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Martial Arts

The next morning, Mori dreamed of high sawgrass and steamy heat. A disabled tank lay off to the left. He felt a tickle, an itch right between his shoulderblades, and a sinking feeling in his stomach. Then … rustling in the grass … he dove to the right and rolled to a kneeling position, left elbow on his knee to support the rifle, trying desperately to see through the grass but not be seen first. Bob swam into focus in front of him in the dim light, amused, naked, and signing silence with a finger on the lips. Bob pantomimed that Mori should grab his clothes and go out the door. As he stood up from kneeling, Mori heard the rustling again and looked back at George and Meiko. They were both in George's hammock. So far their rating was only 'R', but it was obvious that everyone would be embarrassed if he stayed.

Outside was clearly the waking world; still dark, but the Morning Star rode over the silhouetted mountain of Palos Verdes. Mori was freezing, though Bob seemed to care not for the cold, nor for who might see his body, as he lazily dressed. Bob silently handed Mori his jacket, which he had not thought to bring, and tossed Mori's pajamas under the curtain. Come on over to the cement plant where we won't wake people.

Mori was rattled by the dream and irritated by its conclusion. That is totally gross, he said quietly but emphatically Screwing in front of a kid and a guest? Totally gross.

They didn't do anything wrong; they're following the rules. And screwing is doing something bad to a person. We say 'mating'.

What rule?

Don't you know? Maybe nobody told you, but it should be obvious. If you wake up and they're doing it, you leave silently.

That's not how we handle it in my house.

What do you do, hide? Pretend you don't do sex? That's not right.

What do you do, advertise? 'Hey, Bob, we're going to mate now.'

Of course not. But we hid sex for a long time and it was wrong. One time they walked in on me, and they tried to punish me. They said it turned their stomachs.

Damn right. If my kids did dirty things behind my back, I would paddle them so they couldn't sit down for a week.

I don't do dirty things, and I don't do things behind my parents' backs, and I'm glad I'm not your kid. Look, you do sex, don't you? If it's dirty for me, it's ten times more dirty for you. Pant, pant, squish, squish, yuck. Grownups are disgusting. I hated to wake up and be afraid to move because they might get mad at me. I told them that.

I'm surprised you survived the telling.

You're intolerant, you know. How can it be dirty for me and not for you; tell me that.

Don't get snippy with me, kid.

OK, OK, but you weren't respecting me either. Now you know our rule, if they mate again tomorrow. OK?

There was strained silence for a few minutes. Bob finally broke it by asking, You jumped a meter when I woke you. I'm glad I didn't touch you; you would have broken my arm. Did you have a nightmare?

Yes, I thought I was in the army again and someone was trying to shoot me. How did you wake me if you didn't speak or touch?

I used the force. Maybe I was too rough.

Like in Star Wars? That's just a story.

You want a demonstration? Bend my arm.

Mori weighed almost twice as much as Bob, and being adult was stronger per unit mass. Bob wondered if Mori might be starting to damage his arm, when suddenly Mori let go. What did you do? It's like a two-by-four!

Rubbing his triceps muscle, Bob replied, That's the force. My bones will break before my muscles will move. I have to be careful about that. Now pick me up. Hold around my chest.

Straining, Mori knocked Bob off balance but could not get him to rise. How much do you weigh, kid? You don't look that big.

35 kilos — plus the force.

This is interesting. Show me more.

Gotcha! How would you like to learn more, plus help me review for my test today?

Sounds good.

Oops. Let me see you roll first, backwards and forwards.

Combat techniques? I do judo; there's no problem there. Mori rolled on the resilient running surface, showing Bob that he would not be hurt if thrown.

OK, punch me, high and low. That's what I have to work on the most.

We don't practice punches in judo. What if I hit you?

I'm not that bad. Fire away.

Bob went out of his way to be an easy target. The only problem was, when Mori's fist arrived, Bob was always in a slightly different location, and Mori could never hold himself back from overreaching. A selection of flips, flops and armtwists then ensued. But on one kind of twist, where Mori's arm was supposed to end up like a pretzel, he found he could straighten it out and give Bob a good jolt. After the fourth repetition, Bob complained, I always have trouble with nikyo after a punch. I guess I'll just have to be marked off for it.

You somehow stop in the middle and I can catch up to your motion. Also you jerk on me.

That's exactly what I'm doing, and I haven't been able to improve it. Let's go on to something else. Grab my wrists — just keep after them. You can use one or both hands.

More of the same, but this time Bob rarely pulled or pushed on Mori, and nikyo brought him to his knees. Then Bob asked for karate chops, bashes on the head, and rear grabs. Panting, Mori complied.

As Mori wearily picked himself up after a suite of futile attempts to strangle Bob, he said, I don't know how tough your instructor is, but I certainly would give you an A.

Gee, you look tired. I'm sorry I ran you through so many attacks. But you really helped me a lot — a grown-up attacker is so much more formidable than someone my age, so you can't get away with errors. I'll pass the exam. Thanks.

What do you call this martial art? It's very effective, or you're very good at it. I was using my regular judo attacks for those rear grabs, and I almost had you a few times but you always got away and flipped me. I usually can hold onto opponents at least some of the time.

It's called aikido — harmony with the force, in Japanese. If I do what I've been taught, it's impossible to attack me.

I attacked you.

Not successfully, except for the nikyo.

True. How good are you, compared to the rest of your class?

Kind of average. Lots are better than me. Those two are better. Bob pointed out another pair of early risers also reviewing for the test.

Hmm. Do you want to work on attacks?

Attacks? No, why?

With such an effective defense, I'd expect the attacks would take a lot of practice.

The only one that takes skill is the punch. You have to learn to focus it like in karate; otherwise it's too easy to defend against.

Do I get this right: you don't care if your attacks work?

They never work. They're just for practicing defense.

Robert, the invincible. Suppose … Suppose someone takes your toy, or something. How do you get it back?

That happened to me. I used the force on him. I just said, 'That's mine, give it back.' He did.

