Walter Williams - The Rift

“We’re set,” Wilbur said, having, from his lower perspective, just scanned the displays himself.

“Let’s give ’er the spur,” Larry said.

You didn’t want to start up a nuclear reactor with a bang. It would take almost a full day to get the reactor on line, to first increase temperature within the reactor, then start pushing steam through the turbine to generate enough power to put on the grid.

It was like handling a big horse, one that could stomp you flat just by accident, just because you weren’t paying attention. You just wanted to give it a little kick with your heels, get it moving without startling anyone, least of all yourself.

It was tricky enough so that Larry wanted to be in the control room for the procedure, just in case Wilbur, who was the control room operator and would be giving the orders, needed some backup. Larry was the shift supervisor, in charge of everything going on at the plant during his shift. Wilbur was in charge of the reactor under Larry’s supervision.

Larry and Wilbur watched the displays as boron carbide control rods were partially withdrawn from the reactor, as neutrons began to multiply and the chain reaction began. The scent of roses floated through the control room: Larry had bought a massive vase of yellow roses for his wife, who had a birthday today. He moved the roses out of his line of sight, sat in his wheeled metal chair, and thought about putting his boots up on his desk, but decided not to.

Larry put a hand on the scarred metal surface of his desk and felt a little tremor through his fingertips. Pumps, distant but powerful, steam moving through massive pipe. Valves tripped open as pressure built.

Words floated to Larry as he watched the displays. Something about Ole Miss and the Rose Bowl.

No day was complete without talk of football. Not in Mississippi.

One of the operators interrupted the talk of the gridiron in order to make a report. “Holding at ten percent.”

Ten percent was one of the check points, where all concerned would be looking at their instruments to make certain that everything was operating normally.

Larry scanned the displays over the operators’ heads. Everything looked fine.

“You going to do anything special for your wife’s birthday, Mr. Hallock?” Wilbur asked.

“Tonight we’ve got reservations at the Garden Court in Vicksburg.”

“Getting some of that Creole food, huh? It’s too hot for me.”

Larry grinned. “You best not try New Mexico chile, then.”

“I don’t even put pepper on my grits in the morning.”

Larry looked at the displays, at the lights shifting, red and green.

“Bland is boring,” he said. “Me, I like a little spice in my life.”

“Everything checks, Larry,” Wilbur said. “Still holding at ten percent.”

“Waaal,” Larry said, “let’s goose her a little.”

Boron carbide rods slid smoothly out of the reactor. Neutrons turned water to steam. Steam shot under unimaginable pressure through massive thirty-six-inch pipes.

Larry put his boots on the desk and thought about horses.

*

Four shocks of an Earthquake have been sustained by our town, and its neighborhood, within the last two days. The first commenced yesterday morning between two and three, preceded by a meteoric flash of light and accompanied with a rattling noise, resembling that of a carriage passing over a paved pathway, and lasted almost a minute. A second succeeded, almost immediately after, but its continuance was of much shorter duration. A third shock was experienced about eight o’clock in the morning, and another today about one.

Savannah, Dec. 17

Perfume floated into the Oval Office from the Rose Garden. The economics briefing book, with its tasteful white plastic cover and presidential seal, had migrated from the President’s footstool to the top of his desk in the West Wing. The London meeting of the G8 countries was only a week away. The President was now immersing himself in figures concerning gross domestic product, financial markets, foreign direct investment, prices and wages, output, demand, jobs, commodities, exchanges, and reserves.

Fortunately the President liked this kind of detail work. Facts and statistics were easy compared to trying to manage Congress, foreign leaders, or for that matter the arrogant turf warriors of his own party.

He had a number of proposals he wanted to make at the G8 conference. Proposals having to do with the removal of trade barriers, pollution control, expansion of the information infrastructure, practical assistance to Third World countries. Proposals that only the leader of the world’s primary superpower could make.

If only, he thought, goddam Wall Street didn’t stab him in the back while he was off in London trying to get things done.

The President’s phone buzzed, and he reached for it while trying to absorb a graph on current-account balances. Oil-producing states, he saw, were benefiting from a slight rise in the cost of fossil fuels.

“Judge Chivington for you, sir,” said his secretary.

“Thank you. Put him on, please.”

“Mr. President! Rosalie told me you called!” the judge bellowed. He was not the sort to moderate his voice merely for the telephone.

The President switched to the speaker phone and put the handset in its cradle. “I’m cramming for the G8 conference,” he said.

“ That will relieve the voters, sir,” the judge said. “People worrying about employment and meetin’ the mortgage are going to be encouraged as all hell when they turn on their televisions and see the President talking to the French economic minister about the price of brie.”

The President smiled, leaned back in his chair, and was about to put one foot up on the corner of his desk when he remembered that this massive and colossally ugly item was made from the timbers of the HMS Resolute, God alone knew why, and had been a gift of Queen Victoria, the reasons for which seemed pretty damned obscure, too, but that this meant the desk was therefore a valuable antique that did not deserve to have his heel marks on it. He reluctantly put his shoe back on the floor.

I am a prisoner of history, he thought. Damn Jackie Kennedy anyway. He spun his chair about to face the tall windows and the Rose Garden.

“My views on the price of brie,” he said, “are going to be taken more seriously if they come from the representative of the strongest economy in the world.”

“Ah,” the judge said. “So you reckon this is an inconvenient time for Wall Street to have the jitters.”

“That is correct.”

“And your economic advisors tell you that they can’t be absolutely positive about it, but it looks as if the market has entered an uncertain period.”

“Correct.”

“And that while they can’t be definite about it, because the indicators are as yet unclear, it may be possible that the bull market is due for a correction.”

“Something like that.”

“And that the last thing you want, hoss, is for Dow Jones to drop four or five hundred points when you are talking to the French economic minister about the price of brie, because that would blow your credibility to hell and gone.”

“I think that is about the gist.” The President nodded. “Judge, you have a remarkable ability for summing up.”

“And therefore, sir, you want me to talk to Sam.”

“If you could. He is your friend.”

“Lots of people are my friends, Mr. President,” the judge said.

The President smiled his brilliant telegenic smile- even though there was no one to see it, the smile was still an essential part of his repertoire- and put the tiniest trace of syrup into his voice. “If the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board could be said to have a friend,” he said, “that friend is you.”