sealed
there, and only the seals are checked here."
"Mank you." Dickstein nodded, pleased. The system was not quite as
rigorous as Mr. Pfaffer of Euratom had claimed. One or two schemes began
to take vague shape in Dicksteiifs mind.
They saw the reactor loading machine in operation. Worked entirely by
remote control, it took the fuel element from the store to the reactor,
lifted the concrete lid of a fuel channel, removed the spent element,
inserted the new one, closed the lid and dumped the used element into a
water-filled shaft which led to the cooling ponds.
The hostess, speaking perfect Parisian French in an oddly seductive
voice, said, "T'he reactor has three thousand fuel channels, each channel
containing eight fuel rods. The rods last four to seven years. The
loading machine renews five channels in each operation."
They went on to see the cooling ponds. Under twenty feet of water the
spent fuel elements were loaded into pannets, then-cool, but still highly
radioactive-they were locked into fifty-ton lead flasks, two hundred
elements to a flask, for transport by road and rail to a reprocessing
plant.
As the hostess served coffee and pastries in the lounge Dickstein
considered what he had learned. It had occurred to him that, since
plutonium was ultimately what was wanted,
70
TRIPLE
he might steal used fuel. Now he knew why nobody had suggested it. It
would be easy enough to hijack the track-he could do it singlehanded-but
how would he sneak a fifty-ton lead flask out of the country and take it
to Israel without anyone noticing?
Stealing uranium from inside the power station was no more promising an
idea. Sure, the security was flimsy-the very fact that he had been
permitted to make this reconnaissance, and had even been given a guided
tour, showed that. But fuel inside the station was locked into an
automatic, remote-controlled system. The only way it could come out was
by going right through the nuclear process and emerging in the cooling
ponds; and then he was back with the problem of sneaking a huge flask of
radioactive material through some European port.
There had to be a way of breaking into the fuel store, Dickstein
supposed; then you could manhandle the stuff into the elevator, take it
down, put it on a track and drive away; but that would involve holding
some or all of the station personnel at gunpoint for some time, and his
brief was to do this thing surreptitiously.
A hostess offered to refill his cup, and he accepted. Trust the French
to give you good coffee. A young engineer began a talk on nuclear safety.
He wore unpressed trousers and a baggy sweater. Scientists and
technicians all had a look about them, Dickstein had observed: their
clothes were old, mismatched and comfortable, and if many of them wore
beards, it was usually a sign of indifference rather than vanity. He
thought it was because in their work, force of personality generally
counted for nothing, brains for everything, so there was no point in
trying to make a good visual impression. But perhaps that was a romantic
view of science.
. He did not pay attention to the lecture. The physicist from the
Weizmann Institute had been much more concise. "There is no such thing
as a safe level of radiation," he had said. "Such talk makes you think
of radiation like water in a pool: if it's four feet high you're safe,
if it's eight feet high you drown. But in fact radiation levels are much
more like speed limits on the highway-thirty miles per hour is safer than
eighty, but not as safe as twenty, and the only way to be completely safe
is not to get in the car."
Dickstein turned his mind back to the problem of stealing
71
Ken Folleff
uranium. It was the requirement of secrecy that defeated every plan he
dreamed up. Maybe the whole thing was doomed to failure. After all,
impossible is impossible, he thought. No, it was too soon to say that. He
went back to first principles.
He would have to
there, and only the seals are checked here."
"Mank you." Dickstein nodded, pleased. The system was not quite as
rigorous as Mr. Pfaffer of Euratom had claimed. One or two schemes began
to take vague shape in Dicksteiifs mind.
They saw the reactor loading machine in operation. Worked entirely by
remote control, it took the fuel element from the store to the reactor,
lifted the concrete lid of a fuel channel, removed the spent element,
inserted the new one, closed the lid and dumped the used element into a
water-filled shaft which led to the cooling ponds.
The hostess, speaking perfect Parisian French in an oddly seductive
voice, said, "T'he reactor has three thousand fuel channels, each channel
containing eight fuel rods. The rods last four to seven years. The
loading machine renews five channels in each operation."
They went on to see the cooling ponds. Under twenty feet of water the
spent fuel elements were loaded into pannets, then-cool, but still highly
radioactive-they were locked into fifty-ton lead flasks, two hundred
elements to a flask, for transport by road and rail to a reprocessing
plant.
As the hostess served coffee and pastries in the lounge Dickstein
considered what he had learned. It had occurred to him that, since
plutonium was ultimately what was wanted,
70
TRIPLE
he might steal used fuel. Now he knew why nobody had suggested it. It
would be easy enough to hijack the track-he could do it singlehanded-but
how would he sneak a fifty-ton lead flask out of the country and take it
to Israel without anyone noticing?
Stealing uranium from inside the power station was no more promising an
idea. Sure, the security was flimsy-the very fact that he had been
permitted to make this reconnaissance, and had even been given a guided
tour, showed that. But fuel inside the station was locked into an
automatic, remote-controlled system. The only way it could come out was
by going right through the nuclear process and emerging in the cooling
ponds; and then he was back with the problem of sneaking a huge flask of
radioactive material through some European port.
There had to be a way of breaking into the fuel store, Dickstein
supposed; then you could manhandle the stuff into the elevator, take it
down, put it on a track and drive away; but that would involve holding
some or all of the station personnel at gunpoint for some time, and his
brief was to do this thing surreptitiously.
A hostess offered to refill his cup, and he accepted. Trust the French
to give you good coffee. A young engineer began a talk on nuclear safety.
He wore unpressed trousers and a baggy sweater. Scientists and
technicians all had a look about them, Dickstein had observed: their
clothes were old, mismatched and comfortable, and if many of them wore
beards, it was usually a sign of indifference rather than vanity. He
thought it was because in their work, force of personality generally
counted for nothing, brains for everything, so there was no point in
trying to make a good visual impression. But perhaps that was a romantic
view of science.
. He did not pay attention to the lecture. The physicist from the
Weizmann Institute had been much more concise. "There is no such thing
as a safe level of radiation," he had said. "Such talk makes you think
of radiation like water in a pool: if it's four feet high you're safe,
if it's eight feet high you drown. But in fact radiation levels are much
more like speed limits on the highway-thirty miles per hour is safer than
eighty, but not as safe as twenty, and the only way to be completely safe
is not to get in the car."
Dickstein turned his mind back to the problem of stealing
71
Ken Folleff
uranium. It was the requirement of secrecy that defeated every plan he
dreamed up. Maybe the whole thing was doomed to failure. After all,
impossible is impossible, he thought. No, it was too soon to say that. He
went back to first principles.
He would have to
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