Pointing upward, Rogers said, “We put blast doors into the roof. If she blows, the doors swing open and let out most of the explosion’s force.”

Jake felt far from reassured.

For nearly an hour the technicians fussed and tinkered with the rig while Rogers chatted amiably and Jake wondered if he would live through an explosion. Precisely fifteen minutes before one the door from the parking lot banged open and Tim Younger came striding through. His boots were scuffed dusty brown, his jeans faded, his shirt wrinkled. He had a wide-brimmed, flat-crowned cowboy hat pulled down over his narrowed eyes.

Christ, Jake thought, all he needs is a six-gun strapped to his hip.

Trial Run

TRIAL RUN

Barely nodding at Jake, Younger asked, “We ready to run?” as he stepped into the control booth.

“Just about,” said Rogers.

Jake watched, fascinated, at the play of personalities. Rogers might be the physicist who laid out the underlying concepts of the MHD generator, the man who designed the big rig, but Younger was the guy in charge here. The technicians followed him around like puppy dogs as he left the control booth and walked slowly around the apparatus, checking every inch of it, every wire and connection. Rogers remained in the control booth with Jake. They were both spectators now.

Finally Younger pushed his hat back on his head and nodded, satisfied.

“Okay,” he said to the technicians. “Let’s fire her up and see what she can do.”

“You’ve run this rig before, haven’t you?” Jake asked Rogers, almost in a whisper.

“A couple dozen times.”

“He acts like it’s the first time they’ve tried it.”

With a wry little smile, Rogers said, “For Tim it’s always the first time.”

Younger came back into the control booth, faithfully trailed by the six lab-coated technicians. All of them male, Jake noted. The booth suddenly felt crowded with all of them jammed in, uncomfortably warm, despite the air-conditioning. Jake could smell the acrid tang of perspiration, and somebody had bathed himself in a heavy, musky aftershave.

“Power on the bus,” Younger said, his hat pushed far back on his head. His tone was flat, subdued, but four of the technicians began flicking switches as if their lives depended on it.

“Fuel feed ready,” said one of them.

“Oxygen feed ready.”

Younger said, “Magnet?”

“Up and running. Full strength.”

“Separator?”

“Ready.”

Younger scanned the control panel, left to right, then looked through the thick glass partition at the rig, sitting silently before them.

“Start fuel feed.”

Jake heard a slithering, grating sound: pulverized coal sliding down a chute.

“Fuel feed on.”

“Start oxygen feed.”

“Oxy on.”

“Igniting burner,” Younger said, pressing a stiffly extended finger onto a square red button.