Flatlander - Larry Niven [142]
“On Earth they’re still buying He3, and we can keep that up until your eighteen billion flatlanders start spraying the tops of their heads for power.”
“You use it yourselves?”
“Stet. Black Power is a great invention, but it’s so cheap that it’s no longer feasible for us to build new He3 fusion plants. You see? But running the old ones is still cheaper than the paint.”
I nodded. Hecate was pretending she already knew all this.
“So my job is safe. Except that He3 fusion has to be ten times hotter than D-T fusion. The plant is starting to leak heat. Fusion is running slow. We have to inject a catalyst, something to heat up the He3. Something that fissions or fuses at a lower temperature.”
Sterne was enjoying himself. “Wouldn’t it be nice if there was something already measured out in standard units and uniform proportions, just lying around ready to pick up-”
“Stet. I see it.”
“This radioactive goo from Del Rey Crater works fine. It hasn’t lost much of its kick. The processor doesn’t do much more than pop off the boosters and lift off the dust.”
“How?”
“Magnetically. We had to build an injector system, of course, with a neutron reflector chamber. We had to install these decontamination rooms and the autodocs and a human doctor on permanent call. Nothing is simple. But the canisters—we just pop them in and let them heat up until the stuff sprays out. We’ve been using them for two years. Eventually the waldo tugs moved enough canisters that we noticed the body. Hamilton, who was she?”
“We’ll find out. Sterne, when this leaks out—” I saw his theatrical wince. “Sorry—”
“Don’t say leak.”
“Nothing gets attention like a murder. Then the media will all be looking at a fusion plant that was supposed to be radiation-free that you guys have got running radioactive. We can keep that half-secret for a day or two while we thrash around and you work on your story. If you’ll do the same.”
Sterne looked puzzled. “It was all fairly public, but … yes. Be glad to.”
Hecate said, “We need phones.”
We bought water bottles from a dispenser wall in the technicians’ lounge. The lounge had a recycler booth, too. Hecate hadn’t gotten nearly the dose I had, but we were both taking in water and funny molecules, and we’d be needing the recycler a lot.
There were four phones. We settled ourselves under the eyes of curious techs and turned on privacy dampers. I called the Los Angeles ARM.
A message light was blinking on Hecate’s phone. I watched her ignore it while she talked rapid-fire in mime.
I waited.
It always takes forever to connect, and you never learn the problem. No satellite in place? Lightning sends its own signals? Someone left a switch point turned off? Muslim Sector is tapping ARM communications, badly? Sometimes a local government tries that.
But a perfect multiracial androgynous image was inviting me to speak my needs.
I tapped in Jackson Bera’s code. I got Jackson explaining that he wasn’t there.
“Got a locked room for you, Jackson,” I told the hologram. “See if Garner has an interest. I need an ancient pressure suit identified. We think it was made on Earth. I can’t send the suit itself; it’s radioactive as hell.” I faxed him the videotape I’d taken in Del Rey Crater, dead woman, footprints, and all.
That should get their attention.
Hecate was still occupied. Given a free moment, I called Taffy in Hovestraydt City. “Hi, love, the lu—”
“I’m off performing surgery,” the recording cried wildly. “The villagers say I’m mad, but this day I have created life! If you want the heeheehee patient to call back, leave your vital stats at the chime.”
Bong! I said, “Love, the lunie law has me halfway around the moon looking at something interesting. Sorry about tomorrow. I can’t give you a time frame or a number. If the monster wants a mate, I’ll look around.”
Hecate had been watching me as she talked. Now she rang off, grinning. “You’ll get your view of Del Rey,” she told me. “None of the sputniki are handy, but I got a Belt miner to do the job for a break in his customs