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y slump。 It had been in operation for four years with no trouble at all； feeding the ever…increasing appetite for power in the great Valley metro region。
Jenkel leaned back in his chair； absently fingering his bald spot。 He was a big man； with a big beaky nose and the jowly； pleasant face of a favorite uncle； and was fresh back from vacation…fishing in the Poconos。 He'd caught three trout and an acute case of sunburn； and his roasted pate stood out from the white of his shirt like the bulb of an overheated thermometer。 He crinkled his brow in speculation。
He'd noticed the flux in the neutron population twenty minutes ago； almost by accident。 It was a marginal increase in temperature and power； well within the plus…or…minus parameters the reactor coolant routinely generated。 He'd caught it during a casual spot…check； duly noted the reading； then set about leveling it by releasing a stream of borated water into the closed…loop system that covered the core。
The boron did its molecular duty； moderating the fission process； slowing the reactor。 In his duties as the nuclear half of the day shift's Reactor Operator Team； Jenkel had performed the process countless times before。 Borate the coolant； keep watch as the power rolls off and the temperature drops。 It was like fine…tuning the fission process； and it always worked like a charm。
But now the temperature was up again。 Odd。
Jenkel turned to his younger； less experienced other half； whose duties minding the turbines and steam generators consisted at the moment of reading Dave Barry's column in the Sunday News and snickering at every other paragraph。 Once a pressurized water reactor was up they could practically go home and let the reactor run itself； or so the training said。 Normally； it was utterly； absolutely true。 But it was a homily that carried its own disclaimer； a caveat like a void if removed tag。
Unless something goes wrong 。。。
〃Hah！〃 Bob Henkel laughed out loud； a sharp bark that stood out in the quietly humming control room。 〃Man； this guy cracks me up。〃 He chortled out loud。 〃He says we should convert the federal deficit to voltage； right？ And then run it through electrodes attached to the genitals of every member in Congress 。。。 〃
〃Hey； Bob；〃 Jenkel said； interrupting。 〃Check this out。〃
Henkel looked up； blue eyes watery with mirth。 He was twenty…nine； bean…pole thin； and the physical opposite of Jenkel。 Except for the nose： broad and downward sloping； it was so close to Jenkel's that they could have been pressed from the same Play…Doh Monster Schnozz kit。 Add that to their names； and the jokes were inevitable。
Henkel got up from his chair； sauntered over。 〃What's up； boss？〃 he said。
〃The reactor load； for one thing；〃 Jenkel answered。 〃Check out the core。〃 Motioning to the meter with his chin。
〃The neutron count is way up。〃 Henkel assessed the situation and shrugged。 〃So borate the water；〃 he offered。
〃Already did；〃 Jenkel said。 〃Now it's back up again。〃
Henkel considered the problem； as well as the older man's tone of voice； which was more curious than concerned。 He knew as well as Jenkel that they were constantly making up and letting down water for the core vessel； filtering out particulates or ions and then restoring it to the loop。 Henkel wondered offhand if this was some kind of test； an impromptu spot…quiz by ol' Dead Fred to goose an otherwise slow shift。
〃Uhmm；〃 he pondered； 〃add NutraSweet？〃
Jenkel looked at him； he was not smiling。 Maybe this was serious； after all。 〃Go get Sykes；〃 Jenkel said。 〃Tell him we might have a problem。〃
His eyes leveled with Henkel's and the younger man's smile evaporated。 Bob turned and quick…walked over to the open door of the super's office。 〃Uh； Mr。 Sykes 。。。 〃 he began。
But Fred Jenkel was no longer listening。 His ears were tuned to another sound； a subsonic drone that he felt more than heard； coining from a humming structure less than a hundred yards away。 From his radiation…shielded； hermetically sealed vantage point； it might as well have been on the moon。
He watched the meter's needle rise up and level off； only to scoot up a moment later。 Rise 。。。 flutter。 Rise 。。。 flutter。
〃It's nothing；〃 he told himself； denying memory and intuition and experience。 〃Nothing at all。〃
Jenkel watched。 All the while thinking； The reactor could practically run itself。
Rise 。。。
Unless something went wrong 。。。
Eleven
More than anything； Gwen Taylor loved the act of creation。
