4
Water gushed onto the glowing fuel rods, disappearing almost as quickly as it roared forth, in great billowing clouds of radioactive steam. But the cracked tank would fill no more than halfway, unless...
A vehicle (a sort of front-end loader with mechanical arms)huddled still and abandoned where it had ground to a halt beside the big concrete tank.
Signaling Scott, John strode to the remote maintenance vehicle and set about turning the thing on. There was a way to steer it manually, thank heaven, for it was a sure bet that no command signals were going to get through all this. His older brother joined him as the remote vibrated reluctantly to life. Scott climbed up alongside, pointing at the radiation sensor on his suit sleeve. Well past unsafe now, and deeply into 'hell, no'.
John shrugged, thinking,
'I know, Scott, but this part of the world's about to have a very hard day if we don't do something, fast.'
Frustrated by his inability to communicate, but trusting John's judgement, Scott went along. Next time, he decided, he was going to pack a slate and marker. High technology didn't always cut it.
Together, using hand signals and teamwork, he and John got the loader headed in the right direction and began collecting chunks and slabs of concrete. The stuff sagged like warm chocolate, but it held up long enough to be piled against the cracked cooling tank.
This close to the unshielded rods, the heat was volcanic. Even inside his protective suit, Scott felt as split and blistered as a hot dog. John looked as bad, slumping over the controls in the weird blue light, half-dead, but determined.
He'd count to thirty, Scott decided, then get John out of here if he had to knock him out to do it. If they couldn't stop the meltdown from here, they could always fall back and try another strategy from Thunderbird 1. Death had a sort of final way of limiting one's options, though.
At the thirty count, he manhandled John off the faltering loader, pushing him out of danger as the tank's water level began to rise.
Back at the village, Gordon nearly got into a fistfight with the very folk he was supposed to be saving. Among the last to start aboard, a hard-faced man with a teenaged girl in tow was all but dragging the lass, clearly against her will, into the pod. That in itself wasn't enough to make him intervene. Gordon had learned quickly enough, after trying to help a limping woman up the steep ramp, that Virgil was right; the local men didn't like their women being touched. So, though he had to steel himself not to interfere, or even look much interested, one cloth-muffled female after another struggled up the slope clutching babes and burdens, without his help. The stone-age Pacific Islanders had been much the same, and violent, into the bargain.
This was different, though. This girl seemed to be pleading desperately with her... husband? Brother? Uncle? ...to be let back down. To Gordon's eye, she seemed to have left something priceless behind. Or someone.
He started forward, meaning to force through a few hand-signaled questions, then paused, deeply shocked. In his tension and hurry, the man had lifted a hand to her, making as if to strike the lass, who shrank, but stood her ground, still crying.
Once again reacting without a second thought, Gordon lunged over and seized the man's arm before the blow could fall.
"Let her alone!" he snapped, shoving the bigger man halfway off the ramp. The village chieftain got between them before they came to blows, fortunately. A crowd of scowling men swiftly gathered round, shifting and muttering. Soundly berating the sullen husband (?), the old fellow sent him off to the back of the pod, hauling the girl after him. The dignified headman then turned and directed a comment at Gordon in a high, shaky voice. But, without John there to translate, the boy understood nothing but the head shake and apologetic shrug. Still, the matter gnawed at him.
"Virgil," Gordon called over his wrist comm, unwilling to let the business go, despite their urgent haste. "Got a moment?"
"Go ahead, Gordon. What's the holdup? And that smell? You aren't packing animals in there, are you?" Like his brother, he recalled the primitive islanders with disquiet.
Staring innocently down at his brother's transmitted frown, Gordon lied (just a little).
"Packin'? No, not exactly. Where'd you get that notion? But listen, I think there might be someone left behind, back at the village. This lot's nearly set. Could you give me a quick second or so, to run check?"
'Someone left behind' were the magic words. Virgil had a soft spot for runts and stragglers of all sorts. Obviously torn, he replied,
"Okay. Go get 'em. But make it snappy, Gordon. We've got to get moving."
"F.A.B. On m' way, Virgil." And then, giving a hurried nod to the old man, Gordon sprinted down the ramp and out into hundred and twenty degree heat and bludgeoning sun.