Itch Rocks

by Simon Mayo

  Itch’s eyes darted around, not knowing where to look first. “It’s like a cathedral …” he whispered.

  Bill Kent appeared at his side. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  Itch nodded.

  Without waiting to be asked, the ISIS man pointed at the steel tube, tracing its route through the target station. “So the beam enters the building at the far end there—an offshoot from the other target stations. As you might know, it starts in the particle accelerator, and the proton beam is traveling at 84 percent of the speed of light. It is focused by those huge magnetic coils you see stuck around the pipe.” He pointed to large gold-colored loops of wire that surrounded the tube at regular intervals. “And this pod is where it hits whatever we have for testing and examination.”

  They stood in front of a large egg-shaped hull, all polished steel and glass, with shower-hose style cabling running between brass bolts and hoops.

  Itch, with the rocks at his feet, thought he might as well just ask directly. “Does it do spallation?” he said.

  Kent looked at him in surprise. “Spallation? Sure. We’ve done that in the past. Tom! He’s asking about spallation.” He beckoned the American over. “Why do you ask? That’s pretty advanced stuff.”

  “Oh, just curious,” replied Itch.

  “Well, what we do is, we load the product into the pod and fire the beam—”

  Itch interrupted. “If you had a dangerous radioactive material that you needed to destroy, would it do that? Could it do that?” His voice was a little more high-pitched than he intended, and he tried a smile to offset it.

  Again Bill Kent was taken aback by the question, but it was Tom Oakes who answered: “Why, yes, certainly. It would cause an inter-nuclear cascade, and the radioactive material would disintegrate into fission products.”

  “And does that mean the dangerous stuff would be made safe?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so. You would have to do tests, of course, but—”

  “And how do you load the pod?” Itch realized he was pushing it, but the thought of Flowerdew arriving with his goons gave him an overpowering sense of urgency.

  As it turned out, Tom Oakes was only too keen to show off their toy. “It’s quite fun, this, actually,” he said, demonstrating. “The material goes in the guide tube here….” He pulled a thick, grooved steel tube out from the pod door; it was about eight inches wide, with thick insulation. He pushed his arm into the hole, like a conjurer showing that a box is empty. “When you push the tube through the target door, your material appears inside. You can see it through the glass here.”

  He showed them a head-height window in the pod. The steel guide tube had opened alongside a small crane, similar to some Itch had built from his dad’s childhood Erector set.

  Oakes rubbed his hands together with excitement. “This is the best part!” He put his hands into two lined holes in the pod’s control system. “In here are the manipulators—handles that you can spin and twist to operate the crane. Watch.” As they peered through the glass, the metal crane inside the pod swung over to the empty guide tube and its pincers opened, looking for something to pick up. “My right hand is controlling the pickup, and my left, the swing of the crane. I’d now place whatever the material is on this base”—he indicated a small, bolted metal plate—“and then lock it all in place.” Pulling his arms out of the pod, he swung a lever. “It’s a Castell interlocking system. Once it’s in, it’s in. That’s it and you can’t touch it. And then”—he smiled at his audience—“I’d retire to the control room.”

  “Which is where we should go now, Lucy,” said Bill Kent. “There are a few other people here who remember you from all those years ago.”

  “Is that where they fire the beam from?” asked Lucy as they headed up one of the metal staircases.

  “Yes—we have four crews who work twenty-four hours a day,” said Kent as they followed a set of six narrow pipes that ran around the wall.

  Their footsteps echoed and clanged as they made their way toward a control room high up in the corner of the building. Lucy went ahead with Kent and Oakes; Itch, Jack, and Chloe hung back. Itch had the duffle bag, and as he swapped hands, the rocks rattled again. It was an ominous sound—a deep rumble that made him feel sick. It was the sound of violence and death. He couldn’t wait to destroy them.

  “That was almost a lesson in how to use his equipment,” said Chloe softly, interrupting his thoughts.