She stood before her almost pleted work…in…progress； dressed in sweats and a paint…spattered shirt stolen from Gary。 Blue and yellow mixed with a bit of white on the sheet of heavy glass that served as her palette。 The colors swirled together； three melding to one； making teal。
She wet her brush； scooped up some of the paint； and held it aloft。 〃Okay； your Highness；〃 she said； scrutinizing her target。 〃Here es greatness。〃
Gwen took aim and let fly。
On the nursery wall； the Faery Queen's left cheek came to vibrant life。 A twin slash quickly adorned the right。 Gwen worked fast and loose； showing amazing skill and alacrity in the most random of motions。 She dabbed here； stroked there； a layer of cool green sprouted across the breadth of the mural in no time。
〃Yes 。。。 yes； yes 。。。 〃 Gwen said。 David Byrne's 〃Rei Momo〃 jangled from the speakers of her spattered studio boom box。 Gwen grabbed up a brushful of magenta and peppered the shadows around the figure with hot color。 〃This is a good look for you；〃 she winked。
The nursery was spectacular； a magical blend of innocence and mystery。 Stuffed animals hung from a hammock in the corner； shower booty awaiting tiny hands to bring them to life； an antique oak crib lovingly refinished by Gary consumed one whole er of the room； tempo rarity hiding under a protective drop cloth。 A mobile floated lazily above it； bobbing on an almost imperceptible breeze。 It was a room full of dreams； waiting to e true。
Gwen could hardly wait for Spike to see it。
She dropped the brush； picked up a finer one to lay in some highlights of yellow。 Then she scooped up a raggedy bit of sponge that she'd custom…plucked for maximum texture and began patting the surface of the fresh paint； adding a stippled coral effect。
It was a technique that would have appalled her art school painting instructors； but fuck 'em。 Gwen was a firm believer in the right misuse of technology。
After all； she reasoned； necessity isn't the true mother of invention。
Weirdness is。
Gwen was nothing if not original。 Her instructors had hated her style； which was quirky and unschooled but bristling with energy； charming in its imagination and sheer enthusiasm。 They told young Gwen Kessler that as an artist she'd make a great hairdresser。 One told her he now understood why previous generations preferred their women barefoot； pregnant； and in the kitchen； another even suggested in front of the entire class that she'd be better off enrolling in the art school that advertised on matchbooks。 Draw Binky； Make Big 。
So when she finally got fed up with getting shat upon by the hierarchical cliques of snotty conceptual types at the Atlanta College of Modern Art； she fought back by declaring herself a postmodern neoprimitive guerrilla cartoonist and staging her own one…woman protest show outside the main entrance of the school； which was also the Peachtree Road entrance for the prestigious and oh…so…stuffy Atlanta Museum of Modem Art。 She spray…painted the title of her point across。 It was smarmy and titillating and played wholly for yocks； and it utterly missed the point。
The cameraman got her contact info from the rap sheet； stewed over her for a day； and finally called her up。 He apologized。 She did not accept。 He asked her out。
She told him； very sweetly； to go fuck himself。
He proceeded to find out the date of her arraignment。 When she showed up； he was there。 She had bee a minor celebrity by that point； albeit an embarrassed one： Channel Two followed up on her case periodically； invariably running the same smarmy clip of her thrashing； bare…butted arrest。
He asked her out again。 She recognized him from the news crew and told him to please leave her alone。
He was back again at her court date。 She got six months' probation。 He handed her a rose and a present wrapped in a brown paper bag。 She opened it up in the cab on the way home。
Inside the envelope was a note with his phone number。 The note read：
Everybody deserves a second chance。
She unwrapped the package。 Inside were a couple of three…quarter…inch videotapes。 The masters and the dubs。 All of it。
Channel Two didn't run any coverage that night； or ever again。
The next day Gwen called the cameraman and thanked him。 He said it was his pleasure and apologized yet again； and didn't even ask her out。
Three days later； she called him again。 This time she invited him to lunch； her treat。 He said yes。 Everybody deserves a second chance。
The cameraman's name was Gary Taylor。
And the rest； as they say； was history 。。。
Gwen blushed with the memory。 It was a long way from Atlanta to here； s