Chain Reaction

by Christopher Hodder-Williams

  ‘Leaping!’ echoed Seff, in such an excited voice that they all looked at him as if he’d suddenly gone mad. ‘Don’t you see?’ he exclaimed. ‘Tiddlywinks!’

  *

  Major Pentecue opened up the throttle of the leading helicopter, and Dick watched the ground dropping away underneath them.

  ‘Your first time up?’ shouted Pentecue, above the noise of the motor.

  ‘In one of these, yes.’

  Pentecue was a solidly built looking man — a lot more solid, thought Dick, than the egg-box of an aircraft he was piloting. It rattled and vibrated in its hideous, beetle-like simulation of flight. The major patted the inside of the fuselage affectionately. ‘She’s noisy, all right,’ he observed, reading his thoughts, ‘but she’s a nice old lady when you get to know her.’

  ‘Is it easy to fly?’

  ‘What?’ He was busying himself with a parcel of sandwiches. ‘Have one? My wife made them fresh this morning. Chicken. Very good.’ He remembered the question. ‘Easy to fly? Well, she’s like any other old lady — you have to treat her with respect, you see. She doesn’t like to be pushed around. Do you like the chicken? Our own, you know. Got a small farm in the Cotswolds.’

  Dick hastily said he thought it was excellent. Actually he was convinced it was more than slightly high; but he didn’t want to say anything that might upset diplomatic relations at this early stage; and in particular he didn’t want to upset the old lady. So he ate the questionable chicken, and leaned over to check the geiger equipment that had been installed in such a hurry. The ‘head’ of the machine was attached, sensitive side downwards, to the undercart. He noted the slight background count and set the needle of the dial at zero, then switched off again.

  Behind them the other two helicopters had taken off, and were flying in line astern, spaced about half a mile apart. Pentecue called up the pilots casually on the VHF, and Simmel asked him to get the technicians in each to set-zero on background count and to report that the sets were working properly. By the time this had been done Simmel had grown accustomed to the awkward gait of the old lady, and was able to relax and enjoy the splendour of the green hills below them.

  And as he watched, he wondered. He wondered whether two and two made four, and whether if he had not been aroused in one way by a chance meeting with a slender girl he would have been awakened in another by the restlessness of an unanswered question — the question which led him to the small laboratory at dead of night. Whether he would not, in fact, have just gone on being a P.A. who fetched and carried and answered the telephone and annoyed Manson for fun. He wondered whether the chemical formula called love made a difference to the way you thought and reacted to things quite unconnected with it. And then he ended up realising that if he himself hadn’t stumbled on the truth about the tins someone else would have, so it didn’t make any difference in the end. So, because he wasn’t particularly self-analytical, he abandoned the main train of thought, and amused himself by comparing the landscape with the map and calculating their groundspeed.

  After half an hour or so Pentecue suddenly said, without looking round, ‘That chicken was a big high, wasn’t it?’ And Dick said yes it was, and they got on fine after that.

  *

  Frank Gresham fumbled in his pockets and found the tiddlywinks that had so annoyed the Director earlier on. Seff had gathered the ash-trays from around the table, and now arranged them in a straight line in front of his blotter. Before he could proceed with the game, however, he had to cope with Manson, who had just returned from the Coffeesnacks factory and wanted to tell everyone how thoroughly ‘the boys downstairs’ were working on the samples, leaving ‘no stone unturned’ and would be reporting ‘in double quick time’. The Director said that was splendid and what did he think of the theory that Seff was about to demonstrate, and Alec sat down at last.

  ‘The object of the game,’ said Seff, ‘is to try to make the discs land in the ash-tray farthest from the end I’m flicking them from.’

  Gatt was screwing up his face, staring very intently at the objects of attention. ‘The ash-trays, I take it,’ he said slowly, ‘represent the sugar bins at Gould’s refinery?’

  Seff moved his eyes only. ‘That’s right. As you see, there are six of them. The tiddlywinks represent the specks of radioactive dust. Now watch’ He concentrated once more on the game. ‘We’ll start with one of the small “winks”. Let’s see how far I can flick it.’

  The first few times the little disc went flying in the wrong direction. But at the fourth try he succeeded in shooting it into the fifth ash-tray along. Another one of the same size volleyed into the sixth. ‘Now let’s see what happens with the bigger ones.’ He had to make a few preliminary shots, but eventually he bracketed on the target and scored a bit on the nearest ashtray. The next shot was more successful: it went into the third. But after fishing them out and trying again, he could not flick the larger discs into the two farthest ash-trays.

  Gatt said: ‘Very clever, Jack!’ Manson still looked puzzled. The Director didn’t reveal whether he got the point or not. But Gresham said: ‘I’m not going to guess, jack! So, for heaven’s sake, tell me what it’s all about!’

