Slan stood up from his desk in an almost doubled-up position. He buttoned up his jacket and sank his hands deep inside his trouser pockets, and began to walk around to the front of his desk, whilst keeping his body turned away from Krosnick. Krosnick wondered if he was suffering from a slipped disc.

American Fossilized’s Adamsville plant employed nine hundred and thirty men. In fifteen years of operation, working with lethally radioactive uranium hexa-fluoride gas, producing the fuel elements that would eventually spend a year or so inside the core of one of many nuclear reactors, followed by six months to a year at the bottom of a cooling tank, followed by several centuries encased in massive radiation-proof casks and entombed at the bottom of oceans, or deep underground, not a single man had been killed, injured, or even suffered the slightest overdose of radiation; and this was due to Slan’s vigilance. He was proud of the safety record, and he had reason to be.

After the morning’s inspection, Slan and Krosnick lunched in the canteen, then Slan returned to his office, sat down, and continued with his morning’s post. Halfway through the pile, was a large white envelope addressed to him, and marked ‘Private and Confidential’. The postmark was New York. He wondered who could have sent it, but didn’t come up with any ideas. Taking his paper knife, he slit the envelope open along the top. He pulled out first a typewritten note. It read simply: ‘Sorry to send these to you at work, but not sure of your home address. Thought you’d enjoy a little souvenir!’ He then pulled out four photographs. They were colour photographs, taken with a camera with a very expensive lens, and taken by a photographer who, without any doubt, judging from the clarity of the picture, the excellent composition, depth of field, and colour fidelity, knew his trade.