"Well, now, I suppose the Old Man is being sort of slow about his bulletins," said O'Mallory. "It's under control here."
"But what are they doing?"
"Rigging electric heaters, of course. It'll take all the juice we have to maintain these rooms at the right temperature, so I'm afraid they'll be cutting off light and power to the rest of the Hill."
She frowned. "It's the only thing, I suppose. But what about the people?"
"They'll have to jam together in the refectories and clubrooms. That'll help keep 'em warm."
"Any idea what the trouble is?"
O'Mallory scowled. "We'll get it fixed," he said.
"That means you don't know." She spoke it calmly.
"The pile's all right," he said. "We telemetered it. I'd'a done that myself, but you know how it is—" He puffed himself up a trifle. "They need a couple husky chaps to keep the crowd orderly. Anyhow, the pile's still putting out just as it should, still at 500 degrees like it ought to be. In fact, it's even a bit warmer than that; why, I don't know."
Gilchrist cleared his throat. "Th-th-then the trouble is with the ... heating pipes," he faltered.