The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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Karl Grossman is a journalist from Sag Harbor, New York. He is the author of Cover-Up, a book about the nuclear power industry, available from The Permanent Press, Sagaponack, N.Y. 11962.
A massive dose, even a mid-range dose of radioactivity, the kind you’d get from a nuclear plant accident, is not necessary to produce cancer. “Routine” radioactive emissions will do it.
It was all blamed on the “Arab oil embargo” but who really believed that? There were the tankers, filled to the brim with oil, being kept waiting off-shore. The figures that would authenticate a “shortage” just didn’t add up. Arab oil is just a fraction of U.S. supply and is mainly controlled and pooled internationally by the U.S.-dominated world oil industry.
I’d have to assume that you’re going to get a disastrous accident within the next 20 years, 30 years, right around there . . . I may be wrong . . . We’re liable to have one next week.
I, Arthur Milstein, have had a shitty life. I have found difficulty finding gainful employment. I most recently had a position carving names on gravestones, but I was dismissed owing to poor spelling. I usually spell well but not under intense pressure.
“Anything,” I say. “Anything but that.” They were trying to make me eat chicken. As an intelligence agent I had been through the wringer many times — torture, torture, forever torture. But I hate chicken. I detest chicken. I would tell them anything if I had to eat chicken.
Governor Meldrin Thomson flew in in his helicopter. He’d originally teamed up with the Public Service Company of New Hampshire to push the twin 1150 megawatt set of nuclear power plants, among the biggest ever built, on New Hampshire’s coast, all 18 miles of it. Seabrook got selected without knowing it.
Fletcher E. Driscoll felt the day getting warmer. He was in the back seat of a Land Rover, blindfolded. It must be noon, he thought, bouncing along what seemed to be a crude jungle road.
“But man must live in his environment. So our solution is simple. We alter the digestive system, replace it with a treatment plant. Then anybody can eat cars, cement, you name it.”
I was compiling a list of what I would take with me in the coffin when along came a dog wearing a hat.
Every time Arthur Wazu got sexually excited his ear lobes turned lavender. This had just happened in the central power station, so he roller-skated back to his captain’s quarters to rest.
The person they called The Wizard and I were standing in the grimy men’s room of the Greyhound Bus Station in Ishpeming, Michigan. This is where The Wizard met visitors.
Commander Arthur Wazu, a broken man, sat disconsolately on the spaceship veranda, gazing at Shlerpy, one of the nine moons of planet 4-b.