The Tommyknockers (14 page)

Gardener took a second look and guessed they had been married eight months. Maybe a year, but eight months was a better guess.

The man speaking had to be some sort of wheel with Bay State Electric.
Had
to be Bay State, because Bay State owned the boondoggle that was the Iroquois plant. This guy was making it sound like the greatest thing since sliced bread, and because he looked as though he really believed it, Gardener decided he must be a wheel of a rather small sort, maybe even a spare tire. He doubted if the big guys were so crazy about Iroquois. Even putting aside the insanity of nuclear power for a moment, there was the fact that Iroquois was five years late coming “on-line” and the fate of three interconnected New England bank chains depended on what would happen when—and if—it did. They were all standing chest-deep in radioactive quicksand and trading paper. It was like some crazy game of musical chairs.

Of course, the courts had finally given the company permission to begin loading hot rods the month before, and Gardener supposed that had the motherfuckers breathing a little easier.

Arberg was listening with solemn respect. He wasn't a trustee of the college, but anyone above the post of instructor would know enough to butter up an emissary from Bay State Electric, even a spare tire. Big private utilities like Bay State could do a lot for a school if they wanted to.

Was Reddy Kilowatt here a Friend of Poetry? About as much, Gard suspected, as he himself was a Friend of the Neutron Bomb. His
wife,
however—she of the thick
glasses and the strained, pretty face—
she
looked like a Friend of Poetry.

Knowing it was a terrible mistake, Gardener drifted over. He was wearing a pleasant late-in-the-party-gotta-go-soon smile, but the pulse in his head was faster, centering on the left. The old helpless anger was rising in a red wave.
Don't you know what you're talking about?
was almost all that his heart could cry. There were logical arguments against nuclear power plants that he could muster, but at times like this he could only find the inarticulate cry of his heart.

Don't you know what you're talking about? Don't you know what the stakes are? Don't any of you remember what happened in Russia two years ago?
They
haven't; they
can't.
They'll be burying the cancer victims far into the next century. Jesus-jumped-up-fiddling-Christ! Stick one of those used core-rods up your ass for half an hour or so and tell everyone how safe nuclear power is when your turds start to glow in the dark! Jesus!
JESUS!
You jerks are standing here listening to this man talk as if he was
sane!

He stood there, drink in hand, smiling pleasantly, listening to the spare tire spout his deadly nonsense.

The third man in the group was fifty or so and looked like a college dean. He wanted to know about the possibility of further organized protests in the fall. He called the spare tire Ted.

Ted the Power Man said he doubted there was much to worry about. Seabrook had had its vogue, and the Arrowhead installation in Maine—but since the federal judges had started to deal out some stiff sentences for what
they
saw as merely hell-raising, the protests had slowed down fast. “These groups go through targets almost as fast as they go through rock groups,” he said. Arberg, McCardle, and the others laughed—all except the wife of Ted the Power Man. Her smile only frayed a little more.

Gardener's pleasant smile remained. It felt flash-frozen onto his face.

Ted the Power Man grew more expansive. He said it was time to show the Arabs once and for all that America and Americans didn't need them. He said that even the most modern coal-fired generators were too dirty to be acceptable by the EPA. He said that solar power was great . . . “as long as the sun shines.” There was another burst of laughter.

Gardener's head thudded and whipped, whipped and thudded. His ears, tuned to an almost preternatural pitch, heard a faint crackling sound, like ice shifting, and he relaxed his hand a bare moment before it tightened enough to shatter the glass.

He blinked and Arberg had the head of a pig. This hallucination was utterly complete and utterly perfect, right down to the bristles on the fat man's snout. The buffet was in ruins, but Arberg was scavenging, finishing up the last few Triscuits, spearing a final slice of salami and chunk of cheese on the same plastic toothpick, chasing them with the last potato-chip crumbs. It all went into his snuffling snout, and he went on nodding all the while as Ted the Power Man explained that nuclear was the only alternative, really. “Thank God the American people are finally getting that Chernobyl business into some kind of perspective,” he said. “Thirty-two people dead. It's horrible, of course, but there was an airplane crash just a month ago that killed a hundred and ninety-some. You don't hear people yelling for the government to shut down the airlines, though, do you? Thirty-two dead is horrible, but it's far from the Armageddon these nuke-freaks made it sound like.” He lowered his voice a little. “They're as nuts as the LaRouche people you see in airports, but in a way, they're worse. They
sound
more rational. But if we gave them what they wanted, they'd turn around a month or so later and start whining about not being able to use their blow-dryers, or found out their Cuisinarts weren't going to work when they wanted to mix up a bunch of macrobiotic food.”