I guess that was a poor example. But aikido seems rather one-sided.

That's right; that's what's wrong with other martial arts. In aikido we let the bad guys burn themselves out with attacks that never work. We don't waste our own energy on attacks. Nice guys never need to attack.

I'm not so sure about that, but within its limitations your art is certainly effective. I don't really understand it, but what you call the force and what was in the movie do seem to have some relation. I don't know any other art that can help a kid stand off an adult's attack. You could call it militant pacifism, I guess.

That's a neat description.

How many people do aikido here?

Everybody. It's a part of every job.

Really? Why?

The force helps people work together better. Also, if any bad guys come here, they're in for a surprise, Dad said you wanted to check out security, and I guess you're getting an early start.

Now that's a unique concept: the entire station staff as a combat force. But attackers would be armed. What's your defense against a bullet? Does nikyo work?

Of course not, but the defense against a punch is just as effective against a gun.

This I have to see.

Ask Dad to introduce you to an instructor, and maybe he would have the class demonstrate all the things you're curious about.

I certainly will. Thanks for suggesting it.

Another suggestion: look on the other float.

The cooks for the day were lighting the fire and bringing out eggs to be fried and bread to be toasted. As the sun peeked above Palos Verdes, sleepy residents emerged and joined Bob and Mori in the breakfast queue. George and Meiko were not among them.

Bob made his eggs and toast into a sandwich. Finishing, he licked the drippy yolk and entrapped crumbs from his fingers, and commented to Mori, They must really be going at it. If they don't get out here soon the food will be all gone.

Hmm. I need to call Washington and I forgot the way to the communications shack. Would you show me?

Sure. Follow me. They walked toward the reactor building. I'll drop you off, then get started fishing. When you get off the phone, what will you do, wait for Dad?

I'm sure I can find somebody to torment. I know — I should go over the building plans from the viewpoint of an attacker. What features are hard to defend, and can they be eliminated? Like those big pots with the vegetables. They provide cover to attackers.

People who hide behind them get their toes shot off.

In your games?

Right. You can usually see the person's feet. Here we are. Check in the courtyard at eleven and you can watch my test. See you.

Mori called one of his friends at NRC headquarters; it was about 10:30 in Washington. Frank, Hiroshi here. Do you have the text of the Tomlin bill?

Damn right. What does your licensee want, an exception?

A loophole. Read me the section that tells what is being shut down.

It's a miracle of brevity. Whereas a bunch of hot air, therefore no nuclear use facility shall be operated or constructed in the United States of America until the Congress shall have by concurrent resolution declared that such nuclear use facilities are safe.

That's it?

That's all there is.

No definition of safe? You know the old joke, Ted Kennedy's car killed more people than all nuclear plants combined.

I think that one got told in the Senate yesterday. Tomlin wasn't impressed.

What does the Navy think of it? They can't bring nuclear subs into or out of port.

Why not?

' In the U. S.' includes territorial waters. The subs can't approach the U. S. Also the weapons production reactors can't be operated.

Which Tomlin mentioned as a reason to vote for the bill.

I like them about as much as Tomlin does, but it's a handle to twist in opposing the bill. OK, the loophole is there.

What is it? The bill seems airtight, even with possible amendments for the military.

The licensee doesn't want to let the cat out of the bag. They want to spring it when Congress is preoccupied with something else — like frozen butts in Maine this winter — and isn't likely to close the loophole. What the licensee needs to know is, will the Commission go along? I think I should talk to Commissioner Williamson. Can you transfer me to her office?

Sure. Hey, call more often. We miss your acid tongue.

Interaction with phone operators and secretaries; then the Commissioner answered. Hiroshi! How have you been? Is there really life west of the Potomac?

Hi, Marge. We're doing fine. Ken started high school last year.

Already? They do grow fast. How are people out there taking this Tomlin mess, and Gator River?

I haven't been off this plant since it started, so I can't give you any man-in-the-street impressions. The plant families think the same as we do, of course.

What plant is that?

Gerald P. Weiss Unit One, the salt breeder.

I suppose they're looking for some kind of relief.

They aren't looking; they found a loophole. You won't believe it when you see it — in a couple of months, when they're ready to move. The reason I'm calling is, they want to know the Commission's attitude. Will you stand by and let them use the loophole? Will you help actively? Or will you try to squelch them?

Hiroshi, you remember we disagreed when that plant was licensed, and I haven't changed my opinion. Of all the use facilities in the U. S., that is the one that most deserves a break. I think Harper and Kruczak agree with me, and Lau and Milstein won't disagree — they will go along. The Commission will help. What's the plan?

They want to keep it quiet — to take Tomlin by surprise. But it will involve getting exported.

The Commission will help if the plan is reasonable. But if they sell themselves to Iraq or Libya, it's no deal.

These people are the most reasonable … They've made a believer out of me. Can you imagine that?

Hiroshi! You, browbeaten by a licensee? And with your paranoia about breeders?

I can back down when I'm wrong, which isn't often if you remember. They do everything backwards from what we're used to And it's working! I don't mean the reactor; we've known for thirty years that the nuclear part was feasible. But the balance-of-plant, particularly the people structures: you have to see it to believe it. Like security: they've armed the whole staff with the force. Yes, like the movie; no, I'm not crazy. I just spent half an hour getting thrown around like a rag doll by the boss' kid, and I tell you, if he were standing in the door of the reactor and the devil himself wanted to come in, I wouldn't bet on the devil. Of course, I'm checking all this out in detail, and I'm not talking to them in such complimentary terms. What they are going to propose is just as outrageous as everything else in this plant — but I really think they can pull it off, particularly with some constructive criticism from me. Will you give them a chance?

If you back them, they must have something good going. You can tell them that if they come up with a supportable plan, they will have the Commission's help in carrying it out.

Thanks, Marge. A lot of people here are going to be very happy about this. You're going to be happy about it too.

I'm glad the salt breeder concept isn't going to oblivion for another thirty years, but I think you mean more than that.

