An Atomic Romance Read Online Free PDF

to fly a plane in, it could be claustrophobic—with the rows of cells, the overhead maze of Freon piping, the noise, the dusky light, the swirl of dust, the giant fans.
    Reed was a cell rat. On the second level of the largest process building he crawled inside dark, dusty enclosures to repair machinery that yelled in his ears. When he worked on those risky jobs, he wore his yellow astronaut suit. He liked working in the outfit, with its fire-retardant coveralls, plastic socks, and rubber shoe scuffs. To top it off, a cloth hood with a long cape and a respirator with an ultraview plastic face protected him. It was his job to help keep the vital enrichment system, the Cascade, going flawlessly, and he always approached the task like a surgeon with an unwilling patient. Even though the enrichment technology was somewhat antiquated, and dealing with it was tricky, Reed was still awed. It was astonishing, really, that the system could separate out radioactive uranium isotopes like forty-niners panning for gold. But it was a colossal operation. Liquid uranium hexafluoride was fed into autoclaves and heated to a hundred and fifty degrees to change it into a gas. Powerful electric motors sent the gas spinning and shooting through hundreds of axial-flow compressors and into converters, where barriers with tiny holes filtered out the heavier isotopes. The tumult of hot gas hurled through all the stages hundreds and thousands of times until the final product could be drawn off into cylinders. This was the system, his friend and his enemy, the multiplex of little cascades forming a giant Cascade. Reed, armored in his moon suit, felt he was the master.
    When the out-of-state reporters began snooping around last fall, there was general suspicion throughout the workforce. They weren’t local, and no one knew their motives. The reporters—in khaki pants and plaid flannel sport shirts—had been in and out for over two weeks, following workers, poring over documents, roaming around the junk piles. They were friendly, professing amazement at the operation, admiring the intricacy and grandeur of the Cascade with its miles of piping, empathizing with the employees who worked on the high-risk jobs. So it was like a criticality-warning siren when the news reports eventually emerged about toxic leakage from secret landfills out in the Fort Wolf Refuge and contaminated scrap heaps inside the plant’s fences. The out-of-state newspaper had assembled a tight, explosive little package. Code words for fear floated out of the paper like thought balloons. Radioactivity. Uranium. Cancer.
    Those reporters were hunting their Tulip Surprises, Reed thought now. If the situation at the plant were a movie, he thought, some superhero character would save the whole place from a melt-down. Here, there was no nuclear reactor to melt down, but the movie would have one, photographed from sinister angles. A shiny actor-hero in a magic military chem suit would seduce an energetic blond FEMA investigator in the swank downtown Palace Hotel. Then a resplendent special-effects earthquake along a conveniently located fault line would magnify the nuclear havoc. The greenery of the wilderness would capsize and sink into muddy soup, with the animals screaming in panic. Throngs of refugees fleeing. Hogs swimming. Big turkey stranded on a roof.
    A bird was flying above him, its flight meandering and desperate. Birds slipped in under the eaves and often couldn’t find a way out. The bird’s wings fluttered silently. It crashed against the ceiling and the walls. Now and then it perched on a girder. Birds died here, delirious in the heat. The heat desiccated them, sucked out their juices and kept them preserved like mummies. Or beef jerky. Reed had a pet dried bird he called Eisenhower. He had found him lying atop the asbestos housing of a cell. The bird was handsome, with black feathers and yellow streaks on his wings and face. He was a little thin, but with those crazed eyes