Ecolitan Prime (Ecolitan Matter) (31 page)

“You could, but this impression works better.” His words were low, and he presented a faint smile. “Seeing an attractive woman first…”

“And I thought you cared.”

Nathaniel suppressed a wince, stepping inside and waiting a moment for his sun-adjusted vision to readjust to the comparative gloom of the building.

“Sorry. That was a low blow, and…” Sylvia stopped as a blocky man in a maroon singlesuit marched down the dingy, half-lit corridor toward the two. The corridor smelled like diesel or some variant.

“Greetings!” called Nathaniel. “We are here on behalf of the Ecolitan Institute. We’re doing an economic survey—”

“This is a private facility, and we’re not open—where did you say you were from?” A frown crossed the black-haired man’s bronze face, and his eyes took in the green uniforms.

“The Ecolitan Institute on Accord. We’re doing an infrastructure survey here on Artos. I am Nathaniel Firstborne Whaler, and this is Ecolitan Professor Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”

“Marcus Stapleson-Mares, facility shift manager.” The dark brows furrowed. “Don’t suppose you’d be here from New Avalon?”

“We arrived yesterday from Harmony, through a transship or two.”

“What do you want?”

“We had hoped for an informal tour of the facility. We are not interested in processes or anything proprietary,” said Nathaniel.

“We’re detailing energy flows and how they impact the infrastructure economics,” added Sylvia.

Stapleson-Mares glanced from one Ecolitan to the other. “Wait…follow me, please.”

“Of course.” Nathaniel inclined his head.

They walked silently down the corridor into a small office with little more than a desk, three utilitarian plastic chairs, and a row of antique filing cabinets that covered the entire outside wall, except for the space for a single narrow floor-to-ceiling flexiplast window. The desk had only a narrow flat screen—blank—upon it.

Stapleson-Mares tapped the screen and then several studs on the compact keyboard on the screen frame.

“Yes?” came a crackly voice as an image swirled into place on the screen.

“Boss…there’s two professors in green here. Claim they’re Ecolitans doing some sort of economic survey.”

“Put them in front of the screen, Marcus, if you will.” The voice was hoarse, almost raspy.

The shift manager nodded at the Ecolitans, and they stepped in front of the screen.

“Nathaniel Whaler, and this is Sylvia Ferro-Maine.”

For a moment, the thin gray-haired man studied the two, his eyes flicking sideways several times as if comparing the faces to a flat picture or solideo cube.

“You look like the folks old Walk said were coming, and I can’t see as there’d be two sets of you running around in those strange greens. I’m George. What do you want at the facility?”

“If it meets your approval, just a general tour, and some basic figures,” answered Nathaniel. “We would like to see the process flow, and how the hydrocarbon feedstocks are fed in, processed, and distributed. A general idea of the energy equivalence of the output would be appreciated, and the general sectoral usages of that output.”

“In short, how the facility works, how much raw energy we take in, and how much of the fuel goes where?”

“That would be the general idea,” Nathaniel admitted.

“Where else might you be visiting?”

“Every significant energy and transport producer and consumer on Artos, as we can. The wider the net, the better the information.”

George’s weathered hand touched his chin, and the faint hiss of static mixed with what seemed a sigh.

The two in greens waited.

“Marcus?”

“Sir?”

“Tell Wystuh-MacDonald and Hensburg-Kewes that the Ecolitans are here, and have Jimmy give them the standard tour—the one that he gives the Empees when they come. You can give them the briefing packets. They’re in the red folders in the second—”

“Yes, sir. I know.”

The green eyes turned back to Nathaniel. “I trust you’ll find every number you could possibly desire in the packets, and some you won’t.” A wintry smile crossed the man’s face. “What have you seen on Artos?”

“Little besides the port, the Guest House, and the fields have we viewed thus far.” Nathaniel inclined his head.

“I take it you haven’t seen our spread?”

“Ah…unless it constituted some of the fields…”

“Why don’t you come out here the day after tomorrow? There’s more to the economics and infrastructure of Artos than energy and transport.” The smile warmed slightly. “Get a flitter trip from Walkerson. It’s a lot faster.”