Right. There are loopholes in 10CFR that the licensee might have used on you. That would have been a nasty confrontation.

What loopholes?

Tomlin and company mustn't hear about it in time to amend their bill. You have to keep it quiet until after the licensee escapes.

OK, I'll sit on it. What are they?

The phrase 'in the U.S.' Gerald P. Weiss Unit One isn't in the U.S.

Where is it, on the moon?

It's on the high seas — just outside territorial waters. I don't know how it happened; it's just a temporary place for construction, but there it floats, and the NRC has no jurisdiction over it. Neither does Tomlin's bill.

Oops! We'd better do something about that.

You can amend the regulations when the next floating power plant is built.

If it's built — I see your point. OK, I'll keep quiet for a few months.

Thanks, Marge. You've been a big help.

I wish I could do something about Tomlin, and I have a feeling that this is going to be our last hurrah. Thank you, Hiroshi — and call more often.

Now that was done. Mori was pleased that the NRC, at least, would not get in the way of saving the project. The next step was to review the building plans. He traced his steps back to the main gate of the reactor, then to George's office. No George. What was that guy doing? Maybe he was a were-frog; frogs mate for hours at a time.

Mori collared an administrative assistant who he knew had seen him the previous day with George, and asked to look at the plans. She wondered, so politely, where George was. Wasn't this Tomlin business awful? Did he have any inside information on Gator River? Mori translated her charming answer into plain language and buzzed off, irritated. Her behavior reminded him of Bob's when about to be punched. Tight security is great until you have to waste a whole morning because the only person who can authorize something is in the sack with his wife. Maybe a little grenade rolled under their curtain would speed things up. But, he thought, he could learn a lot by just looking at the building exteriors, because that is where attack and defense would occur. Mori went outside again.

Actually, he said to himself, he should count this experience as a plus for the project. Maybe the assistant was being overly straight-arrow, or maybe she thought Mori was testing her, but certainly the building plans were something that a pirate or saboteur would very much want prior to an attack, and they deserved careful safeguards.

He started with the cement plant. The clifflike, unbroken walls would be very hard to climb. The attackers maybe could get grappling hooks over the rail and climb the ropes — a long climb, particularly for a soldier carrying weapons and ammunition and expecting to fight at the top. Maybe the most practical way up would be a ladder fastened to the wall with a gunpowder-operated masonry nailer. Memo: plaster the walls, or glue on a layer of glass foam, so nails and the like would rip out.

Turning to the interior of the float, Mori found that the mirrors, which reflected the sun into the rubidium boiler for cooking the cement, were elevated on stands three meters high, and the space underneath was used for storing junk. Racks of tubes segregated by material and size provided excellent cover (in one direction), while motors, pumps and valves, covered by polyethylene tarps, impeded pursuit. Around on the seaward side, about twenty kids and teenagers were minding fishing poles and at the same time studying, chattering, cuddling, or just plain daydreaming. The mirrors reminded Mori of mushrooms, each with one or two elves in its shade, of all sizes, genders and shades of brown. Other kids played hide and seek among the junk; Mori was surprised that they were allowed, since the projecting end of an angle iron could slash a careless shoulder, or a dropped piece of cable armor could stab a bare foot. Memo: fence this area.

A pack of boys and girls raced past in a chase game, screaming and yelling. Mori thought one was Bob, but though the color was right, the eyes were wrong; it was a Chicano. Oh, the energy of youth! Mori wished he again weighed only 35 kilos and could get so much exuberant movement out of available resources.

Mori finished inspecting the cement plant and, saving the reactor for last, he crossed over to the residential float. The vegetable pots he had already noted, and the new second-story apartments had a walk, like a balcony, that might be strategically significant. Rounding the corner to the east side, he saw something odd: a very small girl standing outside the Chous' room and crying. Come out, Bob, come out, she called.

Niki, it's not my turn today. You shouldn't have left Lee. She will punish you.

Band-aid! Band-aid!

Lee has Band-aids.

Hurts. Your Band-aid not hurt. Yucky hurt. Niki added some choice sobs and sniffs for effect.

Bob pulled aside the curtain and, resignedly, accepted his fate, picking up Niki and carrying her in. A moment later Mori was asked, Excuse me, did you see a little girl? Behind him was a person similar in size, color and dress to Bob, but with crinkly hair.

Niki, right? Bob has her.

Oh, that brat! She's going to get it.

Hey, Lee, what's going on? It was Susan Thompson.

Niki wandered off to see Bob. I left David in charge while I looked for her.

So he told me. You'll punish her, won't you?

Right on.

At that moment Bob shooed her out and she smiled winningly at Lee, displaying the new Band-aid on her elbow. Lee was not impressed. Why you gone off like that, brat? You scared me half to death. What if you fell in the ocean; we wouldn't never see you around here again. Now you turn around and get your little butt whacked, hear?

No, won't! Your Band-aid hurt. Bob Band-aid not hurt. Yucky, yucky, yucky! Niki clouded up; then the rain came when Lee spun her around and gave her a few good ones. There followed more lecture, which ended in reconciliation as Lee picked up Niki and stroked her. With little kids it is best to nail them promptly and hard, but to let your anger fade rapidly, and Lee had been well trained and had lots of experience. Come back now, she said, and I'll sing the alphabet song with you.

Baby sitter?, Mori asked Bob.

My extended family has six little kids, five big kids and five teenagers. There are four families among the residents. The big kids take turns handling the little ones, and the teenagers take turns with the big kids. But all the teenagers have to do is keep track of where we are and punish us if we get too noisy or nasty, and help us with school assignments when same-age friends can't help. Our job is harder.

I was wondering if your parents let you run wild all day. That isn't very responsible.

That's just it — I do run wild, and it's good for me, but there's always a specific person who has to help me when I'm in trouble, or who I can rely on to come with an iron hand when I get that urge to do something bad.

What was Niki bratting about, your Band-Aid not hurting?

Maybe it's because I wash wounds in one part seawater to three of fresh water. It hardly hurts. But Lee and I did the experiment together, so she should know what I know. We used her blood, and my microscope.

