Frederik Pohl - Chernobyl

There was no doubt in Kalychenko's mind-well, no real doubt-that he wanted to go through with marrying Raia, even less that he wanted the child she was carrying. Of course, one should have a son! But his stomach churned with fear. Perhaps there was a way to have Raia checked for radiation. As for himself, the little bruises on his elbow, got when he fell as he fled the exploding reactor, no longer seemed very convincing even to him. Especially since Raia had given his sling away! The sling, of course, was no more than camouflage, simply circumstantial evidence to add credibility to the story he was planning to tell; but Kalychenko was aware he would need all the help he could get when questions were asked.

And, sooner or later, questions surely would be asked.

Kalychenko groaned-stifling it, so Raia would not hear- and tried to settle himself again for sleep. But the bus seemed to be slowing down, even stopping. It came to a dead halt, then lurched slowly forward again.

Kalychenko tried to raise himself to see ahead. There were lights in the road. Someone was shouting directions; the bus crept forward, then turned into a space on the side of the highway and came to a complete stop. The passengers began to stir.

The overhead lights on the bus came on and the door opened. Up ahead there was a muttered colloquy between the driver, the soldier who had gotten on with them, and someone from outside; then the soldier stood up: "Everybody is to get out here," he cried, his voice hoarse with sleep and fatigue. "Leave your belongings on the bus. Now, please, hurry up!"

It had not, after all, been altogether a good idea to sit at the back of the bus, for it took them forever to get out.

Emptying the bus was a complicated logistical problem. First the people in the front seats had to stand up and lift some of the things from the aisles onto the seats they had vacated before those in the next row could move into the aisle. The process had to be repeated, row by row, the whole length of the bus before it came to Kalychenko's and Raia's turn. There was no way to speed the process. All they could do was peer out the windows. They could see that they were in what seemed to be an agricultural station of some kind. There were other buses there, a dozen of them or more, and people milling around under bright lights. As they limped forward and stiffly disembarked, the soldier was calling, "Please, everybody! Listen. Remember your bus number, bus number eight two eight. Eight two eight, remember! When the bus number is called, follow instructions-and especially when it's time to go, make sure you get back on bus eight two eight, for it is my ass if you aren't!"

An old woman chided him: "Is that a way to speak, a Soviet Army soldier? Would your mother like to hear such talk?"

"I'm sorry," Konov said, abashed. "But please-bus eight two eight, don't forget!"

Men were drifting to the right, back down the road they had traveled, women to the left. Kalychenko went far enough to avoid the messes those before him had made and then relieved his bladder at the side of the road, stretching and shivering in the cold night air. One by one the buses were pulling up to a gasoline truck for refueling, then returning to their parking spaces while the drivers hurried to take care of their own needs. They closed the doors behind them. Soldiers- other soldiers, with the green flashes of the internal army- were keeping everyone but the drivers away. Still other soldiers were clustered around a pair of wooden tables, with people lined up before them, and from the back of a truck dirty, tired Komsomols were serving some kind of food.

Well, at least that was something. Kalychenko looked around for Raia, and when she returned from her own necessities along the southward stretch of the road, they lined up to get what was offered. The Komsomols looked both exhausted and keyed up as they dished out bread, sausages, and strong tea.

"I wonder where we are?" said Kalychenko as they found a low wall to sit on while they ate.

"A woman said it is a place called Sodolets," Raia told him, raising her voice to be heard. It was a noisy place to be, with bus motors grumbling and racing as new ones arrived and old ones left. "South of Kiev. We've come a long way." She was gazing at the mother from the bus who, her back modestly turned, was nursing her baby. "I hope we're nearly there," Raia fretted. "It's not good for the child, being up so late in this night air."

"It's not too good for me, either," Kalychenko grumbled, but softly. And then their bus number was called and they lined up one more time, under the bright lights, before the tables where an Army colonel was standing, scowling, smoking a cigarette while two lieutenants were, wonder of wonders! Giving away money! When he reached the head of the line, Kalychenko displayed his passport. The lieutenant painstakingly copied his name onto a long list and then carefully counted out twenty new ten-ruble notes into Kalychenko's hand. "For what?" Kalychenko asked, astonished.

"For you," said the lieutenant. "To help you get settled in your new home. A gift from the peoples of the Soviet Union. Now move along quickly, there are others behind you!"

Kalychenko counted over the notes, frowning. He followed Raia to where the passengers from bus number 828 were now ordered to assemble. The soldier from Pripyat was standing there at the closed bus door, a mug of tea in his hand. He looked more cheerful than before, and he nodded to Kalychenko. "Now all of you listen," he ordered. "When you get back on the bus, be sensible. The ones in the last rows go first. Take the same seats you had before. Otherwise it will simply be a disorderly mess, and-"

Then he fell silent as an Army captain came up with a clipboard. "Reboard now," he ordered in a weary voice, punching at the door until it opened. "Just a few more hours, Comrades, then you'll be in your new homes. Where?" He looked at the clipboard. "This is bus number eight two eight? Well, you've got a trip still ahead of you. It's a place called Yuzhevin."

Sunday, April 27

Radiation kills the cells of living things by spoiling the way the cells grow, and so it is the fastest-growing parts of the human body that suffer the most. The lining of the mouth and the digestive tract are quickly damaged, but it is the bone marrow that is most at risk. The marrow of the bones is where the blood's cells are manufactured, thousands at a time, to replace those that are always being lost in the body's normal wear and tear. When the bone marrow is damaged by radiation, blood counts drop. The blood loses its ability to fight off infection, to carry oxygen from the lungs, even to clot. It does not much matter whether the harmful radiation comes from nuclear war, from a natural source, or from something like Chernobyl. What matters is how much radiation is received.

There are many ways of measuring the damage caused by radiation, but the handiest unit is called the "rad," which is short for "radiation absorbed dose." (In technical terms, one rad is defined as that amount of ionizing radiation that deposits 100 ergs of energy in each gram of exposed biological tissue.) The number of rads tells the story. A person who has received no more than 150 rads is likely to recover completely. Around 300 rads his life is in balance, but blood transfusions, antibiotics, and the best of nursing care should pull him through.

Five hundred rads and over means that the bone marrow is destroyed, and without bone marrow no one can live for long.

In the swaying, jolting ambulance en route to Hospital No. 18 in Kiev, Tamara Sheranchuk wished she had ironed fewer of her husband's shirts and taken more time to look at his books. Perhaps there would have been something in them about these "rads" and "roentgens." She knew very well that such dose numbers were very important. The experts from Moscow's Hospital No. 6 had explained that to all of the Pripyat and Chernobyl doctors, in that quick, twenty-minute briefing that was all anyone had time for that weekend. Unfortunately, she didn't really know what they meant. Even more unfortunately, the casualties who came to her medicpoint didn't wear numbers. Some of them didn't wear much of anything at all. Before they got to the medics they went through radiometric screening. As often as not, the counters squealed the alarm as they sniffed the garments, and then their contaminated outer clothing was taken away from them and added to the heap of condemned goods. They were lucky if they got a smock or a bathrobe from the dwindling stores to cover their underwear. They were luckier still if it was only their clothes that made the detectors squeal.