Chain Reaction

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  ‘It is. And what is the one that is normally written immediately below it?’

  Mobels gave the matter thought, still quite unhurriedly, screwing up his face in the process. ‘Number 38 would have similar characteristics, wouldn’t it? That would be strontium.’ And the smile disappeared from his face as if it had never been there. He added, flatly, the single word ‘Christ.’

  ‘It’s a little late for blasphemy,’ said Gatt grimly, ‘but I see you get the point, Radio-strontium, actually.’ He paused for one loaded moment, staring over the man’s shoulder. ‘There’s just one thing that doesn’t add up,’ he said, as if to himself. Then: ‘Well, we’ll have to do what we can to protect the unsuspecting workers in this deadly place. Spigett, where’s the amplifier room? I want to speak over the Tannoy.’

  Spigett’s voice was low and hoarse. ‘I suppose you’re going to close down my factory?’ Gatt’s expression was enough. The canning magnate said: ‘I’ll take you there,’ in a voice his employees would not have recognised.

  Gatt had almost forgotten Richards. Now he had something for him to do. ‘Is there a master-switch that will stop the production line? Without turning off the amplifier?’

  ‘Yes. In the power room.’

  ‘Get to it.’

  ‘I’ll have to fetch the key from Main Gate.’

  ‘I don’t care if you have to get a hatchet from the Fire Station. But I want that line stopped.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Richards departed at the double.

  ‘Mobels, get me a man — any man, quickly. When you’ve done that get through to Whitehall 0011 and ask for Sir Robert Hargreaves. Give him the gist of what has come to light and ask him to hang on for me. Got it?’

  Mobels hesitated and Spigett snarled ‘Get cracking!’ through his clenched teeth. Mobels shrugged and left the room without hurrying. But he returned with a workman in surprisingly quick time. Gatt sent the man off to his car, with instructions to fetch a large leather box from the back. ‘Here’s the key. The box is heavy and fragile, so be careful with it. Bring it into the factory — Dispatch Department … I’ll meet you there.’ The man departed.

  Gatt nodded tersely to Spigett, and the two men left at a brisk walk for the amplifier room.

  *

  Inside the sheds the blank-faced women and the white-coated men were going about their familiar tasks while the ‘Music While You Work’ programme somehow penetrated the din of the machinery.

  Abruptly the music stopped and a few of the workers stared in perplexity at the loudspeakers. Others hardly noticed until a man’s voice, clear and compelling, echoed and throbbed round the factory. Gaping, they listened to a few short, startling sentences and obediently stood away from their machines, gathering round in little groups near the speakers while the unattended machinery pounded on and the clicking, clattering tins paraded along in never-ending streams above their heads. Then, as that staccato voice jabbed into the metallic atmosphere with some concise instructions, there came a change in the note of the machinery. And gradually the motors died, slowing the cans on the conveyors, retarding the sadistic machinery of the sealing equipment, arresting the gear-wheels that turned and the pinions which engaged with them until the heartbeat of the factory was stilled.

  For a few moments there was only the continued relaying of Gatt’s amplified voice, unreal but deafening now. The groups of workers stood as still as the stanchions that rose all around them to the roof. Then, after a firm warning against panic, even the voice ceased. There was utter silence.

  Until the murmurs of uncomprehending people began to build from a sibilant whisper to a concerted crowd effect that could not have been simulated in any broadcasting studio.

  And slowly, just as the residual air is expelled from the body of a dead person, so the people, stunned into a state of calm, uncomprehending obedience, drifted out of the factory exits.

  But the cancer that was alive in those ten thousand tins sent the pointer of an instalment, set in the casing of a heavy leather box, right across the dial — into the red segment.

  Gatt said very quietly: ‘Spigett, I want a list of every man or woman in the factory who has reported sick since these cans were returned …’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FRANK GRESHAM had said nothing since Manson had been confronted with the results of Simmel’s overnight discovery. For one thing, it was a technical matter that he did not altogether understand, and for another he was embarrassed to see anyone put on the spot — even Alec Manson.

