Soul Stealer (26 page)

As they set off, the guide noticed that Yoland was carrying the attaché case.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I’m afraid I must ask you to leave your case at reception.”

“It only contains worksheets,” Yoland explained and he unbuckled the flap, opening the case for inspection.

The guide took a brief look in it and said, “I’m afraid you must still leave it at reception, sir. Rules, I’m afraid. We live
in uncertain times.”

“Yeah, right!” Tim whispered to himself.

Yoland took out a batch of sheets held by a paper clip and, turning to Scrotton, said, “Do the honors, Scrotton.”

As he handed them to Scrotton, Sebastian noticed Yoland slip a small padded envelope out of the attaché case and into his
pocket. This done, he passed the case to the receptionist.

“He has the spell keys,” he mouthed to Pip and Tim. They gave small nods of understanding.

Scrotton passed around the worksheets, and the party entered the first building. Everyone signed a computer screen with a
stylus and was issued with a visitor’s badge and a blue hard hat.

“I feel sorry for the next visitor who gets grease-ball’s hat,” Pip said.

The formalities completed, they were led down a long corridor along the ceiling of which ran color-coded pipes and cables.
As they went, their guide introduced them to the power station.

“Jasper Point,” he announced, “is an AGR — an Advanced Gas-cooled Reactor — power station. In
fact, we have two reactors here, A and B. The latter is currently shut down for maintenance, so we shall visit reactor-A.
Each reactor produces enough electricity to ignite over ten million light bulbs. Now,” he went on, opening another door onto
a long passageway, “follow me.”

“What gas is used in the reactor?” Tim asked.

“Carbon dioxide,” came the reply. “It is heavier than air and comparatively inert. This means it cannot ignite or explode.”

“Sir,” Sebastian asked, “how hot is the gas in the reactor?”

“Approximately 460° Celsius,” Mr. Clayton replied, “over four and a half times the boiling point of water.”

“And I suppose it is under great pressure,” Sebastian went on.

“Indeed, it is,” Mr. Clayton confirmed. He ran a security card through a swipe reader on the wall and, opening an airlock
door, declared, “This is the nerve center of Jasper Point.”

Tim and Pip knew what line Sebastian’s thoughts were taking. What had held back alchemical progress had been the inability
to create extremely high temperatures and pressures. Now, here were both in one building — and so, too, were two corrupt alchemists
of evil intent.

The pupils shuffled through the airlock to find themselves on a plate-glass-lined balcony. Below them, three men sat at a
wide console of computer monitors, CCTV screens, meters and switches.

“This is the central control room,” Mr. Clayton said.
“Almost all the processes are fully automated and operated from here. Let us move on to the reactor itself.”

They made their way down a short passageway. Through the windows could be seen a maze of crisscrossing pipes and ducts running
up the side of the adjacent building. Some leaked wisps of steam at their joints. The guide led them up a long flight of metal
stairs into a vast hangar of a building.

“This is the reactor hall of the reactor-A building,” Mr. Clayton said with evident pride.

They followed him into it. The interior was floodlit by powerful halogen arc lamps suspended from the roof at least fifty
meters above.

“Where is the reactor?” asked someone.

“A good question,” Mr. Clayton said. “In actual fact, the reactor is now directly beneath your feet. You are standing on it.”

Everyone looked down at their shoes in wonderment.

The floor consisted of a patchwork of square metal plates, not unlike smooth manhole covers, highly polished and about a meter
across.

“The reactor is over ten meters high and weighs more than 2,000 tons,” the guide went on. “It is encased in a reinforced concrete
shell over four meters thick.”

“Is it working now?” one pupil inquired.

“It certainly is,” Mr. Clayton answered. “At this minute, it is generating over 800 megawatts of electricity.”

Yoland and Loudacre stood at the rear of the group of pupils, Scrotton close by. Tim watched them, but
they seemed intent on the guide’s lecture, so he transferred his attention back to Mr. Clayton. When he next looked back at
the teachers, Scrotton was not there.

