The Old Reactor Read Online Free Page A

of his months or years of freedom. Maybe he would get a wild hair and sign on as a net mender on one of the big mud fish trawlers that went in and out of Point Blast Harbor or work on the docks unloading supplies from Bunkerville.
    Zanzetti has completed a round of experiments that suggest jellyhead gel sacks contain living microscopic organisms and that these organisms may be communicating with similar life forms far beyond the moon.
    He took a gel sack from his lab, set it on a stone in the sun outside, then attached wires to it and ran them into a simple galvanic device nearby. There he waited, sometimes as long as eight hours, for the signals to come in. He sipped tea and when the needles jumped and the green-faced scopes danced with lifehe rushed into action, jotting down figures and doing calculations. He said he doesn’t understand the meaning of the signals but he is sure they come from somewhere beyond all the twinkles we see in the night sky. He said there was a general chatter going on between distant animated life and the organisms in the gel sacks.
    Zanzetti tried for six months to break the code. When it is finally broken, he warned, the vision of our species may change entirely. “We may no longer view ourselves as the paradigm of all living creatures on this globe but as perhaps the lowest form of all, which is suggested by the newest evidence coming in through these sacks.”
    And why would minute life forms want to communicate with jellyheads? Zanzetti offered this explanation: “They’re not communicating with jellyheads. They’re communicating with gel sacks. The jellies are unaware of what is happening to them. They get impulses from the sacks and they act, for example, when they cut off the heads of their loved ones. That instruction comes from the gel sacks, which have a limited lifespan. Older jellies sometimes die of sack rot.”
    When asked how far off he thought the source of the signals was, he said, “This chatter is coming from at least ten thousand miles distance, a little shy of where we think the moon is. It defies belief that any kind of signal could travel that far. Our own devices are primitive by comparison.”
    On arriving at the Point Blast wharf, where newly freed people disembarked, Moldenke filled out all the forms necessary to get his pass card. He was issued light khaki pants and an equally light khaki waist-jacket. In another room he was fitted with underwear, linen shirts, a tie, sturdy boots, and several pairs of wool socks.
    “Will I get a heavy coat? I hear the cold snaps here can be brutal.”
    “No coats. Wool shortage. Maybe in a few months.”
    “What do I do now? How do I get into Altobello proper?”
    “Have some breakfast at Saposcat’s. The Altobello car comes at noon. Catch it right in front. Show your card—it’s free.”
    Moldenke headed down Wharf Street toward Saposcat’s. Most of the residents of Point Blast were net menders or deck hands, often out to sea on one of the trawlers. But there were always free people coming there from Altobello to get commodities and mail sent over from Bunkerville. Their patronage allowed the Point to maintain a small Saposcat’s with a limited menu.
    Moldenke shifted his weight from heel to toe to keep blood flowing to his cold feet, waiting for the place to open. Along the sidewalk came a man and a girl of fourteen or fifteen, perhaps older. “I’m Udo. This is my daughter, Salmonella.”
    Udo carried a long, paper-wrapped package under one arm. The girl had a canvas bag over her shoulder. “Hello, mister,” she said. “You look a little stupid. Are you?” She grinned. “Just kidding.” Her teeth were mottled with blue, like a jay’s egg.
    “The name’s Moldenke. I’m painfully shy, but not stupid.”
    “You a new arrival?” Udo asked.
    “Just now checked in. Got my uniform, my pass card, my maps, but no coat.”
    “You’ll freeze,” Udo said. “Cold spells around here come up quick and