to them.

  While the young woman was helping Vassili's excited questioning of the glamorous American cousins, Smin chatted easily with the man about the relative merits of the Chaika over the Zhiguli, which he praised, the Moskvich (yes, a fine car, but it needs too much work to keep it running) and the Volga, which he declared in some ways was almost better than his own. The teacher listened intendy and humbly asked Smin's opinion of the Zaparozhets, which he and his wife had thought of purchasing in a year or two. The Zaparozhets was the cheapest car made in the USSR, but Smin had praise for it, too. After all, he reminded the man, it was Ukraine-made and a very good value for the money—"Only, be sure you get one that was manufactured early in the month, before they storm," he said. The teacher nodded gratefully for the advice, though he did not need it. After all, what Soviet citizen did not know all about the merits of every Soviet car, even if his best hope of owning one lay somewhere in the twenty-first century?

  In any case, Didchuk discovered, he had lost Smin's attention. The older man was gazing at his wife, and there was half a smile on his face.

  For when Selena Smin got a good look at this blonde California goddess, she had taken the first opportunity to disappear into the flat's tiny lavatory. When she came out, her eyelashes were darker, her lips were redder, and she had even touched herself with the scent Smin had brought back from his last trip to Vienna; with affection, Smin realized his wife had decided once and for all to show these Americans that Soviet women did not necessarily have steel teeth and hairy armpits. It pleased Smin to observe that although Dean Garfield did not seem to notice any difference, his beautiful wife immediately did.

  What Garfield was doing was listening to Vassili's stammering attempts to deal with the pitfalls of the English language. As Smin caught a few words of what his son was saying, he frowned. "Excuse me," he said to the teacher; and then, to his son, "Vassili? I do not know English, but I recognize such words as neutron and uranium. What are you telling our American friends?"

  The boy flushed. "I was only explaining to them wha
t you do, Father."

  "Yes, that I am involved in the management of a nuclear power plant, of course. But what else are you saying?"

  "Oh, our cousin Garfield did not understand how it was possible to control a nuclear reaction, so I explained to him what you taught me; that although most neutrons are released at once, there are a very few that take a fraction of a second longer, and it is because of them that there is time to adjust the speed of the reaction. Just as you have told me, Father. Did I get it right?"

  "Perhaps too right," Smin said dryly. "I don't think Gorodot Khrenov would like you to be explaining nuclear matters to Americans. Go help your.grandmother, please; she is getting ready to feed us."

  So Vassili was drafted to put two tables together and find chairs to go around them, and young Mrs. Didchuk to help the formidable old lady put food on the table. In a few minutes they were all seated, one way or another, still talking.

  Smin wondered what was going through the Americans' minds. The woman was, after all, very beautiful. She seemed exactly like one of those Western movie stars with their remarkable teeth and the figures of young girls — well, that seemed to be exactly what she was, to be sure. A movie star. From Hollywood. Who no doubt lived in one of those sprawling eight-room or nine-room mansions that clung to mountainsides and looked out over oceans — with, no doubt, a swimming pool in the immense backyard and two or three huge American cars in the garage. What could she be making of his mother's flat with its paper-thin carpet worn bare, its battered furniture, its walls with the paint chipping off in the corners?

  He realized, with resignation, that before long there would be more said on this subject. From his wife. Who had been after him all along about his mother's "Khrushchev" flat, thrown up at great speed thirty years ago and decaying rapidly ever since, without even a telephone. "You must realize, Simyon," she would say patiently — again! — "that you hold a very important position. You should live accordingly. Not Brezhnev style, of course; no one does that anymore. But with dignity, even in your mother's apartment, since we often use it." And it would be no good telling her — again! — that the way his mother lived was his mother's own choice, because she would simply point out that old people did not always know what was best for them, after all.

  Smin debated whether it was worthwhile to try to forestall some of his wife's remarks by explaining to the Americans just what kind of a woman his mother was. It seemed a daunting job, especially with old Aftasia sitting there and listening to every word. In any case, the conversation was going along very well without that. Garfield, through Mrs. Didchuk, was explaining to the whole group just why he and his wife had decided it was better to live in Beverly Hills than Brentwood, although, of course, Beverly Hills was much more expensive.

  In the middle of it, Garfield broke off to stare more closely at what Aftasia Smin had set on the table. Then he grinned and spoke rapidly to his wife, who laughed and replied. Both were obviously discussing the food.

  "What are they saying?" Smin asked the male teacher.

  Didchuk seemed embarrassed. "It's funny, but Mrs. Garfield said" — he hesitated—"well, she mentioned that she was surprised there were no dishes of cabbage on the table."

  Smin laughed. "Tell her, please, that cabbage does not agree with my mother. Was that all?"

  "Oh, no." The teacher paused, obviously searching for the tactful words. "Mr. Garfield was saying to his wife what these foods are. He says that those are bitter herbs, and those biscuits are what he calls 'matzos,' and this is a real, pardon me, I don't know the word, it is something like 'cross over'?"

  "Oh, my mother is at it again," Smin sighed. "This is the time of a Jewish holiday — what, the second night of Passover? Please tell him that we are not religious, but my mother—"

  "Tell him nothing of the sort!" his mother called, setting down a great tureen of soup. "Even if our cousin from America doesn't know Hebrew, he's a Jew. I asked him!"

  But it turned out, after a good deal of talk back and forth, that although Dean Garfield really enjoyed the Passover ritual, he said he was not much more of a practicing Jew than Smin himself, in fact was something called a "Unitarian," because his wife had been something called "Methodist" and they had wanted a "Sunday school" to send their children to; and then Smin's mother wanted to hear all about the children.