He nudged Pip and Sebastian.

“Can you see Scrotton anywhere?”

They glanced around and shrugged.

“Then where’s he gone?”

“Nuclear fuel,” the guide continued, “comes in the form of long rods or bars. New rods are lowered into — and spent ones removed
from — the reactor by this mechanism here.”

He pointed to a tall yellow-painted tower of skeletal metal girders. One entire side had platforms at regular intervals, with
ladders leading up to them. The whole structure vaguely reminded Tim of an Olympic-sized-swimming-pool diving board. It extended
almost to the roof high above.

“Beneath each of the plates under your feet is a fuel rod and a control rod,” the guide went on, turning his back to the tower.
“Once they are spent, they are removed…”

Out of the corner of her eye, Pip caught a movement behind the tower. Loudacre had detached himself from the tour group and
was cautiously opening a steel emergency exit door at the back of the hall, looking over his shoulder as he did so.

Jutting her chin in his direction, she murmured, “It’s beginning.”

As soon as the door was more than ajar, Scrotton squeezed in, dragging the bag that had been on the minibus. Loudacre closed
the door behind him. Once inside, Scrotton quickly unzipped the bag, and Loudacre
removed several corked test tubes, the contents of which he scattered into the bag. Instantly, the fabric sides twitched violently
and two dozen small Scrottons, not much larger than infants, emerged as if projected by a spring.

“Now we know…!” Tim exclaimed.

“De Loudéac’s been busy,” Sebastian observed.

As they watched, the Scrottons grew bigger. Within a few seconds they were the size of the original but, unlike him, stark
naked. Their hairy bodies resembled those of unkempt monkeys afflicted by mange.

At that moment Mr. Clayton, who had been talking to Yoland and the party of pupils, caught sight of the new additions to his
tour group.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, reaching for a walkie-talkie attached to his belt.

The pupils spun around. Standing in a line across the reactor floor were the Scrottons, Scrotton himself to the fore. For
a moment there was silence, not a sound to be heard but the general background hum of the power station. Then one girl screamed.
In an instant, the other girls joined in. The boys stood helpless, leaderless, unsure what to do, looking hopefully to the
teachers for advice, but to no avail.

The words had hardly left Mr. Clayton’s mouth when Yoland dropped something on the steel plates of the floor in front of him.
It chimed dully and shimmered in the brilliant glare of the halogen arc lights. Forgetting his two-way radio, the guide bent
down, picking it up in both hands and holding it close to his face, much as a curious child might examine something it had
just found.

“It’s one of the nobles,” Tim said.

“As I suspected,” Sebastian declared, “their use is to divert, to ensnare the wills of those who would prevent Yoland’s plan.
Gold fascinates all men. In its way, it too can steal their souls, as indeed you discovered when you could not let it go.”

The Scrottons, now all a uniform size and indistinguishable from one another in their hairy nakedness, swung from platform
to platform on the refueling tower, rising higher and higher. Others climbed pipes set against the wall. Some scampered over
the floor on all fours, chasing each other in a madcap game of tag. Those on the tower leaped from it to the walls, screeching.
The CCTV screens in the reactor hall showed their cavortings.

“What’re they up to?” Pip pondered.

“Diverting attention,” Sebastian replied.

“From what?” Tim considered.

At that moment, Pip said, “Where’s Loudacre?”

They looked around. He was nowhere in sight.

“Heading for the control room, I would wager,” Sebastian predicted. “Pip! Go after him. Tim and I will deal with the Scrottons
and Yoland.”

“Time to rumble!” Tim proclaimed.

Scrotton uttered a deep coughing bark, like a baboon’s. The replicate Scrottons swung down from the refueling tower and walls.
A dozen formed a circle around Yoland, facing out. They bared their teeth and grimaced like rabid dogs. Scrotton stood at
the teacher’s side. The other Scrottons began to herd the Atom Club members into a corner, prodding them and snarling. The
girls clung to each other. Some were crying, others joined
several of the boys in lashing out at the replicates, driving them back.