What experiment?

Popping blood cells with plain water. Seawater makes them shrivel. Three to one hardly affects them. It was an assignment on osmosis. But it's obvious that the same thing happens to your live tissue when you wash a wound.

Maybe not so obvious. It hadn't been obvious to Mori. Do you have a newsletter? You should write an article about that.

Hey, I never thought of that. That's a neat idea, sharing what I know with everyone by writing it up in the newsletter. Thanks, Mr. Mori.

You're welcome. I'll let you get back to work now.

OK. I think the ten o'clock martial arts class is just starting in the courtyard. You could watch, and then see my test at eleven.

Thanks. I'll go see.

Mori turned into the courtyard, forty meters square, but there was only Lee and three other babysitters tending the little ones on the shaded south side where the play equipment was located. However, some people — seven of them — were hiding near the opposite entrance behind large potted trees. Mori was surprised to see them equipped with steel helmets and rifles — toy rifles. Through the entrance, Cynthia, the senior stock clerk who he had worked with the previous day, spotted him and waved, and the instructor turned also. Are you Dr. Mori? I am Tri Van Ky, and Bob tells me that you are checking security today. Would you like to watch for a while?

Surely. Thank you.

Do you have combat experience?

An odd question, Mori thought. I was an infantryman in Viet Nam.

Today we are studying crossfire. Would you care to criticize the defenders' positions?

I don't represent myself as an expert in tactics, but I would say that the defenders can crossfire at anyone coming through this walkway. But if some attackers could get into the courtyard, the defenders would be the subjects of a crossfire.

I fully agree. The defenders have two minutes to improve their positions. Attackers, take your places. Helmets and eye shields on, please. Don't forget to wind up your guns. Attack on my signal. Dr. Mori, put on this eye shield.

The fifteen people waiting along the rail ran to the other end of the float, while the defenders scurried and pointed; then someone had a bright idea and they rushed up convenient stairs onto the balconies of the unfinished second story, on both sides of the entrance. Just in time, too, for after exactly two minutes Mr. Tri blew a whistle. The attackers snuck from flowerpot to doorway along the front of the apartments. Nobody fired. A head popped momentarily into view inside the courtyard. The attackers eased into the entryway from inside and outside and approached the stairs. Suddenly a defender cried, Let 'em have it! A hail of wooden dowels rained down on the hapless attackers, who, when hit, put down their weapons and crouched in a fetal position. In seconds everyone in the entrance was dead. A defender — a kid — jumped up and shouted, We got them! But one attacker who had been in the rear darted from cover in a doorway, blasted the kid, and took cover again before fire could be returned. Ouch! Oh, crap!, said the kid.

Tri called, Time out! All corpses come to the rail so you can watch. OK, action!

On the near side, one of the three remaining defenders eased her head over the edge to locate the attacker — it was Cynthia.

A dowel clanged off her helmet and she darted back. She looked at Tri, who gave her the thumbs-up sign. A quick conference, and one defender scuttled down the stairs. Cynthia shouted, Now!, and projected over the edge, her feet held by the remaining defender. The attacker stayed in cover, but the man on the ground jumped out and shot him in the back, and was immediately himself shot by another attacker on the other side, clearly visible all the while to the spectators but hidden from people on the roof. Quick on the uptake, Cynthia fired at him before retracting, but the range was too long for the toy guns and her slug skittered across the cement. The attacker darted behind a pot, but a defender directly over him leaned out and finished him off. Silence tor a few seconds, then Tri called, Game's over! Come on down. Body count is two and a half for team B. Everybody pick up bullets.

Tri debriefed the class, complimenting them on good use of the crossfire principle and praising the two survivors of the initial carnage for making the best of a bad situation. If a few more of you had hung back, he said to the attackers, you might have picked off a lot more defenders. Dr. Mori, would you like to say anything?

Not really, but … Earlier I told. Dr. Chou that. your security resembled Muenster cheese, and he laughed at me. Now I know why. I've seen professional security guards at other nuclear facilities who I believe couldn't do as well. It's really a unique concept, giving combat training to the entire plant staff But there's one thing I'd like you to remember. These games may be fun, but when the real slugs start flying and your friends are getting killed right before your eyes, it isn't fun any more. Your aikido, which I had a sample of this morning, is a lot more humane. Have you tried applying aikido principles to small unit tactics?

Tri answered, We have, but it is very hard, particularly when long-range weapons are involved. Thank you, Dr. Mori. Now, C team will defend against an assault up the stairs from the boat dock. Move out!

Mori tagged along to see how they would handle this assignment, for the dock was the only easy access onto any of the floats. Memo: a way to lift the stairs off the dock, or to pull the whole dock out of the water. Also the bathing area. At the head of the stairs three concrete benches had been placed. They were nice for sitting on, and would also stop bullets without being turned over. When the attackers rushed up, they tried to set up a crossfire on the defenders. A grenade would have been much more effective. Memo: decorative blast and frag shields between the benches. Finally enough bodies piled up to serve as cover. (Get your damn elbow out of my kidney. Ouch! Shoot the live ones, not the corpses!) The attackers got their two directions of fire, but far too late. They were picked off one by one, and the body count ended up at two halves for non-fatal helmet hits; no defenders dead. Charging up stairs when the adversary holds the top is not an effective strategy. Sneaking is much better. Memo: an ORCON team, with night-vision TV, trained to detect anything sneaking up the walls by any means.

Mr. Mori, Dad called from his office. He wants you to come. Bob materialized a careful two meters behind Mori.

Hey, you move like a ghost. Where has your father been this whole morning?

He was talking with Mom about what to do with the project. I mean, after they finished mating. He's going to call a meeting of all the workers after lunch, and tell them what's happening, and find out how many would quit if we moved the project.

OK, I'll go right over. Sorry I can't watch your test.

Mori made his way to George's office. Meiko was there, and George's staff. George was apologetic. I'm really sorry I, um, we're used to our arrangement with Bob and we didn't think about you. And afterwards I had to talk to somebody — not official — about what we were going to do. I hope I didn't waste the morning for you.