  “It was, wasn’t it,” said Itch.

  “Is this doable?” asked Jack. “Can you get the 126 into that pod and then fire the beam? How does that work?”

  “Well, let’s hope we can find out,” said Itch, “because if we can, it’ll happen here.”

  They were approaching a door marked NO ENTRY and RADIATION HAZARD. Kent had one hand on the handle.

  “So how is your father, Lucy? I don’t think you said….”

  Lucy looked down at the metal floor and stuffed her hands in her pockets.

  “I’m afraid he died.”

  Chloe touched her arm.

  “My God,” said Kent. “When? What happened?”

  Both scientists looked stunned. Kent recovered first. “I’m sorry, Lucy—you don’t have to tell me, of course…. I’m just so … we are just so shocked….”

  She looked up again. “That’s OK. It was a few months ago. Radiation poisoning.” Itch could tell that she was doing her best to sound matter-of-fact.

  “Radiation?” said Kent, flabbergasted. The ensuing silence suggested the scientists expected more detail, but none was forthcoming. Lucy was just staring into the distance and biting her lip.

  “I am so sorry,” said Oakes. “Please accept our condolences.”

  Lucy nodded, and there was silence for a few moments before Kent spoke again, smiling kindly.

  “Let’s see if we can rustle up some tea,” he said, and opened the door.

  In the windowless control room, Lucy was introduced to the technicians and scientists; it seemed that many of them remembered her father. Itch looked around at the array of monitors that formed the control room. Three men and a woman were glued to computer screens; the rest were listening to Lucy.

  Tom Oakes stepped away from the reminiscing and stood at Itch’s shoulder.

  “Basically we control everything from here,” he said. “We fire the beam, we shut it down. We open the building, we shut it down. We monitor all the experiments in all the other target stations; we are number four—of four. We hire out the equipment to whoever wants it, as long as they fulfill our strict research conditions and make their results public. Targets one and two are running at the moment, three and four are waiting for new projects to arrive.”

  “So there’s nothing you’re working on at the moment?” asked Itch.

  “No, just maintenance today—some of the tube’s panels are being inspected tomorrow—so we have a reduced staff. We expect new work next week.” The American walked past another operator. “Jenny, this is Itch. He’s with Lucy. Just showing him around.”

  The woman called Jenny barely looked up from her screen but nodded in Itch’s direction.

  “Where is the beam controlled from?” asked Itch. “Is there a beam controller?”

  “Yes, that’s Jenny.” Oakes pointed to the BEAM ON/BEAM OFF light above her panel and the key by her left hand. “She turns the key, the beam is on. There’s a built-in pause of up of two minutes before the beam hits, then we are up and running.” He smiled. “OK?” He turned back to join his colleagues, who were listening to Lucy.

  “And he always used to say, ‘Remember the golden rule of chemistry, Lucy,’”a slight, graying woman with glasses on a chain around her neck was saying:‘“Don’t lick the spoon!”’

  Everyone laughed—though no doubt they’d heard the story countless times before.

  Lucy looked around the control room. “This has changed so much. I really used to love coming here….”

  Itch stood next to the beam controller operator
and wondered if he could make it work. He glanced at Chloe and Jack; they looked pale and exhausted. The technicians were still chatting with Lucy:

  “So when do we get to see your dad, Lucy? How is he anyway?”

  Itch saw her swallow and look down. As before, gasps and shocked expressions greeted the news of Cake’s death.

  Jack, turning around to look for Itch, mouthed, “Go now.”

  As the control room listened to Lucy’s account of her father’s death, Itch realized that she was telling—and considerably elaborating—the story for a reason. All the staff members were distracted by it. Jack was right: now was the time.

  He took his backpack from Jack, and picked up the duffle bag. The handles strained with the weight, but Itch was careful not to let the rocks rattle around. Dr. Alexander had shut them in their lead-lined Styrofoam box. They had been submerged underwater, blasted by fire; now they had one last journey to make.

