1/2986 Read Free Page B

power supply.  
    I take the few steps to the high-pressure turbine, unlock the hatch to the coupling chamber, then the one to the power duct, and shine my torch into each cavity. While pushing the blades in one direction and then the other, I watch the movements of rotor and shaft and listen to the oil-slick whisper of the bearings. The turbine is clean. The generator and the control cabinet look fine, too. I lock the hatch and make my way up the hill again.
    The sky shines in a hot purple slashed with pink. Dark blue creeps in from the east and the scents of earth and grass are changing to the heavier early-night aroma. Come midnight, this will change again to a crisper scent, and again early in the morning when fog begins to rise.  
    I unlock both hatches and shine my torch into the belly of the low-pressure turbine. A huge yellowish-grey mess is wrapped around the rotor shaft, eating into one of the bearings. Squinting, I bend lower. I’ll need at least an hour to pick that out.
    The tiny hairs on my neck prickle. What’s wrapped around the blade shaft is hemp, not plant matter from the reservoir. Someone must have put it here. But how the heck could anyone have stuffed it into a running turbine?
    I sit on my haunches and think. I had my back turned to the turbine when it stood still for the two minutes the gears need to fully switch from forward to reverse. Only my father is quick enough to unlock the hatch, jam that much hemp into the turbine, make sure it blocks the whole thing, and lock it again before I notice. But he would never threaten the functionality of his beloved machines. Besides, it might be interpreted as humour, and having a good laugh is surely not his style.
    I have no clue who could’ve done this.
    ‘Okay, douche canoe. You can show yourself now!’ I shout at the tree line.  
    Nothing moves. The yck yyck yyyyyyck of a woodpecker sounds from afar. When I was little — maybe three or four years old — I ran my tongue over resins from all kinds of trees, but the word “woodpecker” always tastes of pine resin only.
    I inhale sharply to whisk away the pine flavour from my nostrils and focus on the problem. The small hairs on both my arms stand straight up. The sight of the control cabinet reminds me that anyone can flick the switch when I’m inside the duct. What a fine mess that would be! It would take days to scrape my intestines out of the bearings.
    I march to the cabinet, remove two relays, and slip them into my pocket.
    ‘Try to fix that in an hour, asshat!’ I shout, sticking both my middle fingers high up in the air. Then I squeeze myself into the gap between metal blades, support arms, and duct structure.
    My knife is sharp enough to quickly slice through the wet hemp. I stick two handfuls in my back pockets, soaking my pants. Maybe I can find out to whom it belongs. The stuff looks smooth and well-retted, not like the cheap sealing hemp. I throw armfuls of it out through the hatch. The fibres that sneaked into the bearing have to be picked one by one. The air is growing hot and stuffy in here, and sweat itches on my eyebrows. My heart bangs against my ribs when I hear footsteps above me.  
    ‘Hey Micka. You down there?’
    Ralph, the idiot: son of the dean and sitting right behind me in school (I correct myself: used to sit right behind me). A perfect position to pull my braids, until I cut them off. Since then, I look like a boy and I’m treated like one. He was the first to give me a black eye. I returned it two seconds later.
    ‘I’m busy.’
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    He sounds genuinely clueless, but I don’t trust him.
    ‘Hey! I asked you what’s the matter? ’
    ‘And I said I’m busy! ’ I’m upgrading my fine-picking from forceps-fiddling to needle-poking now. The torch flickers.   I whack it against my thigh until it provides a steady light. One last thorough examination of the bearing and the shaft, a good dollop of grease on all moving parts, and I can pack