No, I learned a great deal about your security. I saw some things that need changing and I want to go over it with you later. But the big news is that the NRC wants to help and will give an export license.

Wowee!, exclaimed George. Meiko hugged her husband. George said, That makes things a hundred times simpler. Now we only have mundane problems, like how to keep hold of our staff.

There's another question, said Mori. You can put away the U. S. flag, but where will you go? You're legal here, but this isn't a very wise location, given Tomlin.

I think Bob had the right idea: we'll just sail away.

But where?

Around. The high seas.

Like the Flying Dutchman?

When the U. S. regains its sanity we can come back.

You hope.

What could keep us from coming back eventually?

Tomlin.

I said when the U. S. regains its sanity.

Don't hold your breath. You worry about how many of your staff will come with you, and with no definite time for return, a lot of them will refuse. So you have to get a bunch of new people. Remember, I wanted to talk to you about personnel? How do you choose them, and who does it?

No special method. Department heads interview the people We do have a rule that turkeys must be fired.

Are you successful?

What way successful?

You need people who are reliable, trustworthy and competent. Do you get them?

The people who apply for our jobs are pretty weird. Fission plants aren't popular, our pay isn't spectacular, we pay partly in pengos, and you either live on the project or commute by boat forty minutes each way, in addition to driving. We get people who have trouble getting jobs elsewhere: recent immigrants, ex-cons, people just out of school, people who had a fight with their last boss. We do give them training — we have to. And, particularly, we let them know what we want them to do, and we expect them to do it. We get about three applications for every job. Of twenty applicants we hire ten. Two have a big mouth and small performance, and those last maybe a week. Two either don't like the project or fail to learn in our training program. They leave within six months. The remaining six are permanent. The project has been going for four years; we now have 130 full time equivalent people, and of the ones who lasted six months, only about thirty have left in the four years You've seen their work. They may not have looked good when we hired them, but they're good now.

I've seen more elaborate personnel programs, and I think you're missing the benefits of modern personnel management practice, but your performance has at least been acceptable. I'm surprised, though, that you don't have more turkeys. Like you say, you can't attract the best applicants.

Training and supervision make the difference. I can't say that everyone is superb, but I think our permanent people are better than average.

Comparing the results I see here with other plants, I think you're right. But you're leaving soon, and you have to replace a lot of people. Can you maintain quality?

We can probably leave in four or five months. If we start right now, we can get a full, high quality staff, by pushing the training. In the meeting this afternoon I want to find out who is not going, so they can be replaced.

Speaking of which, it's lunch time.

After running and bathing, George quickly grabbed a bite to eat. Bob showed up and announced that he had been recognized at the next higher proficiency level in martial arts, though he had been admonished to discover and correct whatever was troubling him in nikyo. George congratulated him, but then enlisted him and Meiko to help plan how to convince the workers to stick with the project. It was hard, because George didn't really know how the workers and their families would react to the news that their jobs were going to float away. He would have to play it by ear. George Chou did not often play things by ear.

After lunch the people began to gather in the courtyard. George stood up on one of the benches. Most or all of the 300 people on the project — workers and families — crowded around, and George began to speak.

Friends, fellow workers, you probably already know that Senator Tomlin has introduced a bill to prohibit the construction or operation of fission reactors in the U. S. (Several people hissed.) It is my judgment, and the NRC concurs, that the bill will probably become law. That would destroy the project. (Groans. Many people had not appreciated the consequences of what was happening in Washington.) I don't want to lose the project. Now, unlike other fission reactors, this one can be moved. I plan to look for another site outside the U. S. for the project, where it will be acceptable politically. (Surprise and muttering.) I don't know where yet. Maybe France, maybe Japan, maybe Brazil. The site has to be technically feasible — the plant is built for California, and couldn't stand Canadian weather, for example. Further, the destination has to be acceptable to the NRC, and given the present political problems in Mexico, I doubt we would be allowed to go there — even if they wanted us, which in today's situation is not very likely. So I don't know where we're going, but you have to expect it to be a long, long way from here.

How long would we be gone? Likely it would be permanent. If some foreign country accepts us, it will be because of some advantage to them, and they will not be willing to just let us sail back to the U. S. This is assuming Tomlin's bill gets repealed, which might take many years.

I intend that everyone now employed by the project may continue to work at the new location, and may live with their family on board. But I realize that some of you may not want to come. I need to know in the next few days who will and will not come with us, so replacements can be hired and trained. The plant was to be moved to its permanent site in December or January, and I expect we will continue with that schedule — just to a different site. That means we haven't much time to recruit and train new people, so I need to know your decision soon. I hope you will all come.

Do you have any questions?

There were lots of questions. George recognized an older man. Do you think it's patriotic to run off this way?

An anticipated question. Yes and no. It's not patriotic for us to leave the U. S.; it signifies that we mistrust and deeply disagree with the government, which is true. But I believe in the value of the salt breeder, both for extending our scarce energy resources and for keeping nuclear weapons out of improper hands. The project benefits the U. S., even if Tomlin is too cracked to understand it. So by saving the project we act patriotically. You have to decide which is more patriotic: physical presence in the country, or acting to save the country from its folly.

A young lady: The foreign country would want its nationals to run the plant. How long before we get kicked out?

Sharp question, fortunately not one that would arise in the actual plan. I would press for replacement through attrition. We could probably get at least ten years.

Cynthia asked about her specialty: Japan or France are fine, but Brazil? How would we get spare parts?

We would have to have a bigger stock than we planned, and we would have to fabricate a lot of replacement parts ourselves. I would like everyone to think about what spares they really might need. Remember that many countries have severe foreign exchange problems — it is very hard to buy stuff from the U. S., as Cynthia points out.

A teenage girl: In the Amazon jungle there aren't any TV stations or record stores, right? It would be awfully boring.