  But now he looked up from his private game of tiddlywinks, quite startled at Hargreaves’ sudden ejaculation. He made no comment to Sir Robert, but greeted Jack Seff as he came into the room.

  Jack had also heard the Director’s sfortzando observation. ‘How have we all been “blithering idiots”?’ he demanded, closing the door behind him. He looked surprisingly fresh after his flight down from Glennaverley. ‘I’m quite willing to concede the point — but in what way?’

  The Director hailed him from where he was standing by the window. ‘Jack, I think we’re pretty near the truth at last.’ In a few long strides he had crossed the room, stood alongside Seff. ‘Let’s see if it hits you the same as it does me.’ He picked up two cans that were lying on top of the filing cabinet. ‘Say the one in my left hand gives a reading on the geiger instrument and the one in my right hand doesn’t.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you open up both cans and find the contents of both are “hot”. What do you deduce?’

  Seff made a whistling noise through his teeth. ‘I think I’m beginning to see what you’re driving at. But didn’t Alec —?’

  ‘Remember, the assumption was that it was the metal that was radioactive.’

  ‘Quite. My assumption.’

  ‘And everybody else’s too.’

  Seff glanced across at Alec, wondering why he hadn’t tried every combination as part of investigation routine. Alec Manson averted his eyes, and suddenly found something very interesting on the wall. ‘Well,’ said Seff, ‘the snappy catch answer is that there must be two kinds of radiation: gamma rays (which penetrate the tin) and alpha (or beta) — which don’t.’

  ‘Actually, Simmel found last night that it was beta.’

  ‘Simmel? How did he get into the act?’ Jack lit a cigarette and said to Manson: ‘I’m sorry, Alec, but I simply fail to see how you could have made such a mistake. Surely, all you had to do was to check a “hot” can after it had been emptied and cleaned, and you would have found that it was no longer “hot”.’

  Manson was crimson in the face. ‘Really? And you think I didn’t try that? If you’re so clever, try it yourself.’

  Hargreaves said: ‘Quite right. Simmel found the same thing last night.’

  Seff said: ‘Well, you’re not going to tell me the cans themselves are radioactive as well. The chances of that happening are millions against! As it is, we’ve got two different kinds of radiation in the food — though I’d put my last shirt on both substances having originated from the same source.’

  It was Manson who got the answer this time. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you what happened. Now we know it’s the food inside that’s “hot”, the problem’s easy.’

  ‘I wish,’ said Hargreaves, ‘I thought it was easy.’

  Manson said: ‘You remember, in the first place, we thought the food might have been contaminated through the sauce dissolving the coating on the inside of the can? Well, the same thing has happened, only the other way round. The coating in the tin is now “hot”, as you call it, because it had combined chemically with something in the fluid. That is why we still get a reading after the cans have been emptied. Scrape the inner coating off and the can will be dead as a dodo.’

  Seff broke the silence. ‘The man’s right,’ he said simply. ‘I apologise, Alec.’

  ‘You needn’t apologise,’ said Manson, this time without malice. ‘I still made the mistake of not checking the beans inside the inert cans.’ Seff took t
he point with a nod.

  Hargreaves said: ‘My God, what a beautiful muddle — and two days utterly wasted! You realise what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Seff unemotionally. ‘It means that the tins we thought were harmless aren’t harmless at all. Does Gatt know this?’

  ‘No. And he’s still down at the Spigett factory. He’ll be back after lunch.’ Hargreaves took his place at the table. He looked very tired at that moment. He said: ‘Did you discover anything up at Marsdowne last night?’

  ‘I found what I suspected: that there are no isotopes missing from there. I went right through the books with Selgate and everything’s accounted for. Of course, it’s possible that such isotopes might have been obtained elsewhere, and somehow got into the food, though I think it’s unlikely.’

  ‘What, then, is your preferred theory?’

  Seff fixed his eyes on the hub of the fan, as if he were wondering whether anything could be done about that squeak, ‘Well, of course, the alternative,’ he said casually, ‘is some unforeseen result of a reaction capable of producing the substances in question.’

