Griffin's Egg

The land hereabouts was hacked and gouged, dirt and boulders shoved  into careless heaps and hills, the occasional tool station or Oxytank Emergency Storage Platform chopped into a nearby bluff.  A sign floated by:  TOILET FLUSHING FACILITIES 1/2 KILOMETER.  He made a face.  Then he remembered that his radio was still off and slipped the loop of wire from it.  Time to rejoin the real world.  Immediately his dispatcher's voice, harsh and staticky, was relayed to his trance chip.

"--ofabitch! Weil!  Where the fuck are you?"

"I'm right here, Beth.  A little late, but right where I'm supposed to be."

"Sonofa--"  The recording shut off, and Hamilton's voice came on, live and mean.  "You'd better have a real good explanation for this one, honey."

"Oh, you know how it is."  Gunther looked away from the road, off into the dusty jade highlands.  He'd like to climb up into them and never come back.  Perhaps he would find caves.  Perhaps there were monsters:  vacuum trolls and moondragons with metabolisms slow and patient, taking centuries to move one body's-length, hyperdense beings that could swim through stone as if it were water.  He pictured them diving, following lines of magnetic force deep, deep into veins of diamond and plutonium, heads back and singing.  "I picked up a hitchhiker, and we kind of got involved."

"Try telling that to E. Izmailova.  She's mad as hornets at you."

"Who?"

"Izmailova.  She's the new demolitions jock, shipped up here on a multicorporate contract.  Took a hopper in almost four hours ago, and she's been waiting for you and Siegfried ever since.  I take it you've never met her?"

"No."

"Well, I have, and you'd better watch your step with her.  She's exactly the kind of tough broad who won't be amused by your antics."

"Aw, come on, she's just another tech on a retainer, right?  Not in my line of command.  It's not like she can do anything to me."

"Dream on, babe.  It wouldn't take much pull to get a fuckup like you sent down to Earth."

The sun was only a finger's breadth over the highlands by the time Chatterjee A loomed into sight.  Gunther glanced at it every now and then, apprehensively.  With his visor adjusted to the H-alpha wavelength, it was a blazing white sphere covered with slowly churning black specks:  More granular than usual.  Sunspot activity seemed high.  He wondered that the Radiation Forecast Facility hadn't posted a surface advisory.  The guys at the Observatory were usually right on top of things.

Chatterjee A, B and C were a triad of simple craters just below Chladni, and while the smaller two were of minimal interest, Chatterjee A was the child of a meteor that had punched through the Imbrian basalts to as sweet a vein of aluminum ore as anything in the highlands.  Being so convenient to Bootstrap made it one of management's darlings, and Gunther was not surprised to see that Kerr-McGee was going all out to get their reactor online again.

The park was crawling with walkers, stalkers and assemblers.  They were all over the blister-domed factories, the smelteries, loading docks and vacuum garages.  Constellations of blue sparks winked on and off as major industrial constructs were dismantled.  Fleets of heavily-loaded trucks fa

He slowed to a crawl, swung wide to avoid a gas-plater that was being wrangled onto a loader, and cut up the Chatterjee B ramp road.  A new landing pad had been blasted from the rock just below the lip, and a cluster of people stood about a hopper resting there.  One human and eight remotes.

One of the remotes was speaking, making choppy little gestures with its arms.  Several stood inert, identical as so many antique telephones, unclaimed by Earthside management but available should more advisors need to be called online.

Gunther unstrapped Siegfried from the roof of the cab and, control pad in one hand and cable spool in the other, walked him toward the hopper.

The human strode out to meet him.  "You!  What kept you?"  E. Izmailova wore a jazzy red-and-orange Studio Volga boutique suit, in sharp contrast to his own company-issue suit with the G5 logo on the chest.  He could not make out her face through the gold visor glass.  But he could hear it in her voice:  blazing eyes, thin lips.

"I had a flat tire."  He found a good smooth chunk of rock and set down the cable spool, wriggling it to make sure it sat flush.  "We got maybe five hundred yards of shielded cable.  That enough for you?"

A short, tense nod.

"Okay."  He unholstered his bolt gun.  "Stand back."  Kneeling, he anchored the spool to the rock.  Then he ran a quick check of the unit's functions.  "Do we know what it's like in there?"

A remote came to life, stepped forward and identified himself as Don Sakai, of G5's crisis management team.  Gunther had worked with him before:  a decent enough guy, but like most Canadians he had an exaggerated fear of  nuclear energy.  "Ms. Lang here, of Sony-Reinpfaltz, walked her unit in but the radiation was so strong she lost control after a preliminary scan."  A second remote nodded confirmation, but the relay time to Toronto was just enough that Sakai missed it.  "The remote just kept on walking."  He coughed nervously, then added u

"Well, that's not going to be a problem with Siegfried.  He's as dumb as a rock.  On the evolutionary scale of machine intelligence he ranks closer to a crowbar than a computer."  Two and a half seconds passed, and then Sakai laughed politely.  Gunther nodded to Izmailova.  "Walk me through this.  Tell me what you want."

Izmailova stepped to his side, their suits pressing together briefly as she jacked a patch cord into his control pad.  Vague shapes flickered across the outside of her visor like the shadows of dreams.  "Does he know what he's doing?" she asked.

"Hey, I--"

"Shut up, Weil," Hamilton growled on a private circuit.  Openly, she said, "He wouldn't be here if the company didn't have full confidence in his technical skills."

"I'm sure there's never been any question--" Sakai began.  He lapsed into silence as Hamilton's words belatedly reached him.

"There's a device on the hopper," Izmailova said to Gunther.  "Go pick it up."

He obeyed, reconfiguring Siegfried for a small, dense load.  The unit bent low over the hopper, wrapping large, sensitive hands about the device.  Gunther applied gentle pressure.  Nothing happened.  Heavy little bugger.   Slowly, carefully, he upped the power.  Siegfried straightened.

"Up the road, then down inside."

The reactor was unrecognizable, melted, twisted and folded in upon itself, a mound of slag with twisting pipes sprouting from the edges.  There had been a coolant explosion early in the incident, and one wall of the crater was bright with sprayed metal.  "Where is the radioactive material?" Sakai asked.  Even though he was a third of a million kilometers away, he sounded tense and apprehensive.

"It's all radioactive," Izmailova said.

They waited.  "I mean, you know.  The fuel rods?"

"Right now, your fuel rods are probably three hundred meters down and still going.  We are talking about fissionable material that has achieved critical mass.  Very early in the process the rods will have all melted together in a sort of superhot puddle, capable of burning its way through rock.  Picture it as a dense, heavy blob of wax, slowly working its way toward the lunar core."

"God, I love physics," Gunther said.

Izmailova's helmet turned toward him, abruptly blank.  After a long pause, it switched on again and turned away.  "The road down is clear at least.  Take your unit all the way to the end.  There's an exploratory shaft to one side there.  Old one.  I want to see if it's still open."