BLACK TOM WAS PUTTING the finishing touches on a metal cylinder he had salvaged from some of the shattered tanks.
As Joe came in the power room door, Black Tom asked: “How does it look? Been a long time since I did any welding, but it’ll hold water.”
Black Tom and Herd, the assistant pilot, had bolted the jury rigged tank to the floor, and had, through some amateur plumbing work, hooked up a pipe system to the atomic motor.
Joe jerked his chicken-filled hand at the tub on his shoulder.
“Where does this juice go?”
Morrissey apparently had just realized that Joe was free. He looked at him blankly for a moment.
“Dump it in the tank,” he said, pointing to the metal ladder leaning against the tank. “But keep your distance,” he added. “We don’t want to catch the plague.”
Joe grinned, stuf