  Every one of his footsteps along the high metal walkway sounded to Itch like the banging of a gong. He was going as fast and as quietly as he could but was sure he was making too much noise. He looked down at the shiny beam tunnel. Signs of the maintenance crew were everywhere: replacement panels and pipes lay on the floor, ready to be fitted. Where the walkway turned left, Itch went down the steps to the pod.

  As he stood in front of it, peering through the thick glass at the empty plate where the 126 needed to go, he realized his mistake. He banged his head against the pod in frustration. OK, clever guy with a new bone marrow—how are you going to get the rocks out of the box and into the pod? Smart move. He looked around but saw nothing that he could use to mask the radiation. He needed gloves, tongs, and a radiation suit. He had nothing.

  He checked his backpack: there were a few cloths he had used to wrap things in, but that was it. There was no more time to spend being careful. Flowerdew was surely on his way—and who knew how long Lucy’s distraction would last? He pulled open the guide tube and knelt down in front of the duffle bag. He wrenched it open and lifted out the large radiation box. When Dr. Alexander had first shown it to him, it had been white and pristine; now it was dirty gray, and covered in dents.

  It had four clasps, all rusted solid. Itch stood up and kicked at the fastenings; they came loose immediately and popped up when he flicked the clasps with his thumb and forefinger. His hands started to shake as he mimed the procedure of lifting the rocks out of the box and dropping them into the pod’s guide tube. Like a rugby player picturing the route his conversion kick will have to take, Itch imagined lifting and letting go.

  How long do I have? Twenty seconds? Thirty? How much radiation can I cope with? In his weakened condition, presumably the answer was none at all.

  But it was too late to change the plan; it was now or never. It was Itch or no one.

  He lifted the lid.

  For a moment—one heart-stopping moment—Itch could see only seven rocks. The thought that they might not all be there should have occurred to him; Flowerdew had had the rocks long enough to swap or change them if he had wanted to. But as he shook the box, all eight rearranged themselves. Charcoal-black, different sizes, jagged-edged.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

  Itch breathed in again, and a stewed, steamy smell came from the box. As he moved his hand closer, he sensed the heat generated by the unremarkable-looking rocks. A moment’s hesitation and he had the largest one in his good hand. Its weight didn’t surprise him—he had been lugging the box around long enough; but it seemed extraordinary that one individual rock the size of a potato could be so heavy. Itch stood and dropped it into the waiting tube. As it rattled against the steel, he swung around to get another. The next one was egg-size and smoother than the first, silver flecks in the 126 catching the fierce neon lighting as he dropped it in again.

  Must be quicker. This is your body you’re messing up.

  He stooped, picked up and dropped, picked up and dropped, picked up and dropped. Each rock was in his hand for no more than two or three seconds. Three left, and the guide tube was filling up. With each passing second Itch imagined the radiation cutting through him, seeking out his new bone marrow and taking it down. He picked up the last three rocks together and dropped them into the tube; he had to rearrange them with his hand to make them all fit. With all eight secured, he rammed the tube shut.

  Allowing himself one deep breath, Itch stared through the glass at the front of the pod. The tube had emerged alongside the small crane, and Itch shoved his hands into the manipulator sockets, as Tom Oakes had shown him. They found the control handles, but his damaged right hand throbbed, and he wondered if he would be able to flex his taped fingers well enough.

  Spin and twist. That’s what Oakes had said. Itch jabbed with his left hand and the crane swung wildly. Pulling with the right made the crane dive, the claws opening automatically. He felt a trigger on both handles; pulling them made the claws close, pulling again made them open. After a couple of trial runs, Itch thought he had enough control to start the transfer.