Not an anticipated question. We wouldn't be able to pop over to the mainland and buy something, that's right. That includes clothes and food, as well as entertainment. But I expect that we would periodically bring in tapes and films, and we would have some degree of TV reception from satellites. What we could get, of course, depends on where we end up.

Mori stuck his nose in. I'd like to comment on that last question. If you require commercially packaged entertainers, you had better stay in the U.S. But if you put out as well as taking in, you can keep this place jumping. Do you play an instrument? I suggest you learn. Then you can play your own scuzz-rock, if that's what turns you on. You have several bands and you take turns playing and writhing.

The word is dancing.

Mori ignored her correction. Instead of watching TV with commercials, put on your own plays. If you have something against the classics, there must be somebody here who can write new material. I suppose you watch sitcoms. Anybody can write sitcoms. If you give to your community as well as take, there are more than enough people to keep everyone entertained. If you want the latest teenybopper heart-throb to entertain you, you can expect to be bored stiff.

The teenager did not like Mori's picture of her as a small-brained social parasite, but George went on to the next questioner. How will we move the station? I didn't know it had motors.

Sails have been suggested — actually multiple large parachute canopies. We will have to experiment to see if they will work. In any case, we will move rather slowly, probably one knot or less.

Ted Thompson voiced a major concern of teenagers: We get a lot of our food from shore. Suppose we sail to Japan, that's ten or twelve thousand kilometers, something like that. So it will take a year to get there, across open ocean. What will we eat? Fish, sure, but no fruits and vegetables? Do we just eat rice like the Asians? Can we even store enough rice?

Good point, Ted. I'm no expert on agriculture and I hope anyone who is will come forward and help out. But my tentative plan is to grow lots more vegetables in our pots, like tomatoes and squash. We can grow melons too. I want to try fruit trees, but I don't know if they will bear well in pots. On ten square meters you can grow enough vegetables to stuff one family, so we have enough surface area if we use it wisely. Now on the grain, I allowed half a kilo per person per day. That's seventy tons per year. We have no problem at all storing that much — each float will hold up thousands of tons. You don't have to worry about starving.

Soon Hyong Chee spoke up; his lousy English was the result of dyslexia, not laziness. Long time store rice bad. Fungus grow, rat eat rice, finally rice is stale and people not eat. Best grow rice here, but land too small for many people.

A girl teenager answered. Some of them have so much odd information. For a report, I read about farming. I heard of a farm where they get a ton of rice per acre — that's four thousand square meters — three times per year. So we would need … seventy divided by three … about a hundred thousand square meters of land to feed us. That's ten floats. Of course, we probably couldn't do as well as they did, so we would need more area. Couldn't we make the floats thinner and lighter, so we could get more area for the same construction work? We wouldn't put tall buildings on a farm.

George answered, Those are excellent points, and we will look into them. Also, I plan to keep some chickens, dairy cows and maybe pigs. We may not have the variety of foods available on shore, but we we will eat better than the majority of people in the world. — Yes, Otis?

Hey, man, I was counting on going to college next year at night. If this project is in the middle of the ocean, and I'm in the middle of the project, no college for me, right? So I got to choose one or the other. What do you say to that?

We have three or four people in the same position as you, Otis, ready to start college. If you want to study at a name school, like Princeton, you have to leave the project. If you're just interested in learning, though, I would seriously suggest a correspondence school. Our people here can help you with most fields of science, at least at the undergraduate level, and in many kinds of arts — like they do now for high school. I went to the University of Washington, and I must say that I had only two courses where the professor made a big difference; the rest would have been just as good by correspondence. Well, maybe four courses were good. In the rest, I would read and learn the material and do the problems, and the professor would mark the homework and certify my performance. That's all. It's a sad thing, but that's how it worked out for me.

Mori stuck up his hand. George dreaded to hear what monkey wrench he was going to throw in, but couldn't very well ignore him. My major concern, he said, is pirates and terrorists. If you sail out of sight of land for a year or more, loaded to the scuppers with weapons-grade fuel, clean fuel at that, you have to expect attempts to take the fuel away from you. Several well planned and executed attempts. Are you people willing to put yourselves on the receiving end of a terrorist attack? More important to the NRC, can we trust you to hang on to the fuel? We have no desire to be an arms supplier to the Armenian nationalist movement or the Mafia.

John Thompson popped off, without being recognized. If the NRC won't approve of us having fuel, I'm sure someone else can be found who will.

Pakistan, I suppose, retorted Mori.

Shut up, you turdbrains! I am leading this discussion and I will not have gratuitous arguments. Dr. Mori has asked a good question, in his special style, and it deserves a responsive answer. I have confidence in our defensive abilities, but you know people probably will get hurt or killed in an attack. You can't ignore it. Dr. Mori, you have seen one of our combat training classes. What did you think of it?

The people did very well against a simulated, limited threat. But do they realize that the real thing is a lot different? Do they know how to deal with automatic weapons? Explosives? Aircraft? Suppose the adversaries snatch Bob here and start cutting off his fingers. What would you personally do? The NRC needs to know, and I want to hear the answer now, from you, in front of your people. I don't want anyone to go out with that fuel and not to be prepared to defend it, and if not enough people are willing to risk that kind of event, I think you shouldn't go — no matter how good the project is in technical merit.

Bob stuck his hand up. George ignored him and collected his thoughts to answer Mori. Bob pouted and complained, It's my fingers. Please let me talk. George again couldn't prevent it. Mr. Mori, you know I'm not so easy to snatch. But suppose they did, and could keep hold of me. My parents know what would happen if the bad guys got the fuel. Do you think they would trade it for me? They love me and they would be sad to lose me, but I think they would do their duty. I certainly wouldn't give the fuel to keep them from being killed.

Mori responded, Oh, really. I had in mind something less merciful than death. And you're a kid. No, I don't mean any disrespect, but I have a lot of experience that you don't. You don't know what combat really is; you only know your wooden bullets. You won't know what a parent feels until you have your own kid. I'm not sure I would sacrifice my kids for an ideal Also, it's easy to say now how dedicated you are. When the hour comes, you may sing a different tune. The NRC needs to know if you will take care of the fuel. Convince me. Look, I want to be convinced. But I don't let my desires influence my judgment on business matters.

