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When he came down to breakfast Monday morning at a normal time, everyone except Washington was still eating.
"Not running today?" His father looked up from the paper.
"After school. Larkin's hoping the wind will die down so it won't be so dusty."
"Just look out there!" His mother leaned on the sink and peered out of the window with worried concern. "I'm afraid even to leave the house. The hills haven't burned around here in years. With this wind, just a little fire would spread like...." She threw up her hands. "You did increase our fire insurance, didn't you, Arnold?"
His father nodded.
Richard poured himself some juice and brought it to the table. He reached for the sports section of the paper.
"No health-food cocktail today?"
"Today I feel like junk food. Some nice sugar-coated crispies, and the heck with Larkin. So I day one day sooner.
"Talk about dying," his father said, "did you see this piece in the paper about the plutonium theft from that nuke lab back east? The government just now admitted it happened. And now there's some kind of debate about whether or not some looney-toon can build a home-made nuclear bomb! Nice world we're living in."
Richard tuned out as his parents began discussing the news storm. Something about how, in principle, making a homebrew nuke was very easy - get a critical mass of radioactive material, sit back and watch the runaway nuclear reaction go. But luckily for us all it's the first part - getting the radioactive material - that is the biggest stumbling block.
You cannot make a nuclear bomb without fissile material. And for an average thermonuclear device, the necessary material is plutonium or enriched uranium (238 or 235) Both are radioactive and will decay into other elements, given time, but only the latter can be forcibly split when neutrons are fired at it. That's the basis of a nuclear bomb.
When an atom breaks apart, it gives out energy and more neutrons, which can then split other atoms. Get enough atoms splitting and you have the chain reaction needed for a bomb blast.
But natural uranium overwhelmingly consists of the 238 isotope, which bounces back any neutrons striking it - useless then for a bomb. To make a bomb, natural uranium needs to be treated to concentrate the 235 isotope within it.
And this is where the problems really begin. For every 25,000 tons of uranium ore, only 50 tons of metal are produced. Less than 1% of that is uranium 235. No standard extraction method will separate the two isotopes because they are chemically identical. So instead, the uranium is reacted with fluorine, heated until it becomes a gas and then decanted through several thousand fine porous barriers to partially separate it into two types: enriched and depleted, the latter used for conventional weapons.
To make a nuclear reactor, the uranium needs to be enriched so that 20% of it is uranium 235. For nuclear bombs, that figure needs to be nearer 80 or 90%. Get around 50kg of this enriched uranium - the critical mass - and you have a bomb. Any less and the chain reaction will not cause an explosion.
Unfortunately, the would-be atom-bomber can bypass this problem by using plutonium instead. This is the preferred material because it makes much lighter weapons that can be mounted on to missiles---or carried around in a suitcase!
Plutonium is produced as a by-product in nuclear reactors and only around 10kg is needed for a bomb. The average power plant needs about a year to produce enough and expensive reprocessing facilities are required to extract the plutonium from the fuel.
With plutonium, life gets easier for the amateur bomber. His bomb will explode once the critical mass of uranium or plutonium is brought together. So, to begin with, and to make sure that it doesn't explode in the hands of its owners, the bomb needs to keep the metal separated into two or more parts. When the weapon is in place and ready to go off, these sub-critical masses need only be thrown together - and this can be done with conventional explosives.
The chain reaction, explosion and familiar mushroom cloud then take care of themselves.
That easy for some nut case to build an a-bomb? Phew!
"Richard! Doesn't anything interest you other than sports?"
"Sure. Music. Girls." He took a big mouthful of cereal and grabbed for a paper napkin as milk spilled down his chin.
"You're hopeless."
"Maybe the answer is criminal control, not bomb control. Anyway, if anything happens we can always go live in the shelter."
His father looked appalled. "I can't believe you said that!" he exclaimed.
"Said what?"
"Finish your breakfast and get your ass to school," his mother said. "We'll talk about this some other time."
He hated it when his parents put him down that way. Usually he wasn't even sure what he'd said wrong. They made him feel like they had no respect for his opinions. Washington claimed it was because he jumped into discussions without facts, then stubbornly clung to his viewpoint when he knew he was wrong. But how else could he survive in a family where everyone, except him, was perfect?
The feeling of being at odds with the world continued through the morning. In English class he deliberately took an extreme viewpoint in interpreting a scene from Othello. In economics class he took the unpopular view about whether the world should go off the gold standard. It was one of those days when he couldn't seem to stop himself from doing the very opposite of what everybody else did.
Grumpy and hungry, he waited for Washington and Stacey in the cafeteria at noon, reading the menu again and again. Should he get the spaghetti, macaroni and chees, or a hamburger? if he chose the spaghetti he'd be sorry it hadn't been the burger. If he chose the burger, he'd wish later he'd bought the macaroni.
"Hey, little brother. I forgot my lunch money. Could ya lend me two?"
Richard turned to Washington, his glance first gliding over Stacey, and took out his wallet. "You still owe me for last week's lunch."
"Listen to him, willya." Washington nodded to Stacey. "A mind like a dollar sign. You'd think I was asking to borrow a million."
"I'll loan you the money, Washington," Stacey said.
"No, here!" Richard quickly handed over $2.00. Instead of coming out the good guy, he was being made to look the bad guy. How come his brother always managed to come out looking right, even when he was wrong?
"Thanks, pal. Pay ya back tonight." Washington tucked the money in his shirt pocket, flicked his eyes over the menu, and picked up a tray. He went directly to the macaroni and cheese. Richard decided to take the same, and followed his brother and Stacey to a table.
