Part 19 (2/2)
”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 degrees 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 ent.i.tled 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 ma.s.s-energy converters. The street was narrower than above, and ran for a thousand yards between ceiling-high walls, and everything was bottlenecked together. I took the jeep up till we were almost sc.r.a.ping the ceiling, and Murell, who had seen how the audiovisual was used, took over with it while I concentrated on inching forward. The noise was even worse down here than it had been above; we didn't attempt to talk.
Finally, by impudence and plain foolhardiness, I got the jeep forward a few hundred yards, and found myself looking down on a big derrick with a fifty-foot steel boom tipped with a four-clawed grapple, s.h.i.+elded in front with sheet steel like a gun s.h.i.+eld. It was painted with the emblem of the Hunters' Co-operative, but the three men on it looked like s.h.i.+pyard workers. I didn't get that, at all. The thing had been built to handle burning wax, and was one of three kept on the Second Level Down under Hunters' Hall. I wondered if Bish Ware had found a way for a gang to get in at the bottom of Hunters' Hall. I simply couldn't see Steve Ravick releasing equipment to fight the fire his goons had started for him in the first place.
I let down a few feet, gave a polite little scream with my siren, and then yelled down to the men on it:
”Where'd that thing come from?”
”Hunters' Hall; Steve Ravick sent it. The other two are up at the fire already, and if this mess ahead doesn't get straightened out....” From there on, his remarks were not suitable for publication in a family journal like the _Times_.
I looked up ahead, rising to the ceiling again, and saw what was the matter. It was one of the dredgers from the waterfront, really a submarine scoop shovel, that they used to keep the pools and the inner channel from sanding up. I wasn't surprised it was jammed; I couldn't see how they'd gotten this far uptown with it. I got a few shots of that, and then unhooked the handphone of my radio. Julio Kubanoff answered.
”You getting everything I'm sending in?” I asked.
”Yes. What's that two-em-dashed thing up ahead, one of the harbor dredgers?”
”That's right. Hey, look at this, once.” I turned the audiovisual down on the claw derrick. ”The men on it look like Rodriguez & Oughourlian's people, but they say Steve Ravick sent it. What do you know about it?”
”Hey, Ralph! What's this Walt's picked up about Ravick sending equipment to fight the fire?” he yelled.
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