  ‘Any particular reaction?’

  Seff shrugged. ‘Hard to say. But the ordinary uranium-235 reaction would produce, among other fission products, caesium-137 and strontium-90. Caesium gives gamma (and beta as well, incidentally, but that just confuses the issue) and radio-strontium would account for the beta particles.’

  ‘The same reaction, in fact,’ said Manson, following Self’s eyes up to the fan, ‘as Project 3.’

  If Seff noticed any innuendo in this he didn’t show it. ‘Yes,’ he said expressionlessly, ‘or any other uranium-operated pile — and that includes nearly every reactor in this country. In any case, I’m still only guessing as to their identity.’ He went on without pursuing the point. ‘What I don’t entirely understand is the uneven distribution of the two isotopes in the tins. Some of them must contain practically no gamma radiator at all — hence the fact that with these you get no reading from the outside.’

  Gresham got up. ‘I’d better make sure that the necessary warnings have gone out; I sent top-priority signals first thing this morning, but I’d like to be certain that this business of the supposedly inert tins is acted upon pronto. I’ll be down in the Signal Office on the ground floor.’ He paused by the door. ‘By the way, have you decided when the press are to be allowed to print their stuff resulting from yesterday’s conference?’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said the Director with some emphasis. ‘But the P.M. has. Personally, I would have preferred to gag the press until we had got a bit further with the investigation; but he feels very strongly that the facts should be published at once. So the deadline is one o’clock today. Of course, there’ll have to be a further release now, about the new development. Will you arrange that, Frank?’

  ‘Leave it to me, old boy.’

  Seff said: ‘You’ve left your toys on the table, Frank!’

  The Director was not amused.

  ‘Is Heatherfield coming in this morning?’ asked Seff, unabashed.

  ‘No. He leaves for Nairobi immediately after lunch, and he’s gone to the Home Office this morning to meet the team of experts who are going with him.’

  Mike Ganin said: ‘Look, Sir Robert. So far I’ve been nothing more nor less than a red herring. But there is one way in which I could help. I know Africa and the Africans. Though I come from B.G., I am of African origin myself. And I’m coloured. Let me go with Mr Heatherfield, if he will have me, and help on the other side. I think I could make myself useful.’

  ‘A very generous offer,’ said Hargreaves. ‘But could you leave at such short notice?’

  Mike said simply: ‘I have a suitcase.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled. There’ll be plenty of room on the plane; the R.A.F. have lent us a Comet II. Will you go and talk to Simmel? He’ll fix you up with any papers you may need. You’d better have a few jabs, too.’

  Mike grimaced. ‘Oh, that needle!’

  ‘Murder, isn’t it! Off you go, Mike.’ He added: ‘I’d like you to know how grateful I am for your help.’

  *

  Seff said: ‘I just don’t get it, Robert.’ They were left alone for a while — Manson had gone off in a flap to the laboratory, and Mr Rupert was in Simmel’s office typing up his notes.

  ‘The whole thing stinks. Consider: here we’ve got a lot of cans containing two different radioactive substances. And just to confuse the issue, they are mixed in different proportions; some of the cans containing little or none of the gamma emitter. How? What sort of accident could have such a result?’ He had a go with the tiddlywinks, and succeeding in shooting a green one right up in the air and across the table.

  ‘Jack, do you mind not doing that? My nerves are strained enough as it is.’

  Seff smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry!’ He lit a cigarette instead and drew hard on it. ‘You know, I think we’ve got to assume the worst.’

  ‘Marsdowne? Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I agree.’ He hesitated. Then: ‘I suppose you don’t know anything that I don’t know?’ A throw-away line.

  ‘I only wish I did.’ His private cloud of smoke was disseminated by the fan. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘The pumping-room?’

  ‘We’d never get near the place, unfortunately. Why the pumping-room in particular?’

  ‘Just an idea I had.’

  Seff didn’t say anything to this. Instead: ‘We’ll have to try an air search again. Go over every inch and electronically “hoe” the entire area.’

