Strontium-90 Read online

  “How do you know this is safe?”

  I laughed to try to ease his discomfort. “Mr. Chuikov, please. Doctor Hiram plans the first test tomorrow. She wouldn’t attempt it if it were risky.”

  “You have seen soul?”

  “Uh…” Doctor Hiram was unusually secretive concerning that part of the project, as well as who backed her. But if I told Chuikov that, it might mean a midnight ride for me to Sonoma Point with the Ukrainian Undertaker. I had fallen far behind on my payments. “Of course I have,” I lied, feeling perfectly justified. “I saw my soul the other day.”

  Chuikov raised bushy eyebrows. “Describe it to me.”

  I smiled. “Sir, I think it would be better if you saw it for yourself. It’s quite amazing.”

  He eyed the machine. “Does it use radiation?”

  “Sir, this is America, not the ex-Soviet Union. We don’t radiate our own people.”

  He grunted. Then he laughed. “You will give me print? I want to send it to my mother.”

  “Of course,” I said. I could never let Doctor Hiram learn about that.

  “Yes! I will do it.”

  I instructed him to sit in the chair and lean back. He did, gingerly at first, giving me a long, searching glance. I smiled and patted his arm. Then I swung the photonic box over his head, much as an x-ray technician used to do when I was a child at the dentist.

  “Don’t move,” I said.

  “Will it take long?”

  “It shouldn’t.”

  “Will I feel anything?”

  I had no idea. “Of course not,” I said. “It’s painless.” I went to the control board, my insides seething. Would it work? Would a person feel anything, provided people even had souls? I couldn’t see why it should hurt. A regular photograph wasn’t painful.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  Boss Chuikov grunted.

  I pressed the button. The photonic box whined and then Chuikov gave out the most soul-searing scream I’ve ever heard. I whirled around. He clutched the armrests. His face was rigid and his eyes bulged, making him look even more like a bullfrog. The odor of sweat permeated the room.

  Horror filled me. What had I done? What if I turned it off and Chuikov yanked out his gun and shot me dead? So I waited, desperately trying to think of something. Then all at once the whine turned high-pitched and then abruptly cycled down. Chuikov collapsed. I raced to the machine, opened the slot. In it was a malleable marble with insides that were an oily mass.

  I blinked in astonishment. Was that a picture of his soul?

  Boss Chuikov stirred.

  I waited, petrified.

  He opened his eyes. They were blank. His face was wooden, as if all the vitality had been sucked out of it. He stared at me. Then he swung his legs out of the chair, unsteadily stood up and reached inside his suit. I heard the snap of a hostler, and in a smooth motion, he aimed a snub-nosed .38 at my midsection. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t frown, smile or use his face in any way. His features were like a Halloween mask.

  “Mr. Chuikov,” I whispered. I picked up the malleable marble, thinking to show it to him. “Don’t shoot me.”

  His gun hand swung down.

  “Are you well?” I asked.

  He stared at me with that blank look. It was an eerie sensation.

  “Say something,” I said.

  “What should I say?” he asked, with a dead voice, with no lilt or inflection.

  I blinked. “Do you want to see the picture of your soul?”

  A terrible longing flickered across his face.

  “Here, look!” I said, thrusting my hand at him.

  He looked, and a moan tore out of him.

  “What’s wrong?” I looked at the malleable marble, at the swirling oily something within. “It worked. I didn’t lie. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, in a lifeless voice.

  “Does that cover at least some of my debt?”

  He said nothing and did nothing.

  “It has to count for something!” I shouted.

  He nodded.

  “You agree then?”

  “Yes.”

  I frowned, and a horrible, dreadful thought struck me. I recalled as I stared at blank Boss Chuikov that olden natives used to hate Westerners taking photographs of them. The tribal peoples had believed that taking a picture was like stealing your soul. I looked at the swirling, oily mists within the marble. Was that Chuikov’s soul? The idea was bewildering. What would it mean if you held someone’s soul?

  “Sit down, Mr. Chuikov,” I said, deciding to experiment.

  The ex-Soviet wrestler dropped onto the floor, sitting on his flabby behind.