“If that would not be a difficulty…”

“No difficulty at all. Might save us all some grief. Rather have you get the whole picture. You Ecolitans have a lot of clout with your reports, I know.” The green eyes flicked toward Marcus Stapleson-Mares. “Give them the direction sheet, too, the one with the beacon codes.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Have a good tour.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.” Sylvia’s words lagged Nathaniel’s only fractionally.

The flat screen blanked to a dark gray.

“If you’ll just wait here, I’ll be getting Jimmy.” The shift manager glanced toward the door.

“Fine. Fine.”

Nathaniel studied the office for a time, then watched Sylvia as she slowly walked around the office looking carefully at everything. He enjoyed the grace of her movements.

A wiry man hurried into the officer from the corridor. “Jimmy Hensburg-Kewes. Quality control and plant safety. I also get to be the designated tour guide. Marcus told me you’re here for the grand tour.” A smile crinkled the safety officer’s face.

“We had asked for a general overview,” ventured Nathaniel.

“It’ll be pretty general. Most of the lines after the ovens are closed. You can follow the piping, but all you’ll see is the equipment.”

Sylvia smiled brightly.

Stapleson-Mares reappeared. “You wanted the data packages?”

“Could we get them after the tour?” asked Nathaniel.

“Of course, sirs.” The shift manager inclined his head.

“We’ll start at the loading docks,” Hensburg-Kewes said, then turned and stepped into the corridor. The Ecolitans followed.

The west end loading docks were just that—docks where the bean pods were dumped into bins that fed them into the shredders and crushers.

“Pretty simple operation,” said the safety officer. “The pods are unloaded and shredded. From here they go into the ovens. At the end of the ovens are the big screens…”

Sylvia studied the inclined trough that vibrated just enough to shift both pulp and liquid down its length into metal-clad ovens that radiated heat even through the heavy walls. “How do you heat the ovens?”

“Raw hydrocarb from the stage-two gross filters. It’s fed back. We have to use wider nozzles, but it works, and we don’t have to worry about conversion losses.”

“What is your conversion ratio?”

“We do pretty well. About eighty percent of the pods are usable, but only about half is hydrocarb oil. We get hammered on the stuff that gets reformulated for flitters, but all the lorries run on filtered oil. Fuel economy’s half, two-thirds that of fossilized petroleum, but you can’t regrow that. ’Sides,” added the wiry man with a grin, “we don’t have any on Artos.”

After the ovens, the raw hydrocarb fluid was carried through two parallel, heavy metal pipes each half a meter in diameter, which climbed at a thirty degree angle. Less than ten meters beyond the ovens, the pipes branched and distributed the feedstock into eight large, apparently identical tanks.

“Second stage filters.”

From the base of the tanks the smaller exit pipes merged back into three pipes—two large lines and a smaller one. The smaller line ran back toward the ovens.

Hensburg-Kewes gestured to the right where the two large lines ran down the center of what was essentially a covered walkway. “Now, we go to the filter building—that’s where we separate the keroil and base. Centrifuge. Crude, but it works.”

The three followed the walkway and pipes for nearly fifty meters. The safety officer opened a heavy door, holding it until Nathaniel and Sylvia had passed through. He closed it with a thud.

Unlike the equipment in the earlier sections of the plant, the filter building appeared newer—and far cleaner. The stainless steel of the four centrifuges glimmered in the indirect light from the fifteen-meter-high ceiling. The permacrete floor was smooth and dustless. Each of the three outside walls had a door set exactly in the middle, and by each door was racked a set of large chemical extinguishers and a heatsuit.

For a moment, the only sound was that of a high-pitched, continuous whine.

Nathaniel walked up to the bright red line on the floor, set almost five meters back from the centrifuge, and studied the equipment, noting the apparent tap levels and separate off-feeds.

The safety officer gestured toward the centrifuge. “This is the real heart of the plant.”

Behind him, Sylvia appeared to be checking the paint of the outside wall. Nathaniel tightened his lips, stepping back and moving toward Sylvia, who was frowning.

“Really watch this, we do, sirs—”

Nathaniel felt, rather than heard, the explosion that slammed across his back like a torch, carrying him toward the wall. He danced sideways against the heat and grabbed Sylvia, holding his breath and trying to cushion the blow as they were dashed against the wall.

