Nerves Page 10

  “Lead hopper box! Damn — Wait, Jorgenson wasn’t anybody’s fool; when he saw he couldn’t make the safety, he might…Maybe…” Palmer slapped the grapple down again, against the closed lid of the chest, but the hook was too large. Then the man clinging there caught the idea and slid down to the hopper chest, his armored hands grabbing at the lid. He managed to lift a corner of it until the grapple could catch and lift it the rest of the way, and his hands started down, to jerk upward again.

  The manager watched his motions, then flipped the box over with the grapple, and pulled it closer to the tank body; magma was running out, but there was a gleam of something else inside.

  “Start praying, Doc!” Palmer worked it to the side of the tank and was out through the door again, letting the merciless heat and radiation stream in.

  But Ferrel wasn’t bothering with that now; he followed, reaching down into the chest to help the other two lift out the body of a huge man in a five-shield Tomlin! Somehow, they wangled the six-hundred-odd pounds out and up on the treads, then into the housing, barely big enough for all of them. The atomjack pulled himself inside, shut the door, and flopped forward on his face, out cold.

  “Never mind him — check Jorgenson!” Palmer’s voice was heavy with the reaction from the hunt, but he turned the tank and sent it outward at top speed, regardless of risk. Contrarily, it bucked through the mass more readily than it had crawled in through the cleared section.

  Ferrel unscrewed the front plate of the armor on Jorgenson as rapidly as he could, though he knew already that the man was still miraculously alive; corpses don’t jerk with force enough to move a four-hundred-pound suit appreciably. A side glance, as they drew beyond the wreck of the converter housing, showed the men already beginning to set up equipment to quell the atomic reaction again, but the armor front plate came loose at last, and he dropped his eyes back without noticing details, to cut out a section of clothing and make the needed injections; curare first, then plasma, aminos, neo-heroin, and curare again, though he did not dare inject the quantity that seemed necessary. There was nothing more he could do until they could get the man out of his armor. He turned to the atomjack, who was already sitting up, propped against the driving seat’s back.

  “’snothing much, Doc,” the fellow managed. “No jerks, just burn and that damned heat! Jorgenson?”

  “Alive, at least,” Palmer answered, with some relief. The tank stopped, and Ferrel could see Brown running forward from beside a truck. “Get that suit off you, get yourself treated for the burn, and then go up to the office. Maybe we can fix you up with a month’s paid vacation in Hawaii or something.”

  Surprise and doubt registered on the man’s face. Then he grinned and shook his head. “If you feel like that, boss I’d a helluva lot rather have a down-payment on a house big enough for all my kids.”

  “Then pick yourself a house, and it’s yours free and clear. You earned it. Maybe we’ll toss in a medal or a bottle of Scotch, too. Here, you fellows give a hand.”

  Ferrel had the suit ripped off with Brown’s assistance, and paused only long enough for one grateful breath of clean, cool air before leading the way toward the truck. As he neared it, Jenkins popped out, directing a group of men to move two loaded stretchers onto the litter, and nodding jerkily at Ferrel. “With the truck all equipped we decided to move out here and take care of the damage as it came up. Sue and I rushed them through enough to take care of them until we can find more time, so we could give full attention to Jorgenson. He’s still living!”

  “By a miracle. Stay out here, Brown, until you’ve finished with the men from inside, then we’ll try to find some rest for you.”

  The three huskies carrying Jorgenson placed him on the table set up, and began hosing off the bulky armor with versene solution, before ripping it off. They finished, and the truck got under way. Fresh gloves came out of a small sterilizer, and the two doctors fell to work at once, treating the badly burned flesh and trying to locate and remove the worst of the radioactive matter.

  “No use,” Doc stepped back and shook his head. “It’s all over him, probably clear into his bones in places. We’d have to put him through a filter to get it all out!”

  Palmer was looking down at the raw mass of flesh with all the layman’s sickness at such a sight. “Can you fix him up, Ferrel?”

  “We can try, that’s all. Only explanation I can give for his being alive at all is that the hopper box must have been pretty well above the stuff until a short time ago — very short — and this stuff didn’t work in until it sank. He’s practically dehydrated now, apparently, but he couldn’t have perspired enough to keep from dying of heat if he’d been under all that for even an hour — insulation or no insulation.” There was admiration in Doc’s eyes as he looked down at the immense figure of the man. “And he’s tough; if he weren’t, he’d have killed himself by exhaustion, even confined inside that suit and box, after the jerks set in. He’s close to having done so anyway. Until we can find some way of getting that stuff out of him we don’t dare risk getting rid of the curare’s effect; that’s a time-consuming job, in itself. Better give him another water-and-sugar intravenous, Jenkins. Then, if we do fix him up, Palmer, I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty chance whether or not all this hasn’t driven him stark-crazy.”

  The truck had stopped, and the men lifted the stretcher off and carried it inside as Jenkins finished the injection. He went ahead of them, but Doc stopped outside to take Palmer’s cigarette for a long drag, and let them go ahead.