"How's Audrey?" Stacey asked, unloading her tray. Dressed in an orange cheerleader skirt and blue-and-orange sweater, she looked happy and fresh.
He grinned sheepishly. Audrey was a mystery lady the track team was always talking about. She was supposed to live on Vista del Valle. The guys said she had a thing for high school men, especially Larkin's Legion. Sometimes, the stories went, if you were out running alone she'd be waiting, a glass of white wine in each hand.
"You know Frankie? Well, he saw her just last week. He said she was wearing this flowing thing----a negligee." His whole body got hot, talking to Stacey like that. "She waved at him and then...."
"Yeah, right," Washington said.
"Yeah, right!" Richard returned. He really didn't quite believe it himself, but whenever he ran on Vista del Valle, he'd slow down---just in case.
"You must still believe in the Easter Bunny."
"There's got to be something to it. Everyone says..."
"Do you always believe everything you hear?"
"Oh, you're so smart. You never believe anything you here!"
"Hey, you guys, quit that!" Stacey put a hand on each of them. "For 2 brothers who really like each other, you sure try hard to hide it!"
Richard busied himself with spooning up the macaroni. What a turkey that brother of his was! He could be such a smartass! And he had the heart of an eel. What right did he have to move in on Stacey? "You got anything going with her?" Washington had asked last year. " 'Cause if you don't, I'm gonna ask her out."
He still got mad at himself for not speaking up. But what could he have said? There hadn't really been anything between him and Stacey except what went on in his dreams. And even if he'd asked Stacey, what chance did he stand with a brother like Washington?
"I gotta go, guys. Tennis practice." Washington gathered up his lunch stuff and stood up. "See ya later, Stacey. Usual place." He nodded curtly at Richard, then sauntered off, his bookbag slung over 1 shoulder. The girls at the next table looked up and waved a greeting.
"Don't let him get to you," Stacey said softly. "Sometimes he does come on a little---strong."
"My brother's a....turkey," Richard said.
"Sometimes, yes. But aren't we all under the skin?" Stacey smiled that warm, impish smile that always made him melt inside. His body relaxed. Washington didn't deserve a girl like her.503Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcReyqODYIj
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He waved at his mother as he trudged up the driveway after school. She was staking a pine tree he'd helped his father plant last year. The tree leaned towards the Del Carlos' house, its needles pushed by the wind.503Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLvpQHvnQW2
"You need any help?" he called.
"Almost done. Thanks, honey. Get yourself a snack, then come on out." His mother motioned to the lawn, covered with leaves, and blew him a kiss. He laughed and did a little happy dance, then went on into the house.
In a few minutes his mother appeared. Barefoot, in shorts and a halter top, she had the distracted look she wore much of the time since she'd gone back to college. He really was proud of her, but he hardly ever saw her anymore because she was often in her room studying when he got home. He missed the way they used to speak, missed just having her around.
"Lemonade?" she asked, going to refrigerator. "Larkin ought to be shot having you guys run on a day like this." Taking a glass from the cabinet, she poured the drink without waiting for his answer and set out some store-bought cookies.
"I'm not hungry." He tossed his books on the family room couch.
"How's 'bout I fix you a nice, thick, ham sandwich?" she asked, not really listening. "You're so skinny, it worries me. It really does." She glanced at her watch, trying hard not to be obvious. "I've got such a lot to do. That paper on the credibility of child eyewitness testimony is due tomorrow, and I'm only half through. Haven't even thought what to make for dinner yet, and...." She stopped, frowned, and then asked, "How's school goin'?"
"That's okay, Mom. Go finish your work. We'll talk later. What do you want me to do outside?"
"Oh, that, yes." She stopped for a moment and looked at him. "Rake the leaves in the front yard before it gets too dark. They're so thick the sprinkler can't reach the grass." She waved at him and went off to her study.
"Right," he said, though he didn't think she heard him. Then he lay down on the couch and, in seconds, fell fast asleep.
The light had already begun fading away when he woke up an hour later. He gulped the lukewarm lemonade, grabbed a handful of cookies, and went outside to find the rake.
Raking leaves was so boring. Any moron could do it. And he wasn't even getting paid. His parents said that running a home was everyone's responsibility. Oh, well. At least it left the mind free to wander. He thought about the 12-string guitar he wanted, at Gorby's. Maybe he could talk his parents into getting it for Christmas.
He had just started pushing the raked leaves into a can he'd laid out on the ground when his mother appeared.
"Richard! What in God's name or you doing?"
"Raking the leaves," he said, looking up in surprise.
"I don't believe it! I just don't believe it! Where's your head? Who rakes leaves uphill into a can?"
"What difference does it make?" he shouted.
"But don't you see...."
He threw the rake down and stalked off to the house. Nothing he did seemed to please anybody. Who gave a damn if the leaves were raked uphill or downhill. If he left them there the wind would sweep them to the next yard, anyway.
"Richard!" his mother shouted at him. "Richard!"
The hell with her. The hell with them all. He kept going until he reached his room. He was sick of them all----Washington, his teachers, Linkin, his mother---everybody! For a second he stood in the middle of his room raging with fury. Then, without thinking, he grabbed up his guitar, ran down the hall and through Washington's room, and let himself out to the backyard. He had to get away. Away from all the criticism. The shelter. That's where he'd go. He could close himself off from the whole world down there, underground. Let them worry about him for a change.
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