  Seff smiled. ‘It’s quite simple, really. Gould had no filters on the inlet side of his air-conditioning … So he was sucking in dust at one end, and probably blowing it out the other — though that isn’t important. But we know that the air was contaminated, don’t we, with two different sorts of radioactive dust? Now, what were they?

  ‘First let’s consider what we started off with. Essentially, they must have been two different isotopes of reasonably long half-life, one of which radiated beta particles and the other gamma rays. Well, we know, almost for certain, that the first was radio-strontium. My guess is that the second was caesium — a fairly plentiful fission-product. What happened to them? Well, they wouldn’t have been in their pure state. In some way they would almost certainly have combined with other substances — don’t forget they had been lying about for quite some time, exposed to water when it rained, and so on. I’m not a chemist, and I can’t suggest what chemical reactions might have taken place between the time the particles of dust escaped from the reactor and when they finally entered Gould’s refinery, as it seems certain they did. But the chances are that had they formed chemical compounds with other substances the resulting two types of dust would be of different mass — due to the difference in atomic weight of the isotopes: strontium has an atomic weight of 90, and the “hot” isotope of caesium is the heavier at 137. In my little game of tiddlywinks, the large discs represented the compound of caesium, and the small ones played the role of the strontium. As you saw in my “experiment”, the heavy ones (caesium) landed in the nearest ash-trays (sugar bins) and the little ’uns (strontium) dropped into the ones farthest away. Ergo, the sugar became unevenly contaminated, as were the bags of sugar that were delivered eventually to Spigett’s factory. No doubt a new lot of tomato sauce was made for each day of manufacture of the beans; so the uneven distribution would have been passed on to the tins themselves.’

  Frank Gresham stared in undisguised awe. ‘Marvellous, old boy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sort of atomic tiddlywinks!’

  ‘As you say — marvellous,’ said Manson, ‘but where, exactly, does it get us? I mean, is it anything much more than an interesting illustration of something that isn’t really important any more? We know that uneven distribution did take place — but does it matter how?’

  ‘I think it does,’ said Gatt, ‘and for a very good reason. We’ve got to know what to look for and how many places to look. To me, at any rate, it didn’t seem feasible that the two kinds of radioactive material could have got into the sugar in the same way. If Self’s explanation is right, it now seems possible that they could have done so. Which in turn suggests two conclusions: first, that despite the uneven distribution all the dust came from the same place; and second, both types must have got into the sugar at the same time. Well, we know that this
sugar was manufactured approximately six months after the accident, at the time when Gould’s filters were removed. So what we’ve got to find out is what those fission products that got loose were doing for the period between, undetected and inert.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Any suggestions, anybody?’

  There was silence for a while, until Hargreaves said: ‘Let’s look at the map of the area.’ He went to a drawer of his desk and produced a rolled-up ordnance survey map of Glennaverley and District. ‘What’s the prevailing wind in those parts — does anybody know?’

  Seff said: ‘The Met Office should have a record of wind directions at about that time. But I think … let’s see … yes, it usually tends to blow from the south.’

  ‘Mm. The south, eh? The Marsdowne Establishment is roughly west of the town.’

  ‘Well, I could be wrong about the wind.’

  ‘Yes. But supposing you’re not?’ He looked back at the map again. ‘What we want is something roughly south of Glennaverley, so that the wind would blow the dust in the general direction of the factory. Something pretty near at hand, too, I should think. Well, of course, there’s the loch. Loch Logie.’

  Gatt said: ‘God, yes! Isn’t that where the water is pumped from?’ He leaned back in the chair so that it creaked, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. ‘On the other hand, I checked it immediately after the accident.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Manson, ‘surely if there was some “hot” dust on it, it would stick to the surface of the water?’

  Hargreaves looked up at Seff. ‘Is there any way,’ he asked him, ‘is there any way contaminated water could seep back into the loch?’

  Seff grinned. ‘Not in my book,’ he said. ‘Of course it might eventually get past the non-return valves if some bloody fool left the inlet cock open. But that couldn’t have happened, because the day before we tried to start up Project 3, Peter Selgate and myself filled the steam system to the required level and closed the cock ourselves. And of course the water could only get back to the loch if there was any left in the heat-exchanger system — Which of course there wasn’t, because Alec went straight to the pumping-room and opened the outlet cock, to empty said water into the underground tanks.’

  Manson said: ‘And talking of tanks …!’ He got up and left the room. Gatt looked after him and wondered whether his journey was really necessary. He had visited the gents himself at the same time as Manson — only half an hour before …

  Hargreaves stared down upon the darkening scene in Whitehall, wondering what the public reaction would be now that the story had broken. He said: ‘I wish to hell we could have got the air search going tonight instead of having to wait until morning.’

  Seff said: ‘I know how you feel, Robert. But there wouldn’t be much point unless those choppers could come in really low, and it’s too dangerous for that. It’s very rugged country up there.’