  He swung the crane over the drawer and swooped. After one aborted attempt, he successfully picked up the first rock, swung it over to the metal plate and set it down in the middle. His hands were clammy, his face dripping with sweat, but he needed these rocks in position now. He had to speed up. He swung the crane again and again, each time finding a rock and swinging it into position. He was building a small, if uneven, pyramid, just as his father did with barbecue charcoal. He had four at the base, two on top, and was twisting his right hand, picking up the seventh, when his broken finger caught on the control handle. As he flinched, the crane dipped down and hit the pile. The 126 in its claws slipped and fell. Horrified, Itch watched as the small mound collapsed, the more spherical rocks rolling off the plate and down the beam tunnel, out of sight.

  Itch stood and stared through the glass. Four rocks were visible, three had disappeared, and one was still in the tube. If the beam was fired now, would he destroy the 126 with only half of it on the target plate? He had no way of knowing for certain, but he suspected that the answer was no.

  He leaned his head against the glass. This feels like failure. I could try to fire the beam, but if it misses the rocks, is it worth the risk? Itch tried using the manipulator again, but the crane couldn’t access the rocks that had rolled away. There must be a way of reaching them.

  He ducked slightly and peered into the tunnel. He thought there was slightly more light there than before, so he walked around the pod and followed the tunnel that carried the proton beam for eighty feet. He ran his fingers along the steel as he walked; it felt cool. He came to some gleaming pipes arranged on the ground—ready, he assumed, for inserting into the tube. He had seen these from the walkway but hadn’t worked out what they were.

  Of course, there’s another way in! That’s what the maintenance teams use!

  He stared up at the tunnel. There was a panel in front of him that was due to receive the new piping; now that he was up close, he saw that it was stenciled with beam threshold adjustment. He pushed against it and it swung in on four hinges.

  I’m in.

  Itch had dropped the backpack, and had gotten one knee and two hands into the opening when he smelled the garlic. Putrid, rotting garlic—and it was coming from inside the tunnel. Scarcely able to believe his senses, he hauled himself up and peered inside. Looking right, the tunnel darkened and snaked away to the left. Looking along it, Itch saw nothing at all. Blackness.

  But he heard plenty.

  He heard the sound of a man forcing himself through a steel tube.

  The beam tunnel may have been four feet or so in diameter, but its walls were thick, and there wasn’t much room inside. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Itch could make out the slowly disappearing feet of Dr. Nathaniel Flowerdew. Propelling himself with elbows and knees, he had pushed himself along the tunnel and was now only a few feet from the pod. Itch could hear his labored breath and the occasional yelp of pain
as he slithered toward the 126. Itch was scared, nauseated, and furious all at the same time. And now he couldn’t help himself.

  “You’re like a slug leaving a trail of slime,” Itch blurted out, his voice deadened by the closeness of the tunnel walls, “but you leave a trail of stench. Everywhere you go.”

  Flowerdew jumped, banging his head on the roof of the tunnel. Now in the slightly expanded space of the pod, he roared with anger and twisted his head around to try to see Itch, but the tunnel seemed empty.

  Itch had dropped back out and run back to the pod. Looking through its glass screen, he stared in astonishment and revulsion at what he saw. Flowerdew’s face was lit by the ferocious neon of the lab, and the true extent of his injuries was apparent.

  His face was blistered, some of it black, some lobster-red, oozing with fluid that ran down his face like sweat. The skin over his right cheek had started to fold and peel away, leaving a loose flap of pink skin. Flowerdew moved around, picking up the rocks with his bandaged hands and scooping them, one at a time, into a long black canister. He didn’t seem concerned by the radiation hit he must be taking. Catching sight of Itch, he yelled again, but no sound penetrated the thick steel and glass that surrounded him.

  What if I could turn the beam on now? What does it do to people? Itch had no idea, and as he had no access to the beam, it wasn’t a choice he had to make. But Flowerdew had sought the rocks of 126 for the third time and now he had them in his canister. If Itch didn’t do something immediately, they would be gone again, possibly for the last time.