Turning to a boy called Den, Pip commanded, “Get everybody out. As fast as you can. Right out of the building. Ignore Scrotton.”

“Which one?” replied the perplexed Den.

“All of them,” Pip snapped back. “Especially the one with clothes on. And don’t listen to a word the teachers say.”

“But…” Den began.

“But nothing!” Pip screamed. “Don’t ask dumb questions. Just do it.”

Den was still hesitant, puzzled, unsure.

“What if…?” he started.

“Forget what if!” Tim bellowed.

“Go out the way we came in,” Pip demanded. “If you meet anyone, raise the…”

The remainder of her sentence was drowned by the ear-splitting clanging of alarm bells. Strobe lights began to flash high
up on the walls.

“Where do we…?” Den started to ask.

“Just get them out!” Pip hollered, her patience completely spent.

With that, she ran to the door they had entered by and swung it back. Halfway down the long flight of steps, she could make
out Loudacre descending them. Without thinking, she set off after him, the Atom Club members, led by Den, stumbling after
her.

In the center of the reactor floor, Yoland stood with his arms raised. Scrotton removed a long, polished steel tool from a
rack on the wall. One end of it had a spannerlike terminal.

“Holy Kamoly!” Tim exclaimed to Sebastian. “That’s got to be a tool for…”

There was no need for him to complete the sentence. Scrotton attached the spanner end of the bar to lugs in a floor panel
and, with a twist and a heave, hauled it aside. There was an instant roar of escaping gas from inside the reactor. The floor
panel flew across the hall to smash into the wall. On its flight, it struck one of the naked Scrottons, slicing open its chest
to the ribs. The creature’s scream was so high-pitched it was barely audible over the rush of escaping gas.

Alarm sirens screeched. The needles of gauges on the wall of the reactor hall began to quiver and spin. Colored diodes winked
frantically on a switch- and light-board. Digital readouts rolled over so quickly their numbers were little more than a blur
of red.

The force of the escaping gas clouded the air, forcing Scrotton to stagger backward. He put his hands to his face. Tim could
see that the skin had been burned off his brow. It hung in tatters that he tore away with his hands.

Five power station engineers in orange protective clothing ran in, heading for Yoland, who had also been driven back by the
blast of scalding gas. He threw a handful of nobles at them. They stopped in their tracks but, unable to pick the coins up
with their heavy protective gloves, merely stood where they were, bending over, staring at them as if obsessed. Some Scrottons
picked the nobles up and steered the engineers into a corner with Mr. Clayton, standing guard over them with an occasional
growl or snarl.

An automated voice started repeating: Radiation alert — radiation alert. All non-essential staff evacuate the reactor hall.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Tim yelled to Sebastian over the din of the alarm and escaping gas. “Carbon dioxide’s heavier
than air. It’ll fill this place in minutes — and it’s radioactive.”

Yoland removed the envelope from his pocket and tore it open. Chanting in a squealing voice, he took out four spell keys and,
one by one, tossed them into the reactor. The force of the escaping gas took hold of them, and they rose high overhead before
dropping to the floor, where they sparked in a tiny explosion and vanished.

He tried again. One disappeared into the reactor. The rest soared away and exploded either on the floor or against the walls.

“Scrotton,” Yoland shouted, “tell Loudacre to reduce the reactor pressure, then come back here.”

“If he succeeds in dropping the pressure,” Tim said urgently, “the reactor will quickly overheat and melt down. Jasper Point’ll
become Chernobyl-by-the-Sea in less than thirty minutes.”

Scrotton ran to the reactor hall door and disappeared.

The control room door was open when Pip reached it. Inside, the three controllers were hunched together on the floor, turning
over gold nobles in their fingers.
Loudacre was standing at the semicircular reactor control console, moving slider switches to new settings. As Pip entered,
he looked up.