Spigett seemed mollified. He sat down as suddenly as he had stood up. ‘You’re right, Gatt,’ he said irrelevantly, ‘that bloody fan does squeak.’ He turned back to the Director. He was almost his jovial self again. ‘Sir Robert,’ he said, ‘I like you. You’re a man after my own heart. Outspoken. We understand each other.’ For one ridiculous moment it looked as if he were about to offer him a seat on the Board of Spigett’s Canned Foods. But he said: ‘I see your point of view. You’ve got your angle, and I’ve got mine. Very well, I will find out. We will get to the bottom of this. If Mr Simmel can phone my factory manager for me, he can give all the details you want.’
The Director beamed back with a friendliness he didn’t feel. But he was satisfied that a dangerous peak in the curve had been passed. The control rods were now safely back in the pile. ‘Dick, will you place yourself at Mr Spigett’s disposal? Naturally we do not want him to leave the meeting at an important time like this.’ Spigett seemed pleased at the implication that he was indispensable.
Dick walked round the table and stood by the canning magnate, who told him quietly what to do. Now that Spigett’s sense of importance was established, he was back in his element. It almost made up for any business he might lose if they were to find that more of the stuff was contaminated …
*
When Manson saw that Ganin was coloured, he was careful to conceal his feelings until he had an opportunity of finding out what the others felt about it. So he was polite but withdrawn, ready, when the occasion arose, to discuss the matter at length behind Ganin’s back but determined to leave the initiative to someone else. He had already felt the Director’s critical eye on him on more than one occasion. As it happened, much to his annoyance none of the others even appeared to notice Ganin was a black man at all. Which was odd, because the pigmentation in Mike’s skin was exceptionally dark.
Simmel had made an extra place for Ganin between Heatherfield and Mr Rupert; and Heatherfield was chatting to him while Seff talked in an undertone to Frank Gresham. The Director was standing at the window with Seff, and Gatt was poring over some plans of Newlands Steel Works, with Alec Manson half concentrating on the plans and half wondering what Seff was saying to the Director. It was unusually hot for a spring afternoon, and they were all quite glad of the fan.
‘I hear,’ said Heatherfield to the new-comer, ‘that you’ve just got back from South Africa. How is it down there?’
Mike gave a little satirical laugh and shook his head in perplexity. ‘Man, it’s a real mess! I don’t know! What’s going to happen? What will they do?’ He rubbed the tip of his thumb across his lips. ‘If I hadn’t had some pretty high-powered introductions, I doubt whether I could have got into the country at all.’
‘I’m really quite surprised you went,’ Heatherfield admitted. ‘Doesn’t it make you very angry, all this business?’
Ganin smiled, and there was much wisdom in that smile. ‘Why get angry? People are always getting angry at other people’s stupidity; but one form of stupidity is just as bad as another. It’s a human characteristic. Colour prejudice is only stupidity. And fear.’
‘What about these articles I hear you’re writing? What are you going to say?’
‘I’m going to say that people can’t solve problems by ganging up on anybody.’ He grinned. ‘I think my paper is going to be kind of disappointed; they’re probably expecting some pretty hard-hitting stuff. Well, they’re wrong. What would be the use? It would only be adding to the bitterness. South Africa, as I see it, is a problem, not a battlefield. I don’t think there’s any thing basically evil about Segregation. It’s one way out. But it’s not the right way, and I shall say so.’
*
‘And now,’ said Hargreaves, resuming his place at the head of the table, ‘we come to Mr Ganin. And first of all I would like to say, on behalf of us all, how very grateful I am that he has come forward — and so quickly! For, as you know, he only landed at Liverpool this morning.’ There were murmurs of assent. ‘Mr Ganin?’
Ganin spoke softly and modestly, but not timorously. ‘It’s very good of you to express such a sentiment. But I can assure you that anyone else would have done the same.’ His eyes looked very intense, their dark centres and white surrounds standing out clearly against his dark skin. They were the eyes of a friendly and capable man. ‘I’ll tell you about the row at Newlands Steel,’ he said. ‘Would that be a good way to start?’
The Director said: ‘I want you to tell us whatever you think is relevant, and I want you to tell us in your own way.’
Ganin smiled and Went on: ‘I went to Newlands Steel about three years ago, mostly in the capacity of radiographer. But I had other, more general, duties. It’s quite a small company and everybody mucks in.
‘Well, let’s be frank about it — from the word go, a lot of people didn’t like the colour of my skin. But I thought they’d get over it, so I stayed. It was pretty unpleasant at times, and I should have realised that if people are going to be all that unpleasant about something that a man can’t help, there’s probably things wrong with them in other ways as well. But I thought it was just ordinary colour prejudice — and you get used to that if you’ve always been at the receiving end.’ His audience was very still, and only the sound of the fan punctuated his sentences. ‘However, I was mistaken,’ he said. ‘There was a lot wrong with Newlands Steel — and I fancy there still is. And one of the things that was wrong with it was the fact that the works manager used to do quite a lot of business on the side. He was able to do so because the accounting was extremely bad, and the man who was supposed to be in charge of the stockyard was always open to an act of friendship — like, for instance, the large television set he so mysteriously acquired, or the time his car was practically rebuilt from new sheet-steel when he wrapped the body round a tree one night. This sort of thing went on all the time, and nearly everyone was working some kind of fiddle or other.’