To Gard he didn't look like a man anymore. The shaggy head of a wolf poked out of the collar of his white shirt with the narrow red pinstripes. It looked around, pink tongue lolling, greenish-yellow eyes sparkling. Arberg squealed some sort of approval and stuffed more odd lots into his pink pig's snout. Patricia McCardle now had the smooth sleek head of a whippet. The college dean and his wife were weasels. And the wife of the man from the electric company had become a frightened rabbit, pink eyes rolling behind thick glasses.

Oh, Gard, no,
his mind moaned.

He blinked again and they were just people.

“And one thing these protesters never remember to mention at their protest rallies is just this,” Ted the Power Man finished, looking around at them like a trial lawyer reaching the climax of his summation. “In thirty years of peaceful nuclear-power development, there has never been
one single fatality as the result of nuclear power in the United States of America.”
He smiled modestly and tossed off the rest of his Scotch.

“I'm sure we'll all rest easier knowing
that,”
the man who looked like a college dean said. “And now I think my wife and I—”

“Did you know that Marie Curie died of radiation poisoning?” Gardener asked conversationally. Heads turned. “Yeah. Leukemia induced by direct exposure to gamma rays. She was the first casualty along the death march with this guy's power plant at the end. She did a lot of research, and recorded it all.”

Gardener looked around the suddenly silent room.

“Her notebooks are locked up in a vault,” he said. “A vault in Paris. It's lead-lined. The notebooks are whole, but too radioactive to touch. As for who's died here, we don't really know. The AEC and the EPA keep a lid on it.”

Patricia McCardle was frowning at him. With the dean temporarily forgotten, Arberg went back to scrounging along the denuded buffet table.

“On the fifth of October 1966,” Gardener said, “there was a partial nuclear meltdown of the Enrico Fermi breeder reactor in Michigan.”

“Nothing happened,” Ted the Power Man said, and spread his hands to the assembled company as if to say,
You see? QED.

“No,” Gardener said. “Nothing did. God may know why, but my guess is no one else does. The chain reaction stopped on its own. No one knows why. One of the engineers the contractors called in took a look, smiled, and said, ‘You guys almost lost Detroit.' Then he fainted.”

“Oh, but Mr. Gardener! That was—”

Gardener held up a hand. “When you examine the cancer-death stats for the areas surrounding every nuclear-power facility in the country, you find anomalies, deaths that are way out of line with the norm.”

“That is utterly untrue, and—”

“Let me finish, please. I don't think the facts make any
difference anymore, but let me finish anyway. Long before Chernobyl, the Russians had an accident at a reactor in a place called Kyshtym. But Khrushchev was Premier then, and the Soviets kept their lips a lot tighter. It looks like maybe they were storing used rods in a shallow ditch. Why not? As Madame Curie might have said, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Our best guess is that the core-rods oxidized, only instead of creating ferrous oxide, or rust, the way steel rods do, these rods rusted pure plutonium. It was like building a campfire next to a tank filled with LP gas, but they didn't know that. They assumed it would be all right. They
assumed
.” He could hear the rage filling his voice and was helpless to stop it. “They
assumed,
they played with the lives of living human beings as if they were . . . well, so many dolls . . . and guess what happened?”

The room was silent. Patty's mouth was a frozen red slash. Her complexion was milky with rage.