  “Cheerful!” The manager lighted another from the butt, his shoulders sagging. “I’ve been trying to think of one man who might possibly be of some help to us, Doc, and there isn’t such a person anywhere. I’m sure now, after being in there, that Hoke couldn’t do it. Kellar, if he were still alive, could probably pull the answer out of a hat after three looks; he had an instinct and genius for it, the best man the business ever had, even if his tricks did threaten to steal our work from under us and give us the lead. But — well, now there’s Jorgenson — either he gets in shape, or else!”

  Doc nodded, only half-listening. The cigarette helped but he’d have given a lot at the moment for a cup of good coffee or some of Emma’s strong tea. Emma…

  Jenkins’ frantic yell reached them suddenly. “Doc! Jorgenson’s dead! He’s stopped breathing entirely!”

  Chapter 9

  Through the night Emma Ferrel had sat before the radio and the television set, alternating between them, hugging her dressing gown about her. She had got up only once, and that was to brew herself a pot of strong tea after she caught herself dozing.

  But there was no news on the air. Earlier there had been wild rumors and even an account of a riot at the plant that had forced the Governor to call out the militia. Now there was only the hourly showing of the film in which Mayor Walker assured everyone he’d been out to the plant and that there was nothing to fear. There were appeals for calm and for workers to report as usual. All she had learned since dawn was that the turnpike past the plant was closed “for construction,” and that blood was badly needed at the hospital. Blood, she knew, was something they’d need for bad cases of radiation poisoning.

  She frowned, trying to remember something that had partly wakened her during the brief time she’d been asleep. It was something about Blake, but she couldn’t remember the words, though they were on the edge of her mind.

  All she knew for sure was that Roger had called to say he’d be on the night shift; then later someone else had phoned to say he’d be late because of an emergency operation. They were covering something up and she didn’t like it. She had listened to too much talk about the mysterious broken bits of atoms that could come flying out, invisible but deadly as they ripped and mangled the helpless tissues. Sometimes she pictured them as little X-ray “worms” with savage biting teeth, though she knew better.

  They had taken her second child before it was born, whatever Roger said. And now they were trying to take h
er husband.

  She tried calling the plant again. There was a long delay, and then the operator told her curtly the line was out of order.

  Out of pure habit, she began boiling water for another pot of tea. It was her only source of strength now, somehow. She made it and sat sipping it, unaware until it was finished that she’d forgotten to put milk in it…. Why hadn’t the paper come? It was long overdue.

  She turned the sound up on the television set as one of her favorite local reporters came on. But this morning he wasn’t any different from the others. He read his news off from a script, telling everyone that there was nothing to worry about, and giving nothing new.

  She could remember hearing almost the same words in the same tone of voice when she was a little girl and her family had a farm on the bank of the Missouri. She had sat on the roof of their house, staring at the water and mud that was ruining all they owned, while a battery radio told them everything was under control, that the river had been stopped, and that boats were picking up all stranded people almost immediately.

  Her mother had died of pneumonia and exposure after everything was “under control.”

  She cut off the radio, vaguely troubled by the sounds from the street. The traffic seemed too thin, and even the cars that did pass sounded wrong. She went to the door, looking for the paper again. It wasn’t there, but she saw why the street sounded so quiet; there were no children playing in the yards or on the sidewalks. The street was practically deserted, except for two women who were hurrying along together carrying food packages, with a heavily built man swaggering behind them frequently looking back over his shoulder. Their voices reached her and she stopped in the door listening.

  “…her husband couldn’t even get near the place. They had these guards, see, with machine guns, chasing everybody back. Wouldn’t even listen when he told ‘em he had a son inside. Course, like Paul says, it served him right for letting the boy go there in the first place,” the older woman was saying.

  The second woman started to say something, but the man cut in. “A little more of this and I’m gonna start agreeing with them that says we gotta go up there and close that place down before we all wake up dying of something. God knows what they’re doing. Like that guy at the meeting says —”

  “Ignorant Hoosiers!” the younger woman broke in. “If them atomjerks had obeyed the law and got out when they was supposed to —”

  Emma shut the door, disregarding the hatred and trying to make sense of the words. She’d learned more than she had from the radio, at that. The plant was cut off by guards of some kind and nobody could get in. Either it was dangerous to go near it or the men inside were being protected from people like the woman’s husband, or whoever the man was. And it meant that some kind of life and work must still be going on there.

  Abruptly, she remembered the half-heard phrase on the radio: “Dr. Blake is wanted at work at once.” Nothing more than that. But there couldn’t be too many doctors here named Blake; and how many would be wanted “at work?” They had practices or went to hospitals and appointments, not to work. It must mean that Blake was missing!

  She reached for the telephone again. There was another long delay before the dial tone went on. The phone rang for minutes but there was no answer. That meant either that Blake had already left or that Roger would still be alone there at the plant! Then she remembered the anniversary. The Blakes didn’t always celebrate in the best-behaved way. Something might have happened to them or they might just be refusing to answer their phone. They were capable of anything at times like that.