  The chicken broth was excellent — Smin's mother boasted she had stood in line an hour to get the chicken. Then the food began — mushrooms baked in sour cream in individual pots, the meat of the stewed chicken that had made the soup, meat pies, sturgeon in jelly; when all that was done, there was fruit compote and small cakes with poppy-seed filling. The teachers were too timid to eat much at first, but then there was also Georgian wine and Armenian brandy, and at the end icy cold vodka.

  By the time of the brandy, and long before the vodka, the teachers were stuffing themselves, and the Americans, though they ate very little, praised everything immensely and drank enough to make up. They even praised Smin's mother's two table spreads, overlapped to cover the round table that was pressed against the long one to make room for eight persons, and did not comment on the curious selection of kitchen chairs, armchairs, and other sittables that surrounded the tables. They obviously enjoyed impressing these relatives, and others, with their prosperity and the high ratings of Garfield's television show, but actually Dean Garfield was impressed with his second cousin too. "Director of a nuclear power plant!" he said through the female teacher. "That's a mighty important job."

  "It is the most important job in the Ukraine," Smin's mother said severely, and Smin demurred.

  "There are a lot of people who would be surprised to hear that," he told her, and then, for the Americans, told them what Chernobyl was like. Four billion watts of electrical energy derived from the smokeless, pollutionless power of fissioning uranium dioxide; enough to supply an entire city or run a whole countryside of factories.

  It turned out that the American cousin had some views on nuclear power. He spoke of San Onofro and Three Mile Island, of earthquake faults and the China syndrome, of children's birth defects and future leukemias. The teachers gamely translated, though they had to consult each other frequently for some of the terms. "Yes," put in Vassili eagerly, almost falling off his seat — as the youngest, he had been given the hassock with pillows piled on top of it, "but our reactors are different. There was a report in a scientific journal years ago — I read it in school — which said that in the Soviet Union the problem of nuclear safety has been solved!"

  "No, no," said Smin gently, "not solved. It is never solved. It is true that we know the solutions and embody them in our daily practice, but the solution has to be applied again every day, every minute. Forgive me — I don't want to say anything against American practices—" He waited politely for translation.

  "Go ahead," smiled his American cousin in his turn, and added something that made Didchuk stammer as he translated: "I hate the bastards, myself."

  Smin was slightly startled, but he went on with his remembered facts. "In America," he said, "it is the human factor that causes nuclear accidents. I mention your Idaho Falls in 1961, where control rods were removed by mistake and three people were killed; in our reactor, the control rods are automatically inserted if anything begins to go wrong. In your Brown's Ferry in Alabama in 1975, a man looked for leaks in the shielding. To find them he used a lighted candle! He set fire to the insulation, and most of the safety systems failed because they lost power — almost that was a total catastrophe. In your Sequoia plant in Tennessee in 1981, more than a quarter of a million liters of radioactive liquid were allowed to leak out. Just a few months ago, at Gore, Oklahoma, someone heated a container of nuclear fuel and caused it to explode, killing a worker and injuring a hundred others. And Three Mile Island— well, everyone knows that at Three Mile Island it was nearly a complete meltdown. It was stopped with only minutes to spare."

  "Yes, exactly," nodded Garfield. "It is frightening."

&nbs
p; "But all of these are human errors, Cousin Dean. We do not allow human errors to occur. Our workers are not only very highly trained—" Smin swallowed, thinking of the Literaturna Ukraina report; but Dean Garfield would hardly have seen that—"they are also taught to maintain vigilance at all times. Nor are they allowed to work if they are not fit. It is true, Cousin Dean, that in America, sometimes the reactor workers use drugs on the job?"

  "I've heard that, yes," Garfield conceded. "I think it was just security guards and maybe laborers, though, not technicians. You don't have grass here?"

  The teacher had to have that explained, and translated it finally as "marijuana." Smin shook his head. "But," grinned the American, "I suppose now and then somebody does drink a little?"

  "Never!" Smin declared. "No Soviet citizen drinks a little! We drink only very much — pass me your glass!"

  Though Smin himself did not drink at all, not even the wine, there was plenty for everyone else, and even the two teachers were flushed and smiling. Smin's mother told over and over how the letter from America had reached her only that morning and she had at once telephoned the hotel and sent a car for the visitors. Vassili Smin explained in detail the great importance of his father's work, and how he himself might someday be a nuclear engineer — or perhaps a helicopter pilot, like his elder brother Nikolai, now already a senior lieutenant (though no one mentioned exactly what country Lieutenant Nikolai Smin was flying his helicopter in).

  The Americans told how greatly they had been impressed by Moscow (immense city, like one huge monument) and Leningrad (yes, really, certainly properly called the Venice of the North), and how this evening was, all the same, definitely the high spot of their trip, and they all agreed that it was a great pity that contact had been established so late, since the Garfields were scheduled to leave for Tbilisi in the morning. In the relaxed and friendly atmosphere, Didchuk daringly told a couple of Soviet jokes, his eye on Smin to make sure he was not being indiscreet, including the Radio Armenia one about the definition of a string trio (a Soviet quartet that has just returned from a tour of the West), and Dean Garfield responded with one about Aeroflot stewardesses. (In America the hostesses said, "Coffee, tea or me?" and on Aeroflot they said, "White wine, cherry juice, or go off in a corner, Comrade, and do it to yourself.") But that one, apart from requiring much agitated consultation about the translation, made the woman teacher blush.