He took a sip of water and continued: ‘Newlands is not just a smelting works. They dabble in all sorts of things — and make a mess of most of them. If they make money, I don’t know how they manage it — perhaps they don’t have to; maybe it’s run in order to lose money for some rich guy. If so, it must be a smash hit! Anyway, nobody did much work while I was there; they seemed to expend most of their energy in trying to lever me out. Well, I didn’t take much notice; I was too busy and too interested in my job. This was my first real appointment in industry after getting my physics degree, and I wanted to make the most of it. So whatever went on around me I did my best to ignore it.’ He looked down at the blotter in front of him. ‘Perhaps if I had taken more interest in other people’s affairs, this whole awful thing would never have happened.’
‘You can’t start blaming yourself for that,’ said Sir Robert gently. ‘You had a job to do, and you got on with it.’
‘Well, if I’d known … but of course I didn’t. One never does, until it’s too late.’ He snapped out of the mood of self -recrimination and continued: ‘Yes, I got on with the job, which was to inspect all the steel we made and reject it if necessary. And, brother, did we turn out some lousy steel! There were so many cracks that you couldn’t throw it all out. And most of the stuff I condemned they still sold — and got away with it. I hate to think how many pieces of machinery must have come unstuck because of us! One can only thank the Lord above that they don’t use too much sheet steel in the manufacture of aeroplanes!’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Gatt, ‘but you say they used to experiment from time to time. What sort of experiments?’
Ganin thought for a moment. ‘Well, they used to take on special jobs. They couldn’t do them, mark you; but they were great triers were Newlands! For instance, they were asked by some company or other to produce a special, high-tensile sheet steel that would stand an unusual amount of bending before it snapped — I don’t know what it was for. Well, most of our stuff was of such poor quality that if you bent it much it just stayed bent! But we ha
d a go, though nothing came of it. Then, like many other things, it was removed from the scene — I expect the works manager sold it round the corner for scrap and put the proceeds in his pocket. Scrap was all it was good for, anyway. But those were the sort of “special jobs” we undertook.’
‘Any coating? Electro-plating?’
‘Yes. We did some of that, too.’
‘I see. Please go on.’
‘Yes. Well, I used to solemnly X-ray the stuff we turned out — as they do in all steel foundries nowadays. Then came the business of the cobalt.’
‘What sort of cobalt?’ said Seff. ‘Do you mean the ordinary stuff you use for alloying with the metal?’
‘No. I mean the radioactive isotope — cobalt-60. It happened this way: I told the company it would be more efficient — as if they cared about efficiency! — when inspecting large quantities of steel, especially the heavier steel, if we had a portable radiographing plant which could be taken round the sheds on routine checks of the metal, instead of transporting the samples into the X-ray room. To my amazement, they agreed; and a machine of this type was delivered to the works a couple of months later. This particular apparatus didn’t use X-rays at all; instead, a piece of radioactive material was used. As you know this is quite a common practice these days.
‘Well, the machine arrived without the necessary material — which of course would be expected. So I gently pointed out to the works manager that I couldn’t possibly use the thing until some suitable radiating material arrived. They were very surprised — I think they thought that all you had to do was to plug the apparatus into the nearest lighting point. But when I had convinced them they tried to get hold of the stuff, but without success.’
Seff gave a sardonic laugh. ‘I’m not surprised!’ he said. ‘I don’t think I would have cared to send them a bag of bull’s eyes, let alone anything as lethal as an industrial isotope.’
‘And you would have been right,’ said Ganin seriously. ‘But they got it. Somehow. After all, they had to get it: they’d sold the X-ray machine by then! And it looked pretty bad, having no means of checking the thickness of the steel during the rolling process — except by stopping the mill. They got some cobalt-60, in a properly shielded lead canister, and told me to get on with the job.’
‘But how? said Gatt quietly but intensely. ‘How did they get it? Where did it come from?’
‘That’s one of the things I tried to find out,’ said Ganin in a tone that matched his. ‘But I only found out one thing for sure. Or rather, suspected it strongly enough in my own mind to be certain. And that was that they didn’t come by it honestly! However, to continue. I got to work with the new machine, and it was excellent in every way — we hadn’t had a particularly powerful X-ray equipment, and this new apparatus would penetrate much thicker material — and of course you could use a longer exposure. If you tried that on the ordinary X-ray, the tube got far too hot. Also there was practically no wear and tear on the machine; you could use it as much and as often as you liked provided you didn’t run out of the photographic plates. (Which of course, we very frequently did.) So we had a cheaper and better method of radiography that could go on for quite a while without replacing the cobalt — since its half-life is, of course, relatively long.’
‘Who looked after the cobalt?’ said Manson. ‘Did you?’
‘No, I wasn’t allowed to keep it at all. I used to go to the managing director of the firm when I needed it.’