  I turned away, stunned, sickened, realizing that I had control of Mr. Chuikov like some sorcerer. What was I supposed to do now?

  ***

  The next morning, Doctor Miriam Hiram and I strode into the room. She had been chatting about today’s experiment. I hardly heard, too exhausted by last night’s rigorous work.

  I had recalibrated the machine, gotten cleaning fluids from the guard—I held his soul in my pocket, as Boss Chuikov had convinced the guard to sit in the chair. Then the three of us had worked, switching videos in the security cameras, scrubbing the chair to rid it of Chuikov and the guard’s sweaty odor, and the guard under my direction had changed his log entries. I had discovered last night two valuable bits of information. One, in order to make them obey I had to hold their soul while giving explicit instructions. Two, after ordering them to resume normal expressions, I had re-taught them how to do it so they partly hid their zombie-like nature.

  I realized, naturally, the Machiavellian aspect of my actions. It pained me to practice these deceptions, but I had a terrible certainty that Boss Chuikov would enact fierce revenge upon my person if he ever regained his soul, especially as black and oily as it was. The guard’s soul, incidentally, was maroon blue and motionless. Doctor Hiram might know what the colors and agitation or stillness meant. I did not.

  Doctor Hiram halted, and she sniffed the air. “Do you smell anything odd?”

  “No.”

  She sniffed again. “It’s… a trace of ammonia.”

  I laughed weakly. “Perhaps it’s a sign, Doctor. We should scrub the test.”

  She gave me a sharp glance, her eyes peering over the librarian’s glasses perched on her nose.

  I felt heat rise in my cheeks. In my inner turmoil, with the fear and guilt roiling in me, I shrugged and gave a chuckle.

  “You must set aside your worries, Paul. I’m not giving you an advance, and that’s final. Now I don’t want you thinking about money on a day as important as this. My life’s work is about to be proved this very morning. You must be alert.” She took off her glasses, a frown creasing her forehead. “You look awful. Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinking?”

  “No, madam, I—” I almost confessed. I almost poured out my woes, but I knew that Doctor Hiram might return Chuikov his soul. Boss Chuikov—I shuddered as I thought what he would do to me afterward.

  “Are you sick?” asked Doctor Hiram, concerned now.

  “I had a sleepless night, madam.” I smiled, as insincere as it must have looked to her. “I’m excited about the test. I can hardly believe that we might actually achieve success.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Whose soul will you photograph first?” I asked.

  “Why, Paul, you agreed several days ago to let me photograph your soul.”

  “I must confess, madam, I think the honor should be yours.”

  “Nonsense, I must monitor the machine.”

  I licked my lips. “I suddenly find myself reluctant to do this.”

  Her features hardened. “Now, Paul, I’m not going to put up with any silliness today. You agreed.”

  “I’m sorry, madam. I withdraw my agreement.”

  Anger flashed in her eyes. “If you think this will win you an advance, you’re mistaken. I will not be coerced into loaning you
money.”

  “I don’t want an advance,” I said. “Call my reluctance… latent superstition. I’m simply uncomfortable with the idea of having my soul photographed. What if there are complications?”

  “Bah!” she said, waving her glasses in the air. “This is crass insubordination and the same delusional shibboleths Doctor Wesley propounded. You’ve never evidenced reluctance before. What’s really troubling you?”

  “Fear,” I said.

  Her features softened. “I hear the ring of truth in your voice, and for a fact your eyes are bloodshot.” She pursed her lips, and a moment later, she exhaled sharply. “Very well, it is my theory, my machine and it will be my ultimate triumph. Do you know what to do?”

  “I believe so, madam.”

  She nodded, and I heard no further objections. Shortly, Doctor Miriam Hiram sat in the chair. I turned on the machine. She screamed, a high-pitched wail, and moments later, I held her greenish, whirling soul.

  ***

  After thoroughly quizzing a compliant Doctor Hiram, I learned the disturbing identity of her backers. I understood why they might have wished to photograph souls and wondered if they had realized the possible complications. No. I don’t see how anyone could have known.

  I couldn’t get rid of such backers, hide for any length of time from them and found it unlikely that they would listen to my explanation and just let me go. I had to gamble. I had to bring their chief here… and have him sit under the machine.

