hemispheres with Styrofoam or something, and then pack the whole thing in a big ball of plastic explosive. With any luck, a fast reaction will set in when the explosive slams the two hemispheres together.”
“Why do you speak of luck, Alwin? We need your scientific certainty.”
“So forget luck,” I said with a shrug. “So far as we know, no one has ever built a simple atomic bomb that didn’t work. Let’s finish the job. Do you have anything to pack that plutonium in?”
“There are two steel mixing bowls in our kitchen,” Peter suggested.
“Good. Go get them.”
“You go. We can’t trust you alone in here.”
I went and pounded on the workshop door.
“What?” shouted Beatrice from the other side.
“We need the steel mixing bowls from the kitchen.”
“What else are you gonna need? I don’t wanna open this door any more than I have to.”
I thought for a minute. “Get a bunch of tubes of epoxy glue. And a Styrofoam ice-chest. A-and a small trunk to put the whole thing in.” I paused and thought again. “Do we have wires and a timer in the workshop?”
“ Ja, ja ,” Peter put in. He was standing next to me. “We’ve got all that.”
“OK,” Beatrice called, her voice gone girlish with excitement. “We’ll get that other stuff right away.”
While Peter monitored the radiation count, I split the plutonium oxide pellets into two six-kilogram mounds. I was hesitant adding the last few pellets, worried I might hit critical mass before I expected to. But the counter just ticked along evenly.
“All right,” I told Peter. “Now we want to find some way of compacting this stuff.”
“Why not hammer the pellets into dust?” Peter suggested. “They’re brittle enough.”
I groaned softly. “Peter, the last thing we want is to kick up a whole lot of plutonium dust. As it is, I plan to keep my suit on until I’m a kilometer or two away from here. Think of something else.”
“Melt it? We’ve got an oxyacetylene torch here that cuts plate steel.”
“Now you’re talking. Now you cookin’ wif gas, boah. We just need a crucible.”
We poked around the workroom till we found a barrel of sand.
“This is perfect,” I told Peter. We’ll hollow out a hemispherical mold like this…” I dug rapidly at the sand, making a bowl-like depression some ten centimeters across and five centimeters deep. “Get the torch.”
Peter dialed the torch up to high and fused the top layer of sand. This would keep the plutonium from trickling away. I got six kilograms of the dirty disks and set them gently in. At my insistence, Peter covered the torch and barrel with a plastic drop cloth before the next step.
“That’s our fume-hood, Peter.”
Just as he started heating up the plutonium, Beatrice got back. I went to the door.
“Is it safe?” she called.
“Oh, sure. We’re not doing much of anything. Come right in.”
The lock clicked and the door slid open. Beatrice stared past me at the flare of light in front of Peter. A fat sputter of plutonium flew up and melted a hole in the plastic cover sheet.
“Take a deep breath,” I mocked. “Good clean country air.”
Beatrice looked a little pale. “Take this shit and let me close the door. And don’t worry about those ceiling vents, I told Orali not to run them today.”
I reached out towards her, rubbing my dusty fingers together. “Don’t just stand in the shallows, Beatrice. Come all the way in. Get healthy, baby.”
There was a sharp report and something whistled past my face. Giulia. She was standing behind Beatrice, firing her Uzi at me.
I know when I’m not wanted. I backed off. Beatrice shoved in some parcels, and the door slammed.
“The first batch is all melted,” Peter said, turning off the torch and walking over to me. “Why do you try to contaminate Beatrice?”
“I don’t like her. I don’t like being kidnapped. I don’t like bombing thousands of pilgrims.”
“Oh, come on, Alwin. So far you have
“Why do you speak of luck, Alwin? We need your scientific certainty.”
“So forget luck,” I said with a shrug. “So far as we know, no one has ever built a simple atomic bomb that didn’t work. Let’s finish the job. Do you have anything to pack that plutonium in?”
“There are two steel mixing bowls in our kitchen,” Peter suggested.
“Good. Go get them.”
“You go. We can’t trust you alone in here.”
I went and pounded on the workshop door.
“What?” shouted Beatrice from the other side.
“We need the steel mixing bowls from the kitchen.”
“What else are you gonna need? I don’t wanna open this door any more than I have to.”
I thought for a minute. “Get a bunch of tubes of epoxy glue. And a Styrofoam ice-chest. A-and a small trunk to put the whole thing in.” I paused and thought again. “Do we have wires and a timer in the workshop?”
“ Ja, ja ,” Peter put in. He was standing next to me. “We’ve got all that.”
“OK,” Beatrice called, her voice gone girlish with excitement. “We’ll get that other stuff right away.”
While Peter monitored the radiation count, I split the plutonium oxide pellets into two six-kilogram mounds. I was hesitant adding the last few pellets, worried I might hit critical mass before I expected to. But the counter just ticked along evenly.
“All right,” I told Peter. “Now we want to find some way of compacting this stuff.”
“Why not hammer the pellets into dust?” Peter suggested. “They’re brittle enough.”
I groaned softly. “Peter, the last thing we want is to kick up a whole lot of plutonium dust. As it is, I plan to keep my suit on until I’m a kilometer or two away from here. Think of something else.”
“Melt it? We’ve got an oxyacetylene torch here that cuts plate steel.”
“Now you’re talking. Now you cookin’ wif gas, boah. We just need a crucible.”
We poked around the workroom till we found a barrel of sand.
“This is perfect,” I told Peter. We’ll hollow out a hemispherical mold like this…” I dug rapidly at the sand, making a bowl-like depression some ten centimeters across and five centimeters deep. “Get the torch.”
Peter dialed the torch up to high and fused the top layer of sand. This would keep the plutonium from trickling away. I got six kilograms of the dirty disks and set them gently in. At my insistence, Peter covered the torch and barrel with a plastic drop cloth before the next step.
“That’s our fume-hood, Peter.”
Just as he started heating up the plutonium, Beatrice got back. I went to the door.
“Is it safe?” she called.
“Oh, sure. We’re not doing much of anything. Come right in.”
The lock clicked and the door slid open. Beatrice stared past me at the flare of light in front of Peter. A fat sputter of plutonium flew up and melted a hole in the plastic cover sheet.
“Take a deep breath,” I mocked. “Good clean country air.”
Beatrice looked a little pale. “Take this shit and let me close the door. And don’t worry about those ceiling vents, I told Orali not to run them today.”
I reached out towards her, rubbing my dusty fingers together. “Don’t just stand in the shallows, Beatrice. Come all the way in. Get healthy, baby.”
There was a sharp report and something whistled past my face. Giulia. She was standing behind Beatrice, firing her Uzi at me.
I know when I’m not wanted. I backed off. Beatrice shoved in some parcels, and the door slammed.
“The first batch is all melted,” Peter said, turning off the torch and walking over to me. “Why do you try to contaminate Beatrice?”
“I don’t like her. I don’t like being kidnapped. I don’t like bombing thousands of pilgrims.”
“Oh, come on, Alwin. So far you have
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