‘Where was it kept, then?’
‘It was kept in its lead container, inside the safe. That is, when he remembered to put it there.’
‘Do you mean to say,’ said Seff incredulously, ‘that it was sometimes left lying about?’
‘In that firm,’ said Ganin, ‘anything could happen. Yes, I saw it sitting on his desk on two occasions. Naturally I made one heck of a fuss about it.’
‘Didn’t it ever occur to you,’ put in Manson, ‘to report this?’
Ganin looked directly across the table at him. ‘It occurred to me to report it,’ he said, ‘when I heard some pretty disturbing rumours on the ship while returning from South Africa. It started a couple of days before we docked at Liverpool, when it was heard that a ship belonging to the same line — called the Henry Starbuck, I think — had had some sort of trouble on board, and some of its crew were alleged to be suffering from radiation sickness. Naturally, being a physicist of a kind, I was more than interested. I found out from the captain of our ship that the source of the trouble was a cargo of tinned food. Since I had nothing else to do, I started thinking about it, and remembered some of the things I have just been telling you. I might not have put two and two together, but for one of those passengers who got on at Mombasa. He had heard that the men were in hospital, but didn’t know why. One thing led to another, until finally, two days ago, we got the other half of the story. And of course there was no mention of radiation sickness in the papers when we arrived in England — only a reference to food-poisoning, and some pretty exhaustive precautions that were being taken to combat it. But as soon as I saw the paper in Liverpool, I realised what was in the wind. That’s when I telephoned to Ed Springle.’
Hargreaves said: ‘What happened at Newlands after the row about the cobalt being left about?’
‘Well, things were being made pretty hot for me there, and it was obvious that my days were numbered. By that time, as you can imagine, I was only too ready to get out.
‘And sure enough, about a month or so later, things came to a head. Of course, the reason for my getting the sack was a trumped-up one. There was a fight. What actually happened was that two fellas started arguing and started a brawl. I had to separate them. Everybody knew this perfectly well. But when the final straw took place, they switched the story around a bit and I was blamed for starting the fight! I didn’t care, anyway. I’d had enough of Newlands Steel.’
‘What was the final straw?’ said Gatt. As if he hadn’t guessed already.
‘It was when I went to the managing director and asked for the capsule of cobalt-60. He’d lost it.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN the meeting reassembled after a short break for tea, there was a large piece of apparatus set up on the table. Manson was tinkering about with it importantly. Dick couldn’t help catching Gresham’s eye — Manson locked so absurdly pompous.
‘For the benefit of those of us who are not familiar with the technicalities,’ said the Director, ‘I have asked Alec to explain briefly what is involved. I think it is essential that we should all know a little about the principles of radiation. Alec —’ Alec —?’
Manson opened his brief-case and produced two tins with the Spigett label upon them. He plonked them on the table with a dramatic gesture.
‘Here we have two cans of beans,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘The one on my left is an innocent one, the one on the right is contaminated. Don’t worry about the radiation though; there is not enough coming from this one to do any harm — it is one of the weaker ones. But it does come from the infected batch; that is, J4 — 22, QN4W.’ He rested a podgy fist on the detecting apparatus. ‘This machine is sensitive to radiation. The degree of radiation is registered on the big dial you see on the front.’
‘Is this the geiger counter we’ve been hearing so much about?’ said Spigett, using his bored voice.
‘There are many different types of detection equipment nowadays,’ said Manson, carrying on with the lecture almost as if the question hadn’t been asked, ‘and this is one of them. It is designed to detect gamma rays — and it is very important for you to grasp the fact that there are several different kinds of radiation. If we know which kind it is, it naturally helps us to find out what the source of the radiation is. For instance, cobalt-60 is principally a gamma radiator, whereas strontium-90 emits beta particles. Of course, when the chemical analysis of the metal has been completed, we will know for certain what the nigger in the woodpile is — or rather,’ he added, pleased with the pun, ‘the n
igger in the pile.’ The effect of the joke was somewhat spoiled by his sudden realisation that the phrase was an unfortunate one in view of the presence of Mike Ganin. What was worse, he emphasized the faux pas with an embarrassed silence. Mike, however, was grinning to himself, thoroughly enjoying that man’s embarrassment. He didn’t care much for Manson — he was, in any case, one of them.
‘Anyway,’ continued Manson, his lecture now spoiled for him, ‘if I now switch on the equipment’ — he did so — ‘you will see that we get a reading from the contaminated tin but not from the other one.’ He picked up an object looking rather like a microphone that was attached to the main apparatus by a piece of cable, and held it near the tin. The meter on the instrument registered a few points. Then he held the microphone thing near the other can, and the needle sank back to zero.
‘Now we’ll check the contents.’ Once again he burrowed in the brief-case, this time coming up with two ordinary dinner-plates. ‘It is consistent with Seff’s theory — about the sauce dissolving the coating of the tin and thus acquiring the contamination itself — that the food inside also emits gamma rays; and that is just what happens, as you will see.’ He was obviously searching for something.
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