Somehow, he managed to struggle along the wall to the exit door, and thrust Sylvia out before him.

Crummpttt!

The force of the fire and explosion propelled him after her, and he staggered across the rougher exterior permacrete. They turned.

Flames belched from the open emergency door. A jet of white-hot flame burned through the plastic roofing of the synde bean filter station, and black smoke swirled into the blue-green sky.

The crackling of the flames rose higher. Abruptly, there was a shrilling hiss, and white foam cascaded from the walls. The entire small building was almost instantly enshrouded in a cocoon of foam, although the plumes of greasy smoke spread skyward before diffusing into a haze.

A handful of figures in heatsuits scurried inside the filter building. Shortly, one of them brought out a limp and charred figure into the pitiless sunlight.

“Let’s see your back,” suggested Sylvia abruptly.

“I think it’s all right.”

“Let me see.”

Nathaniel shrugged.

“Your greens look untouched.” A hint of amazement colored her voice.

“Very good fabric.” She shook her head. “Was that why you wanted me in greens?”

“One of the reasons.”

“And the other?”

“You look good in them.”

One of the suited figures pulled back his hood and trudged across the permacrete toward the Ecolitans, sweat and grime streaking his face and dark hair.

“Terribly sorry, sirs.” Stapleson-Mares wiped his damp forehead. “Terribly sorry. The heat detectors should have registered sooner.” He shook his head. “Poor Jimmy. He took most of the blast.”

“He seemed most knowledgeable,” Nathaniel answered.

“No one knew the system better. It’s hard to believe.” The shift manager shook his head dolefully. “Hard to believe.” He straightened. “Do you have any idea what happened?”

“No,” answered Nathaniel. “We had just entered the filtering area, and Mr. Hensburg-Kewes was explaining about the centrifuges. Then…I felt a blast of heat…I looked for him, but I could not see him.”

“You wouldn’t have, not the way…never mind.” The manager shook his head.

“I take it that there are problems with the filter operations?” asked Sylvia. “Recurring problems?”

“How—yes.”

“It’s a separate building almost,” Sylvia answered the unspoken question, “and you’ve obviously taken a number of precautions.”

“We’ve still got impurities in the soil, and the beans were gene-designed for both cleansing and hydrocarbon output. Easier to filter…but we’re using high-speed centrifuges because it’s faster and a lot cheaper for the speed. Diffusion would be even harder to handle, and this is the only facility on ConOne.” Stapleson-Mares wiped his forehead again with the back of his hand.

The odor of chemicals and ashes drifted across the pavement on the light wind. Nathaniel eased out the large kerchief and blotted his own forehead, then replaced it in his pocket. “There is one on the second continent?”

“No. It’s too far south and too cold. ConTrio has a facility, but it’s only got a capacity a third of ours.” The dark-haired manager glanced at the foam-covered structure. “The fire shouldn’t have gotten that far. That’s what the alarms and foam systems are for.”

A green groundcar eased around the end of the plant and headed toward the group on the permacrete.

“Yours?”

“I believe so,” answered Nathaniel.

The groundcar drew up beside the three. Bagot peered out the now-open driver’s window. “Are you all right, sirs?”

“We have survived,” Nathaniel responded, pulling out the large kerchief again and blotting away yet more sweat and soot. “I should have asked. Is there anything we can do? Any information we could supply?”

“If there is, I know where to find you.” The shift manager inclined his head. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have someone bring over those packets later. Right now, I need to talk to George and let Lindy know about Jimmy. They’ve got three daughters. The oldest is eight.”

“I don’t envy you,” said Sylvia. “Is there anything I could do?” Her voice was gentle.

“No, professor.” The shift manager’s voice softened. “There isn’t. Appreciate your asking. We’ve lost a dozen men over the years here, but it’s never easy.”

“I am sorry it happened, but I do not know what occurred,” added Nathaniel. “One moment we were looking at the centrifuges…then…” He shrugged.

“It can only take a moment. That’s why…why…” Stapleson-Mares shook his head. “We thought we’d covered everything.”

Nathaniel waited. So did Sylvia.

“There’s nothing you two can do.” The dark-haired man forced a wry expression. “Not good at dealing with this. If you need anything more, or if you remember something that might help, please let me know.”