"They are awfully worried about the schedule, aren't they?" Achmed mused. He continued his walk around, hoping the indicator light would blink off. He and his companion stopped to look at the same metallic bar that had so interested Fromm and Ghosn. "What do you suppose that is?"

"Something wondrous." Achmed said. "Certainly they are keeping it as secret as they can."

"I think it's part of an atomic bomb." Achmed turned. "Why do you say that?"

"One of the machinists said it could be nothing else."

"Wouldn't that be something to give to our Israeli friends?"

"After all the Arabs who've died in the last few years - the Israelis, the Americans, all the rest Yes, it would be a fine gift." They continued their walk past the idle machines. "I wonder what the rush is?"

"Whatever it is, they want it finished on time." Achmed paused again, looking at the plethora of metal and plastic parts on the assembly table. An atomic bomb? he asked himself. But some of these things looked like like soda straws, long, thin ones, wrapped in tight bundles and twisted slightly Soda straws - in an atomic bomb? That was not possible. An atomic bomb had to be what? He admitted to himself that he had no idea at all. Well, he was able to read the Koran, and the newspapers, and weapons manuals. It wasn't his fault he hadn't had the chance to have proper schooling like Ghosn, whom he liked in a distant and slightly jealous way. Such a fine thing, an education. If only his own father had been something more than a displaced peasant, a shopowner, perhaps, someone able to save a little money

On his next circuit, he saw the - paint can? That's what it looked like. The metal shavings from the lathe were collected from the Freon sump. Achmed had seen the process often enough. The scrap - it looked mainly like very fine metallic thread - was collected mechanically and loaded into the container, which did look very much like a paint can, using a window and thick rubber gloves. The can was then placed into a double-door chamber and removed, taken to the next room, and opened in another similar chamber and put into one of those odd crucibles.

"I'm going outside for a piss," his companion said.

"Enjoy the fresh air." Achmed observed.

Achmed slung his weapon and watched his friend go out the double doors. He'd take a stroll soon himself, when it was time to check the perimeter security. He was the senior man, and was responsible for the outside guards, in addition to the security of the shop itself. It was worth it just to get out of the controlled environment of the machine shop. This was no way for a man to live, Achmed thought, stuck inside a sealed enclosure like a space station or submarine. He craved an education, but not to be an office worker, sitting down all the time and staring at papers. No, to be an engineer, the sort who built roads and bridges, that was an ambition he might once have held. Perhaps his son would be one, if he ever had the chance to marry and have a son. Something to dream for. His dreams were more limited now. For this to end, to be able to set his gun down, to have a real life, that was his primary dream.