  She limped across the floor, staring from the kitchen into the garage. She’d driven at one time, before they operated on her hip. Maybe not too well, but she’d never had an accident, and several times Roger had ridden with her without saying anything. She even had her driver’s license, renewed regularly as proof of her ability. And it wasn’t as if Roger had got one of those turbine things. She might be rusty, but with the light traffic…

  She turned toward the stairs, her mind made up, starting the light under the coffee on her way. She didn’t want it, but she’d heard that coffee was a good thing before driving, maybe tea would do as well, but she didn’t know. She hurried up the stairs as best she could, grabbing the first skirt and blouse she saw, and pulling out heavy sandals. She skipped stockings and make-up. She almost gave up on the underwear, but the idea left her feeling slimy and she compromised by leaving off the slip. Then she ran a comb through her hair, twisting it into a crude bun, and fastened it hastily with pins.

  The coffee was boiling when she came down, but she cooled it off and swallowed it somehow.

  She spent several wasted minutes looking for the extra keys before she discovered that Roger had left his keys in the lock, as he did too frequently. She tested things, finding the car started easily and that the shift buttons were in the same place. But the gas gauge registered nearly empty. She backed out gingerly, worrying about the fenders. She’d never be able to handle the brake well with her leg, but she could always use the hand brake for any sudden stop. Slowly she moved out onto the street and around the corner. It came as a shock to see that the delicatessen was crowded, but a quick glance showed that canned food seemed to be what people were buying. Beside it, the beauty salon was closed, as was the barbershop further on. The hardware store was open, however and there was a big, fresh sign in the window announcing that guns were on sale.

  She found the filling station doing business, but only the owner was there. He filled the tank, but shook his head at the charge plate she found in the glove compartment. “Strictly cash today. Too many people packing up and leaving. Couple dozen like that by here already.” Then, as she was counting out the money, he leaned closer. “Want a paper — today’s paper?”

  He pulled one out from under his coat, showing the date. “Only a buck. Cheap, too. Those soldiers or whatever they were picked up darned near every one that was delivered.”

  “Mine wasn’t, this morning.” She considered it, catching a glimpse of the headline, but unable to read it. A dollar seemed like a lot, but…

  “Maybe yours was delivered. They even picked ‘em off the porches some places, I hear. Friend at the Republican got me a few, though. Want it?”

  She nodded, and spread it out on the seat, wondering why the paper had been sent out at all if it was only to be pulled back. The headline drove all other thoughts from her mind:

  Atom Plant Explodes!

  Building Demolished, Workers

  Held by Force, Hint Mayor Involved.

  There was a picture of the plant from the air, looking like a very bad shot made in the early morning, and an arrow that pointed to what was supposed to be the exploded building. She read the story quickly, sick fear inside her. Then anger replaced it. It was all a big guess! They didn’t know any more than she did. No wonder the men had picked up the papers. From now on she’d never read it again! She’d got it only for the columns, and they’d been getting worse ever since it joined that chain Roger was always cursing against.

  She started the car and headed down the street, throwing the paper out at the first corner. Then she wished she’d burned it or something; a boy dived out to rescue it and a crowd was collecting around him as she drove on.

  There was very little traffic. The bars were all doing a good business, but a lot of the other stores were closed or deserted. There were still only a few children, always of the rougher sort, and even the adults seemed fewer than usual, with those who were out huddled into groups. Main Street seemed ghostly and there wasn’t even a traffic cop on the busy corner.

  She passed one street that had been crudely blocked off, with a packed crowd and a loudspeaker shouting something in anger. The sign indicated it was a Citizens’ Protest Rally.

  Then she was out of the business section. Now things were quieter again. Few cars passed her, and two of those were loaded with all sorts of equipment and carrying whole families. The big X marks were less freque
nt, too; she’d been seeing them soaped on some windows, with crude lettering warning all atomjerks to go home — as if they weren’t home, right here in Kimberly!

  She drew abreast of a girl who was running along dragging two young children with her, screaming loudly. The girl’s face was red with tears. Emma braked down carefully and leaned out. “Want a lift?”

  The girl got in with her children and mumbled an address. She stared morosely out of the window. “I’m an atomjack’s wife!” she announced finally, defiantly.

  “That’s all right. I’m Doc’s wife,” Emma told her. The answer seemed to satisfy the girl; she began trying to quiet the children. She even managed a touch of a smile as she got out and went into an apartment building, first looking up and down to make sure there was no one near. There wasn’t a person in sight.

  Emma sighed, but it had ceased to bother her. There had been something like it once when she was eight; something she couldn’t remember had happened, and men had started riding around in white sheets and pillow cases, while the colored people had stood back staring whenever you met them. Something bad had happened, and kept happening for a while until it all died away. She couldn’t recall any details, but she still could feel a touch of the fear — not fear you could fight, but fear of something you didn’t know. This was somehow like that. Fear of something unknown was like a fog over everything.

  Then she saw the Blake residence and breathed easier. Their car was parked in front and she managed to work in behind it, hoping she wouldn’t get a ticket for being so far out. Then she was ringing the bell — or trying to, since it wouldn’t ring. She knocked on the door, getting no answer. There was no better result at the kitchen door, though here the curtain wasn’t drawn and she could look inside. There was a mess of bottles and broken glass over everything and a fire was burning under a charred, ruined pot.