“It rained,” Gardener said. “It rained
hard.
And that started a chain reaction that caused an explosion. It was like the eruption of a mud volcano. Thousands were evacuated. Every pregnant woman was given an abortion. There was no choice involved. The Russian equivalent of a turnpike in the Kyshtym area was closed for almost a year. Then, when word started to leak out that a very bad accident had happened on the edge of Siberia, the Russians opened the road again. But they put up some really hilarious signs. I've seen the photos. I don't read Russian, but I've asked four or five different people for a translation, and they all agree. It sounds like a bad ethnic joke. Imagine yourself driving along an American thruway—I-95 or I-70, maybe—and coming up on a sign that says
PLEASE CLOSE ALL WINDOWS, TURN OFF ALL VENTILATION ACCESSORIES, AND DRIVE AS FAST AS YOUR CAR WILL GO FOR THE NEXT TWENTY MILES
.”

“Bullshit!” Ted the Power Man said loudly.

“Photographs available under the Freedom of Information Act,” Gard said. “If this guy was only lying, maybe I could live with it. But he and the rest of the people like him are doing something worse. They're like salesmen telling the public that cigarettes not only don't cause lung cancer, they're full of vitamin C and keep you from having colds.”

“Are you implying—”

“Thirty-two at Chernobyl we can
verify.
Hell, maybe it
is
only thirty-two. We've got photos taken by American doctors which suggest there must be well over two hundred already, but say thirty-two. It doesn't change what we've learned about high-rad exposure. The deaths don't all come at once. That's what's so deceiving. The deaths come in three waves. First, the people who get fried in the accident. Second, the leukemia victims, mostly kids. Third, the most lethal wave: cancer in adults forty and over. So much cancer you might as well go on and call it a plague. Skin cancer, breast cancer, liver cancer, melanoma, and bone cancer are the most common. But you also got your intestinal cancer, your bladder cancer, your brain tumors, your—”

“Stop, can't you please
stop?”
Ted's wife cried. Hysteria lent her voice a surprising power.

“I would if I could, dear,” he said gently. “I can't. In 1964 the AEC commissioned a study on a worst-case scenario if an American reactor one-fifth the size of Chernobyl blew. The results were so scary the AEC buried the report. It suggested—”

“Shut up, Gardener,” Patty said loudly. “You're drunk.”

He ignored her, fixing his eyes on the power-man's wife. “It suggested that such an accident in a relatively rural area of the USA—the one they picked was midstate Pennsylvania, where Three-Mile Island is, by the way—would kill 45,000 folks, rad seventy percent of the state, and do seventeen million dollars' worth of damage.”

“Holy fuck!” someone cried. “Are you
shitting?”

“Nope,” Gardener said, never taking his eyes from the woman, who now seemed hypnotized with terror. “If you multiply by five, you get 225,000 dead and eighty-five million dollars' worth of damage.” He refilled his glass nonchalantly in the silent grave of the room, tipped it at Arberg, and drank two mouthfuls of straight vodka.
Uncontaminated
vodka, one hoped. “So!” he finished. “We're talking almost a quarter of a million people dead by the time the third wave dissipates, around 2040.” He winked at Ted the Power Man, whose lips had pulled back from his teeth. “Be hard to get
that
many people even on a 767, wouldn't it?”

“Those figures came directly out of your butt,” Ted the Power Man said angrily.

“Ted—” the man's wife said nervously. She had gone
dead pale except for tiny spots of red burning high up on her cheekbones.

“You expect me to stand here and listen to that . . . that party-line rhetoric?” he asked, approaching Gardener until they were almost chest to chest. “Do you?”

“At Chernobyl they killed the kids,” Gardener said. “Don't you understand that? The ones ten years old, the ones
in utero.
Most may still be alive, but they are dying right now while we stand here with our drinks in our hands. Some can't even read yet. Most will never kiss a girl in passion. Right now while we're standing here with our drinks in our hands.

“They killed their children.”

He looked at Ted's wife, and now his voice began to shake and to rise slightly, as if in a plea.

“We know from Hiroshima, Nagasaki, from our own tests at Trinity and on Bikini.
They killed their own children
,
do you dig what I'm saying? There are nine-year-olds in Pripyat who are going to die shitting out their own intestines! They killed the children!”