  It would certainly solve my gambling debts.

  Thus, I went to work, and I had Doctor Hiram fly to Washington D.C. She phoned three days later.

  “Just a moment,” I said. I had been watching the Packers play the Dallas Cowboys, having five hundred big ones riding on the outcome. I went to the drawer where I kept the Doctor’s soul, picking it up. “All right, he agreed?”

  “…Yes.”

  “When can I—can we expect him?”

  “He’s flying back with me.”

  “That’s on the fifteenth?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he seem impressed with the data?” I frowned when she didn’t answer, and I squeezed her soul. “Doctor, are you there?”

  “He asked if I was feeling well. He… he seemed troubled.”

  This was bad news. “Very good, Doctor. Hang up and return home. You sound as if you need rest.” I didn’t like to talk about this via cell phone. Such communications were all too easy to eavesdrop upon.

  The fifteenth rapidly approached, and I made certain that my guard worked that day and that Boss Chuikov donned a lab coat, keeping his .38 taped under the console. I sweated this more than any hand of cards I’d ever played. I gambled for high stakes now and dreaded failure.

  I had impressed upon Doctor Hiram the need for secrecy, and thus felt queasy that morning when two Lincoln Continentals showed up bearing government plates. Athletic men in black suits, dark glasses and buzz cuts emerged from the parked cars, followed by an older man in a tan suit, together with small Doctor Hiram. The suits surrounded the older man, escorting him toward the building.

  I had a wild impulse to run, but that was impossible now. I had to play the hand dealt me.

  The entourage entered and Doctor Hiram introduced Chuikov and me as her assistants.

  “I thought you only had one assistant,” the older man said. He was bald, but big, a suspicious man with a mashed nose. Long ago had been a tackle for the UCLA Bruins.

  “We had trouble with the Montesquieu Refractor,” I said. “It proved to be Mr. Chuikov’s area of expertise.”

  At a soft nod from the older man, the suits checked the room and soon gave the all clear.

  “Who will be the test subject, Doctor?” I asked.

  The older man pointed to one of his bodyguards. I nodded as my insides seethed. I couldn’t see anyway around this. It depressed me, but I had told the Doctor to make sure he came alone. This wasn’t going to be my fault.

  The suit sat in the chair as Doctor Hiram assured him of its harmlessness. Then she went to the console, switched it on and the suit screamed horribly, the others whirling around to see why, several of them drawing heavy automatics.

  “Now,” I told Chuikov.

  Without any emotion, Boss Chuikov ripped his .38 from under the console and shot the surprised bodyguards. Then Chuikov charged the old UCLA tackle. It was a good fight, but Chuikov had forgotten none of his wrestling moves. With the first suit’s help—I held his soul—they wrestled the older man onto the chair as I turned on the machine.

  He screamed.

  I ran to the machine and popped out the soul of the head of Homeland Security. I had always thought this country needed a few changes.

  No, I decided, there were going to be many changes.

  Thule

  The toll of time doth beat for all.

  Even the gods at last must fall.

  So when each man shall surely die,

  What but his fame shall reach the sky?

  -- From: The Lament of Ulfer Aufling

  GREENLAND A.D. 1126:

  Henri fled across the ice from baying Irish wolfhounds. He’d gotten greedy again at dice and won too much. He clutched a long, spiral-fluted horn. Blood dripped from its ivory tip, the droplets freezing into tiny red pearls. His painful breath—each frigid gulp felt as if raspy sharkskin rubbed his throat.

  A monstrous glacier loomed before him, a mountainous heap of artic frost. The reflected sun-glare was blinding. Henri squinted as he ran. Then the ice-shelf shifted, it rumbled beneath him. Henri lost his footing and plowed face-first into the crystalline snow. At a great splintering sound, his head whipped up. He spat hoarfrost from numbed lips and in horror witnessed jagged cracks ripping across the ice. The mountain before him, the glacier trembled like an old man. White rimy boulders, frozen balls of ice, shook loose from the sun-dazzled cliffs. They rolled, cracked against ledges and sailed into the frigid air. One rock splintered into icy shards and hurled icicles that plunged into the snow around him. Terrified, Henri clutched his head.

