“What right do you—of all people- have to try and make my job seem pointless? You’re skunks—you, your father, and the whole greedy landcollecting, carcollecting lot of you.” ten, buddy, I guess duty calls.” “Don’t forget your duty to yourself, Doc!” Jed warned. “The man gets a face mask—that’s better than us!” Tom shouted. Jed and Tom seemed to be jolted toward the south entrance as the crowd continued speeding up. When Peter reached the north entrance, a policeman checked him for i.d. and then gave him a face mask, directing him to a bus. It was an ordinary city bus but it had two cops at the front and one in back. Keith and some other people from his project motioned to Peter to sit with them near the front but Peter pointed toward the back as if someone he knew were back there. He found an empty seat way in the back and waited for the bus to fill up, trying to breathe deeply to calm down through the heat and stuffiness of the mask. Small particles of soot seemed to adhere to the window. As the bus turned into a line of vehicles heading east, Peter could see plumes of black smoke swirling above the cracked gray crusts of desert, becoming more and more visible as if the fire were still spreading. A research nurse from his building stood up on the bus and yelled, “Are we going to the Kadlec Hospital or what?” “My assignment is to bring you to Michael Lawrence, M’am, down at the Federal Building in Richland,” one of the police answered. If this is an evacuation, Peter wondered, why are people being brought out by profession? He tried to watch the particles of soot, to see what direction the wind was taking. Living in Seattle, he rarely had thought about the direction of the wind. It meant nothing to'him except when he was on a sailboat. The water suggested an openness much like the desert of New Mexico where he grew up. But this wasn’t desert, or so he told Sylvia Van Wyck the night she came to his hotel, soon after Maria left for Seattle. Sylvia was the last person he expected to see. He had forgotten about her since the Wainwrights’ party when she had dragged him onto the dance floor. As he opened the hotel room door, she swooped by him at just the right angle to expose one of her breasts in the V-neck tennis shirt. He folded his arms, and noticing Maria’s picture of him, wondered why he hadn't gotten her to do a self-portrait. Sylvia told him about a garden party her parents were having at their place next to the golf course in Kennewick. Couldn’t he join them? It struck a strange chord with Peter—a golf course in the middle of the desert. It’s a ruined desert, he told her—turned into one enormous police station that exists outside the law, licensed by the Defense Department to make plutonium for weapons, bought and sold by land dealers like her father. Sylvia gave him a pouting look, and when he paused she mentioned that Paul Crawford, the man who left the job that Peter got, resigned because the partment of Energy wanted to release his data before all the evidence was in. Peter stood up, almost shocked that he had let her in the hotel room in the first place. “What right do you—of all people—have to try and make my job seem pointless? I heard this Crawford character was in love with you. You’re skunks—you, your father, and the whole greedy land-collecting, car-collecting lot of you. Good night!” He accepted the job but told the manager that after a week of being introduced to the project he would have to go over the mountains to tie up some loose ends. He spent two weeks with Maria, living in her cabin. Her summer quarter was over and she didn’t have to teach. They swam, sailed, ate clams, and spent • their evenings at the beach next to a fire. One morning they woke up and Maria said something had sparked her childbearing instincts. “It’s because I’m with you, Peter. I want you to be the father.” rh e bus arrived in front of the Federal Building, which appeared to be surrounded by cops. As Peter and the others stepped down from the bus, several reporters and photographers rushed up to them and began yelling questions. “Did you se.e the fire? How far is it from here?” No one was responding. “We could see the smoke trailing more than 10 miles from the N reactor,” Peter told them. “The plumes of smoke look to be about 20 miles from here and seem to be spreading!” he shouted. A couple of the reporters asked Peter who he was as others fired more questions. A thin, grayhaired man moved between Peter and the reporters. “The doctor here has a job to do!” “What job? Why have there been 15 ambulances at the emergency entrance to the Kadlec Hospital in the last hour?” one reporter persisted. “Now listen,” the guy said, facing Peter. “I'm Drake Wyman. Michael Lawrence asked a few members of the press to be here but he was more interested in photos than in interviews. If you don’t mind, Dr. Uh-?” “Stewart—Peter Stewart. Is he right about the ambulances? How many deaths have there been? What is the point of the charades about some kind of test at the N reactor?” The reporters yelled questions at Wyman. Some were asking where Lawrence was, the man from the DOE who kept authorizing the restart of the N reactor. Peter recognized Dolores Ross from his building who came up next to him, asking him what the hell they were doing in this predicament. He took her hand for a minute and told her they were both suckers for the medical profession. “It’s just incredible how I’ve gone along with this project without really thinking about it!” As he turned around, they were hit by a swarm of flashbulbs, and Dolores said “My God, Peter, we’re going to be in newspaper!” T he bus passed the emergency entrance to the hospital which was thick with lines of ambulances and cars. People were crowding at the doors. The front entrance was nearly as congested with other busloads of people getting out. Drake Wyman hastily directed the group to a side door which he unlocked, taking them up two flights of stairs to a small panel room. A group of 10 medical people sat around the table with about 20 others crowded together against the wall. A fellow in a white coat was asking for volunteers. “We’re really grateful for all the help. We’re doubling our staff in Medicine, Trauma, and General Surgery, and the Emergency staff will take anyone they can get. We’ve ordered cots from the nearest hotels, which right now-are spread out in the front end of the cafeteria and two in each double room,” the fellow added. “What about the food?” someone asked. “If the air is contaminated, the food can’t be any good.” “Yes, we’ll be making announcements as soon as we know.” “What are people doing in the meantime? People shouldn’t be allowed to drink anything but bottled water. And the food. ...” Several people nodded agreement. “We just didn’t want to panic.” Peter heard a woman behind him say the man in charge was a hospital administrator. “We’re going to advise people to drink only bottled water or soda pop. The only food allowed for use by hospital food service will be canned or frozen. And we will have extra staff—security guards, in some cases—to help carry this out. “What about mortality?” Peter asked. “Have any people died from the accident yet?” “ I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have that information. 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