How can we convince you?, asked Bob. You have to see us in action to believe in us. The Indians used to cut pieces out of each other to show how tough they were. You want us to do that?

You're just being sarcastic.

I'm imitating you. But tell us what we could do to convince you.

Someone in the crowd added, What do you want, a blood oath? George frowned, not for the first time.

Mori replied, The Government of the United States does not go in for blood oaths. But I can't think of any meaningful demonstration of commitment that you could give me. A military unit would have traditions and past performance; also no families in the combat zone. But you people are doing something entirely new. How can we trust you? And if we judge you wrongly — either way — the world is changed, and not for the better.

John Thompson stuck up his hand this time. I think Dr. Mori is right: there is a big difference between talk and reality. The Bantu in South Africa have a tradition of blood oaths for important matters. I am willing to swear a blood oath to protect the fuel, and I think anyone who isn't should not set sail. It's the only way to convince Dr. Mori — and I anticipated that the Tomlin bill would have support and that we would have to move the station, and I have been having second thoughts about security. I think we are going to have to put our blood where our mouths are, and we had better get started today.

I think it's totally barbaric, said George. We're civilized people, and we should be able to find some civilized way to convince Dr. Mori.

A Chicano said, My ancestors had a higher civilization than the Europeans who conquered them. Maybe we should do it the Aztec way — with Dr. Mori in the place of honor, perhaps?

Cynthia Czychak retorted, Be serious. I think John Thompson is right; we should have a blood oath. If I could go through with it, I would have a lot more confidence in myself during an attack. But I think it's only fair that the NRC should swear it too, through their representative here. A chorus of agreement.

Mori politely raised his hand, and George signed to him to speak. The NRC cannot be involved in any way, and you cannot take the position that I am demanding this blood oath of you. Otherwise I would be fired tomorrow. But I can tell you that I consider it a stringent test of your willingness to defend the fuel. I will swear your oath — as a free person, not as an agent of the NRC.

This is going too far, exclaimed George. I will not allow any such nonsense on my project. You are acting like a bunch of young teenagers!

A shadow passed over the faces of the young teenagers present, and George immediately realized he had made a mistake, but the main action was with the substance of his statement. A voice cried out, The majority want it!

That doesn't make it right, replied George.

Meiko straightened George out. Dear, it's not a problem in engineering, it's how people feel, and Dr. Mori's confidence in us. We have to have the blood.

George bowed to the inevitable, and they quickly agreed on the details. They were promising each other to protect the fuel — not the NRC, for which a blood oath was a meaningless romanticism, and not God, since the project had more than its share of Buddhists, Shintoists, Native American Animists and assorted nonbelievers, besides the usual Christians, Jews and Muslims. A person had to swear the oath in order to depart with the project. Quakers — there was one family — could affirm the oath; they were not required to use powered weapons but were committing themselves to defend the fuel by nonviolent means, which meant aikido bare hands. Commuters' families would have to swear later, if they were going, as would new employees. Mori had questioned whether parents would sacrifice their kids for the project, but he quickly announced that he thought it was too much to require the oath of kids. Nonetheless, when kids believe in a matter of principle they tend to carry it to the bitter end, and a number of them, Bob included, insisted over parental objection on taking the oath. The consensus was that they should be allowed to swear, for Mori's point was still valid: if the parents couldn't stand to see their kids' blood, they had no business bringing the kids on the hazardous journey.

Ted and Sally Thompson finished engrossing the oath, four copies, on drafting vellum. Bob insisted that his knife be used in one of the lines: a wicked sharp thing with a curved point for disembowelling fish. Someone complained that he didn't want any fish knife on his skin, and Bob haughtily directed him to another line. Unable to decide who should go first, George and Mori flipped for that dubious honor; Mori won.

He stuffed his tie inside his white shirt and rolled up the left sleeve. He made a five-centimeter cut in his forearm, avoiding visible veins. He dipped his thumb in the dripping blood, made a blot on the paper, then signed his name by it in kanji. He held up his arm, to a roar of applause, then stepped aside for George. Dr. Margolis, the project's combination physician and chief health physicist, squirted the wound with an antiseptic spray and closed it with three stitches. His nurse stitched George.

Several people fainted, though all but one completed the ritual after reviving. Only two people lost their nerve when their turn came. One girl of eight years was crying when she got to the head of the line. John Thompson, who was supervising that line, said, You don't have to do this, kid. But she replied in a small voice, I want to, and picked up the knife. She finished the job, though the blood was diluted with tears. But when she turned to face her cheering friends and handwringing parents, she found she had wet her pants. She blushed blood-red and buried her face in her arms, an unwise move under the circumstances. John poked her gently in the stomach and said, Listen, kid, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You wet yourself because this oath was harder for a kid like you than for the rest of us. Courage is in doing what you have to, not in bladder control. Believe me; I've seen my share of blood. You should be proud to have gone through it. Come on, let's see a smile.

With John's help the kid was willing to face her friends again. Bob held her hand while she got her one stitch, and went with her while she cleaned herself up.

At the end, they lost eighteen commuters and five residents One of those was a college-bound teenager. His comment was fairly typical of the people not going: I'm going to Berkeley in a month. I don't want to screw that up. I hope you all do real well, but if I take this oath, all it means is I'm showing how tough I am, since I'm not going with you. You already know that I'm tough enough. Good luck.

George knew that he would lose a few more people in the next days, but he was very relieved — and surprised — that he had lost less than twenty percent of his workers. A heavy engineering project like a fission reactor is not the place you usually find romance and ritual, and George was surprised at the power of ritual as a leadership tool and as a force for unifying a community. In fact, to his chagrin, the leadees were way ahead of him on that point. He thought he was paying plenty of attention to people's feelings already, but he resolved to consider feelings even more, and to find other ways to apply ritual in the project — less grim and painful ways, he hoped as he pressed on his cut, which was stinging.

