Four-Day Planet - H. Beam Piper (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📗

And, because this wasn’t likely to be the sort of war in which the rights of noncombatants like war correspondents would be taken very seriously, I had gotten out my Sterberg 7.7 mm.

Dad saw me buckling it on, and seemed rather distressed.

“Better leave that, Walt,” he said. “You don’t want to get into any shooting.”

Logical, I thought. If you aren’t prepared for something, it just won’t happen. There’s an awful lot of that sort of thinking going on. As I remember my Old Terran history, it was even indulged in by governments, at one time. None of them exists now.

“You know what all crawls into the Bottom Level,” I reminded him. “If you don’t, ask Mr. Murell, here. One sent him to the hospital.”

Dad nodded; I had a point there. The abandoned sections of Bottom Level are full of tread-snails and other assorted little nasties, and the heat of the fire would stir them all up and start them moving around. Even aside from the possibility that, having started the fire, Steve Ravick’s gang would try to take steps to keep it from being put out too soon, a gun was going to be a comforting companion, down there.

“Well, stay out of any fighting. Your job’s to get the news, not play hero in gun fights. I’m no hero; that’s why I’m sixty years old. I never knew many heroes that got that old.”

It was my turn to nod. On that, Dad had a point. I said something about getting the news, not making it, and checked the chamber and magazine of the Sterberg, and then slung my radio and picked up the audiovisual outfit.

Tom and Joe Kivelson had left already, to round up the scattered Javelin crew for fire fighting. The attack on the Municipal Building and on Hunters’ Hall had been postponed, but it wasn’t going to be abandoned. Oscar and Professor Hartzenbosch and Dad and a couple of others were planning some sort of an observation force of a few men for each place, until the fire had been gotten out or under control. Glenn Murell decided he’d go out with me, at least as far as the fire, so we went down to the vehicle port and got the jeep out. Main City Level Broadway was almost deserted; everybody had gone down below where the excitement was. We started down the nearest vehicle shaft and immediately got into a jam, above a lot of stuff that was going into the shaft from the First Level Down, mostly manipulators and that sort of thing. There were no police around, natch, and a lot of volunteers were trying to direct traffic and getting in each other’s way. I got some views with the jeep camera, just to remind any of the public who needed reminding what our city administration wasn’t doing in an emergency. A couple of pieces of apparatus, a chemical tank and a pumper marked salamander volunteer fire company no. 3 came along, veered out of the jam, and continued uptown.

“If they know another way down, maybe we’d better follow them,” Murell suggested.

“They’re not going down. They’re going to the lumber plant, in case the fire spreads upward,” I said. “They wouldn’t be taking that sort of equipment to a wax fire.”

“Why not?”

I looked at him. “I thought you were in the wax business,” I said.

“I am, but I’m no chemist. I don’t know anything about how wax burns. All I know is what it’s used for, roughly, and who’s in the market for it.”

“Well, you know about those jumbo molecules, don’t you?” I asked. “They have everything but the kitchen sink in them, including enough oxygen to sustain combustion even under water or in a vacuum. Not enough oxygen to make wax explode, like powder, but enough to keep it burning. Chemical extinguishers are all smothering agents, and you just can’t smother a wax fire. And water’s worse than useless.”

He wanted to know why.

“Burning wax is a liquid. The melting point is around 250° Centigrade. Wax ignites at 750°. It has no boiling point, unless that’s the burning point. Throw water on a wax fire and you get a steam explosion, just as you would if you threw it on molten metal, and that throws the fire around and spreads it.”

“If it melts that far below the ignition point, wouldn’t it run away before it caught fire?”

“Normally, it would. That’s why I’m sure this fire was a touch-off. I think somebody planted a thermoconcentrate bomb. A thermoconcentrate flame is around 850° Centigrade; the wax would start melting and burning almost instantaneously. In any case, the fire will be at the bottom of the stacks. If it started there, melted wax would run down from above and keep the fire going, and if it started at the top, burning wax would run down and ignite what’s below.”

“Well, how in blazes do you put a wax fire out?” he wanted to know.

“You don’t. You just pull away all the wax that hasn’t caught fire yet, and then try to scatter the fire and let it burn itself out.⁠ ⁠… Here’s our chance!”

All this conversation we had been screaming into each other’s ears, in the midst of a pandemonium of yelling, cursing, siren howling and bell clanging; just then I saw a hole in the vertical traffic jam and edged the jeep into it, at the same time remembering that the jeep carried, and I was entitled to use, a fire siren. I added its howls to the general uproar and dropped down one level. Here a string of big manipulators were trying to get in from below, sprouting claw hooks and grapples and pusher arms in all directions. I made my siren imitate a tail-tramped tomcat a couple of times, and got in among them.

Bottom Level Broadway was a frightful mess, and I realized that we had come down right between two units of the city power plant, big mass-energy converters. The street was narrower than above, and ran for