  ‘Helicopters with detection equipment? I think we’d draw a blank. After all, Gatt has done that many times already, and the answer has always been a lemon.’

  ‘I know. And now two years have gone by without a shred of evidence of anything having leaked out of the pile. On the other hand, this whole business suggests a certain sly cunning on the part of the Mighty Atom. Nobody noticed anything creeping uninvited into those tins. Yet something did. Two somethings, in fact. It’s almost as if the little monsters know when we’re not looking. We’ve got to catch them unawares. If I were a radioactive isotope lying on the ground somewhere near Marsdowne right now, the last thing I’d expect would be a search at this late date.’ He staged a shudder. ‘It gives you the creeps.’

  ‘All right; if you want the area searched again, Seff, I’ll have it done. And done so thoroughly that there can be no possible doubt, one way or the other, at the end of it.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Get me General Tripling,’ he said. ‘He’ll be in conference downstairs, I think.’

  The operator finally traced the general to the luncheon-room. Hargreaves said: ‘That you, Horace? Robert here.’

  ‘Hallo, Bob. In the middle of my blasted lunch.’

  ‘What an unearthly time to eat!’

  ‘Know. Got to go down to Aldershot. Blinking nuisance, but there you are. What do you want?’

  ‘Helicopters.’

  ‘Why mine? Why not the R.A.F.?’

  ‘Because you owe me a favour.’

  ‘Corruption at the top level. It was a pretty fifth-rate mine-detector, anyway.’

  ‘Got a better one?’

  ‘Where do you want the choppers?’

  ‘Scotland. Glennaverley.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Stap me. You’re not asking much.’

  ‘I know I’m asking a great deal,’ said the Director quite seriously. ‘But it is extremely important.’

  ‘It must be. How many do you want?’

  ‘Three, if possible. Got to comb a wide area at low altitude.’

  ‘Ah. We’ll see what we can do. Though heaven knows, about three-quarters of the army is engaged in this business already. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. By the way, have you got a chap named Simmel in your establishment?’

  ‘Yes; he’s my P.A. What’s he been up t:o?’

  ‘Nothing — yet! What d’you make of him?’

  ‘You’re v
ery curious.’

  ‘I have every reason to be. He seems to be falling in love with my daughter.’

  ‘Is he now? What an inconvenient time he’s picked for romance. I’ll have to speak to him about it.’

  ‘Bob. You know Sophie means the world to me. What’s she in for?’

  ‘Dick has access to all my files, both personal and top-secret. He knows my bank balance, and has only been bumptious once — right at the beginning. That in itself is practically a record in P.A.s. When my mother was dying he was the first to be there — on a Sunday and unasked. Any more questions?’

  ‘Thanks. You’ve told me all I want to know. I’ll phone you about the helicopters. Do you want to install equipment? If so, I’ll want to know the R.V. and so on. All right?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll arrange all the details in the meanwhile.’ After hanging up, the Director was human enough to wonder how Kate Garnet was taking it.

  He didn’t have long to ruminate upon such personal matters, however. Just twenty seconds after he had replaced the receiver the bell rang again.

  ‘Hargreaves here,’ he said shortly.

  ‘My name is Mobels,’ said a rather indistinct voice, ‘and I’m speaking from the Spigett Canning Factory.’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘It’s about your Mr Gatt. He asked me to get you on the line.’

  The Director snapped irritably: ‘Well, can’t he speak to me himself?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Perhaps I’d better explain …’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE Director sat tensely erect at the head of the conference table, his hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly, as if they were the rails of a companion-way. But if there was to be a storm, this was still the calm that heralded it.

  He felt no mercy towards Spigett. ‘I don’t have to tell you, do I,’ he began, ‘what a mess you’re in? You may even have to face a criminal negligence charge.’

  Spigett said: ‘Get on with it. I’m for the high jump. I’m ruined, and I deserve it. That’s my worry. What’s yours?’

  ‘Mine is to discover as soon as possible the life-history of the contaminated sugar.’