  The land seemed alive with a malignant will. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the quake quit, and the air was cold and still again.

  Stretched as he was on the snow, Henri shivered. The ice sucked at his heat like a leech. And to think that for this time and place it was unseasonably warm, that it had been warmer here for the last three years than anyone could remember.

  The wolfhounds bayed anew and Henri scrambled to his feet, sprinting. If those he’d cheated caught him…. His breath steamed misty-white and his ears stung. He was a small man with dark hair and said by many to have sly features. Usually he smiled. Usually he composed poems and love ballads. In the past and with a laugh he had often told tavern wenches that he preferred wine and ink to sword and blood. Few paid a farthing however for his poems, so he survived in the end because he had an unnatural knack at dice. Oh, why had he cheated the hunters?

  Fool! Fool!

  He glanced back.

  The shaggy hounds streaked across the ice, baying savagely, with mist smoking from their fanged maws. The horn clenched in his fist—he might spear one and inadvertently snap the flawless ivory. Then what would he tell Margot? He thrust the spiral-fluted horn through his belt, and he threw himself upon the forward slopes and ledges of the glacier, scrabbling for height.

  Margot, sweet Margot, if only she could see him now.

  Then an odd sensation of malice filled him. It was malice hoary with age, malice vast and brooding.

  He frowned as he heaved and levered himself higher. His leather mittens scratched against the ice that numbed his hands. His boots slipped three different times. The wolfhounds lunged up the glacier after him, their claws digging for purchase. With terrible swiftness they leaped and climbed, using the same speed they had earlier shown killing walruses.

  Henri rolled onto a freezing ledge.

  The hounds scrabbled after. By a valiant effort and a flying leap, one of the brutes thrust his f
ront paws onto the ledge. Those paws bled.

  Henri shouted in fear. He scooted backward and jarred against a frozen wall. The wolfhound rose up. He had a black tongue. Henri thrust the sole of a boot into death’s teeth. With a yelp, the hound lost its balance and tumbled out of sight.

  Frantic, his heart thudding, Henri scrambled to the edge. The wolfhounds glared up at him. They leaped and scratched in an effort to sink their fangs into his flesh. Instead, they slid back down. After several tries, they whined in frustration and sat on their hairy haunches, baying.

  A horn wailed in response.

  Henri squinted. Hunters dared the shelf ice. He was surprised. Before he’d cheated them the hunters had warned him how in this unseasonable heat the shelf ice was treacherous and deadly. They wore leathern greatcoats and hefted iron-tipped harpoons. They were burly and blond, the sons of Vikings who had come from Iceland and colonized this wretched land. Eric the Red had led them more than a hundred years ago, calling this the Green Land so more would come to this waste at the end of the world.

  Oh, why had he promised Margot a unicorn’s horn? He should have stayed in Normandy and won her heart by the usual means.

  He was rational and romantic, an impossible combination. So when he’d heard from a Dublin-born seaman that hunters harpooned unicorns in the frigid waters of the Uttermost North, that Henri had to see. He’d gone to Iceland and then Greenland, joining the summer hunters as they sailed north beyond where the sea turned sluggish with floe. Small, troll-like primitives, Skrealing, hunted seals in this forbidden land from tiny skin-stretched kayaks.

  On a pebbled shore farther north than any Normandy-born man had surely ever been, Henri had witnessed the shock of his life. The shock had been a small and beautiful northern whale. Out of the narwhal’s head had grown a spiral-fluted unicorn horn! With iron-tipped harpoons and wicked cunning, the blond hunters had slain the creature and dragged it ashore. There they’d sawn off the ivory horn.

  The offense to Henri’s sensibilities had been profound. He was no superstitious peasant, no ignoramus. Comets weren’t dragons. Elves never drank from an overnight milk-bucket. Dwarves didn’t labor under the Earth. Those were fairy tales, myths. But unicorns had evidence of their existence. Their horns were sold in a hundred different marketplaces. Now to realize the base trickery in those sales… his own duping and the witnessing of that profane act… it had enraged him.