  Kate entered the room quietly, and came round the table to where Hargreaves was still poring over the map. She waited until she could catch his attention.

  ‘Ah, Miss Garnet. I’m afraid we’ve kept you rather late. Well, you can go home, if you like; but make sure the plan 7 phone is switched through.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Robert. But really I came in to tell you that there is a Mr Ripley waiting to see you. He says it’s very urgent.’

  ‘Ripley? Do we know him?’

  ‘Well, no. He’s Headmaster of a school called Morley’s.’

  ‘You’d better show him in. Then go off home.’ Kate said ‘Thank you’ and left the room. Hargreaves looked up at Gatt, but didn’t say anything. Gatt knew exactly what he meant though. Seff expressed their thoughts succinctly. ‘What now, for Pete’s sake?’

  Ripley made an unmistakable headmaster’s entrance. Even without his cap and gown you couldn’t have missed it. ‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid I have some rather disturbing news for you.’ He outlined the electroscope incident to a very attentive audience, and went on: ‘I’m afraid that’s not all, either.’ He paused to collect his thoughts. ‘When I phoned the manufacturers of the brand of chocolate in question they were completely nonplussed, because having read the afternoon papers — as I had — they were quite sure that their product would be above reproach.’

  Gatt said: ‘I suppose they didn’t get their sugar from Gould’s?’

  ‘I am afraid I do not know the significance of that, but the chocolate people made the same comment.’

  Manson suddenly hammered his fist down on the table. ‘The milk!’ he exclaimed. ‘Caesium in the milk! Is it grazing country up there?’

  Seff answered him quietly. ‘You’re dead right — of course it’s the milk. Must be.’

  Gait was staring at him. ‘How can it be? The whole of the area was combed immediately after the accident! Then, as an additional safeguard, I had it checked once a week for the subsequent two months. We couldn’t get a pip out of it.’

  Seff persisted. ‘But it is grazing country.’

  Ripley had waited patiently to continue and now came the silence he needed. ‘There was just one other thing the chocolate people said that might be of use to you,’ he went on calmly. ‘When I had told them the number that was stamped on the wrapping paper, they were able to tell me the date of manufacture. Wait a minute, I’ve got it written down somewhere …’ He burrowed in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. Then he lost it again because the fan blew it across the room and he had to retrieve it from under the table. After a certain amount of hum-ing and hah-ing and apologising for his ‘butter-fingers’, he read it out. He might have been reading the citation for a prize-giving. ‘The chocolate was manufactured,’ he announced ponderously, ‘in September nineteen fifty-eight.’

  ‘Fifty-eight,’ echoed the Director, ‘are you sure? Not fifty-seven?’

  ‘Nineteen fifty-eight,’ said the Head.

  There was silence.

  Gatt spoke with an awful calm. ‘That means,’ he said, ‘that if they used fresh milk — which I’ve no doubt they did — the milk must have been contaminated far more recently than our calculations suggest.’

  Hargreaves matched his tone. ‘How long would the caesium remain within the body of a cow that had eaten infected grass?’

  Seff said: ‘Not very long. Caesium is diffused throughout the body and is eventually excreted and sweated out. No, that grass must have been “hot” a good year after the Gould business.’

  Frank Gresham was methodically knocking out his pipe. It was Hargreaves who voiced what they were all thinking. ‘So that means that there is, or has recently been, milk being sold to the public that is emitting gamma rays. Right?’

  Gatt added grimly: ‘And we still don’t know how it happened.’

  ‘I see. Well, I will have to tell the P.M. at once, before he speaks on television tonight.’

  Ripley coughed. ‘If there’s nothing else, gentlemen …?’

  *

  Ed Springle was still watching the television when June came back into the room. ‘Who was it?’ he asked her.

  She made a funny face. ‘George,’ she said. ‘Talking in a hushed whisper from a phone box.’

  Ed switched off the set in exasperation. ‘Not Poor George? Not at a time like this? Doesn’t he know that you’re supposed to be in the last stages of Springle-ization? Anyway, you should have been in bed long ago.’

  ‘What’s the good of going to bed?’ she demanded comically. ‘I shall only have to get up again! Anyway, I can’t. George is coming round. He wants to see me — alone!’

  Ed shot up out of his chair. ‘This is too much! I absolutely draw the line …! This is no time for one of the Visits!’ He scowled at her and June thought ‘he looks funny when he tries to be cross’. Ed deepened his frown to compensate for her amused smile. ‘There’s a time and a place for everything — even, I suppose, for George Meadows. But I wouldn’t put it past him to follow you to the hospital and make goo-goo eyes at the baby before I’ve even seen him!’

  ‘Or her.’

  S
he looked so funny he had to laugh. ‘Come and sit down, before you fall down, Comic. I wish I had a photograph of you like that.’