“I phoned the school,” Lacey said, “for one of those radiation people. They haven’t got many. And Christ knows we need ’em in a million places!”
The chief nodded. A roof fell across the street and he ran from the station steps to deal with the changed circumstances. This conflagration would have been a three-alarmer, in ordinary times; it was a mere match-sputter now, which the Green Prairie company would have to deal with alone.
The Ford came fast, considering the condition of the streets.
Somebody had stuck CD flags on both sides, so Lacey ran down and yanked open the door. “Big gob of metal dropped in the street,” he said. “I’ve kept my men clear of it, but the firemen have to work beside it.”
“I’ll check.”
Lacey stepped back and stared. It was a woman.
She piled out, wearing some sort of plastic thing that made her look like an Arab, and carrying a box with dials and wires. He followed her.
She didn’t even glance at the fire engines or the men swarming in the street or the blazing buildings. She went through the puddles, in boots, to the girder or rail mass he’d pointed out. She held a shiny metal rod out at it and began walking slowly around it. Because it was a woman, Lieutenant Lacey went right along with her. He could see, in the heaving firelight, that the dials on her gadget were jumping. But that didn’t make her hack away from the big slag heap, so he didn’t back away.
“It’s hot,” she said. “Plenty.”
“We’ll hose it down,” he answered.