The people were standing around, talking about the future and periodically shouting encouragement and cheers to the last few people to take the oath. Cynthia appeared next to George and said, We should have a party.

Excellent idea. George got back up on the bench. We'll celebrate tonight. Pot luck, everybody cook something and we'll all eat in the courtyard.

Cynthia cut in, Questions on what's needed — see me.

George continued, Commuters, bring your families. You can call them now on the radiophone. They don't have to bring any food. Tell them to meet at Redondo Pier at 5:30; we'll run the boat late so they can get home. I'd really like to get them on the project so they can see what they're getting into. Everybody be sure to welcome the commuter families and show them around — especially our way of education. That's important to parents and kids both.

Another thing: We don't want the media reporting 'Bloody Ceremony as Reactor Nears Completion'. We're supposed to be sneaking out from under Tomlin's nose. Keep quiet about the oath, and particularly about the fact that we aren't stopping work as Tomlin's bill requires. Thank you all for supporting the project, and I'll see you tonight. George raised his arms, still streaked with dry blood, and everyone else did likewise and cheered.

Meiko hugged her husband. Love, you were great! You got us through!

Not me: you, and everybody. Cynthia! Where are you? Cynthia, thanks. And Bob, I'm proud of you. You're my expert on handling Mori. George tousled Bob's black hair, as Bob beamed. Hey, where has he gone off to? Would you see what he's doing?

Bob found Mori at the rail on the cement plant, looking out over the open ocean and thinking. Bob allowed Mori to see him, then sat in the afternoon sun under a mirror ten meters away, in case Mori wanted to talk. But Mori didn't. After about a quarter hour he walked off the other way.

The party was a grand success. Besides its Chicano majority, Los Angeles has large communities of several kinds of Asians, plus the Whites and Blacks, and all cultural groups were deliciously represented. Even Soon Hyong Chee broke out a jar of potent kim chi and was plying it on all comers in his usual incomprehensible English. Beer flowed freely, courtesy of the project, and the air was scented with one of the project's agricultural crops, one which Mori had not caught sight of despite his extensive tours of inspection. He tactfully avoided mentioning the odor to George; actually, he wished he were out of uniform, so to speak, so he could enjoy himself more. George was pleased that everyone was having a good time, particularly the nineteen sets of commuters' wives and children who had shown up. He was also pleased that nobody was getting outrageously stoned or sloshed, for drug abuse was one matter that he was very strict on. Two commuter teenagers, neighbors, brought an electric guitar and bass, and the residents provided a keyboardist and a drummer (who found the cement plant a much more congenial place to practice, neighbor-wise, than his former apartment). Soon they were jamming enthusiastically on the latest scuzz-rock hits, as well as playing classics from the less frenetic punk and disco eras.

In the middle of the festivities, two men bearing a laden stretcher staggered in front of the buffet table. It was Elie Koch, the engineer of the aluminum smelter in the basement of the cement plant, and Harold Rosenblum, his chief technician. They set down their heavy burden: on the stretcher were two lumps covered by a sheet. Bob spread the sheet so it was not caught under the stretcher. Elie, with his French accent, cried out theatrically, Drink, here! Drink! We have a thirst that Hephaestus could not match. Bring us beer! Flagons were provided on cue by Bob. The commotion attracted a crowd, including George, whose proximity was not a coincidence.

Draining his mug, Elie announced, Our reactor, our salt breeder, is worthless without work to do. Behold: today we have wrought the silver of the modern age. Voila! He whipped aside the sheet, and there sat two ingots of aluminum gleaming in the electric light. Fifty kilos — a hundred and sixty five dollars.

Where did that come from?, asked George. The first row of electrolytic cells wasn't going to be finished until next month.

Three cells are done, and we have a complete transformer-rectifier module. Yesterday we checked the three for leaks, so they were loaded with salt and warm enough to draw current. We thought after the ceremony that it was important to demonstrate the commercial cells — so we hooked the 480 volt input to 208, and turned the chokes up all the way to reduce the current. We poured the ingots before dinner, but they had to cool.

Mori, who had come to see, asked, What will your production rate be with all cells in operation?

You mean the first phase, ten megawatts? Twenty-five tons a day, worth $78,000. That's $22 million a year, assuming the plant is available two-thirds of the time.

Then you can recover your investment in just over a year! Why don't other people build reactors and make aluminum?

I have no idea; I'm not a businessman, replied Elie.

George said, We ought to do something special with this aluminum. Maybe a sculpture? Bob, remind me to find out about that tomorrow.

You know, said Mori, your solar thermal field should put out enough power to make a fair amount of aluminum, even without the reactor.

We're counting on it for cash flow in the next few months. We hope to get four hundred kilos each day that the sun shines and that we aren't making cement. That's $1300. It's not big money but it helps, now that most of our grant is spent or committed.

Mr. Mori, would you like some more beer? Bob replaced Mori's empty mug. Dad, you too. Bob took a swig before giving the mug to his father, who tolerated the impertinence.

Mori lifted his beer. A toast to your project, George. May so much money roll in that it sinks your smelter, and may the reactor operation be so uneventful that you die of boredom!

Everybody cheered, and drank. Then George proposed a toast: To the NRC, whose cooperation makes this all possible, and to Dr. Mori, their inspector with the microscope eyes!

Mori responded, Thank you, thank you. The usual epithet is 'acid tongue'. George, if we're going to be co-conspirators on this project, you really ought to call me Hiroshi.

Elie hoisted his mug and declaimed, To Gerald P. Weiss, may his bones rest easy when we're all through! Loud cheering and whistles, as Elie drained his beer.

Bob finished his turn as bartender and, declining a beer from his replacement, went to dance with his friends. Occasional couples drifted off to the privacy of the cement plant or their rooms. Antares was low over Catalina when the party finally wound down and the commuters, yawning, headed for the boat. Meiko and George found Bob sitting against an empty beer keg, fast asleep. They carried him home to bed.