50 in 50

"That should do. While we're waiting for results we'll go look at the power plant. Well don't gape like that — that's why you're here, isn't it? Ireland's pride and joy, and the envy of the world at large." He opened the door for Giulio and showed him out, and continued to talk as they strolled down the corridor. "In a world of declining resources and failed power supplies we here find ourselves quite happy on this fruitful island of ours. The crops and the herds are the best, sure we've always grown more than enough for our own needs, and a bit over. And peat, all we could ever need, we've been generating electricity with it for years, now we use it in our ships. But power, that's our secret, isn't it? The reason why you're here. And steel too, for we've enough of that. We prosper in an unhappy world and help others where we can, but we are a small nation after all. In here if you please." He eased open a massive door. "Now, I ask you— isn't that a glorious sight?"

It was indeed something. They stood on a balcony high up on the wall of an immense chamber. The sound and heat and motion at first made it hard to understand what was happening. Steam hissed and curled up from the floor where great turbines spun. A conveyor belt carried an endless stream of stone bricks from an opening in one wall, to vanish through an opening in the other. Giulio blinked, trying to make sense of it all. Captain Power explained.

"When the granite bricks drop into the steam chamber they are practically still molten, temperature in the thousands of degrees, I understand. We had lots of trouble in the beginning with them fracturing, blowing up like bombs and that sort of thing. All licked now of course. After they leave the steam, and are a bit cooler, they fall into the water and generate more steam and on and on. And the steam drives the generators and that's really about all there is to it."

"But. . no, that cannot be." Giulio was stammering, confused. "Where do the bricks come from?"

"I thought you would never ask. If you will walk this way you will meet one of the men responsible."

The walk was shorter, and the room they entered larger than the first, and filled with odd equipment. A tall man with a shining bald head, fringed with remnants of red hair, sat on a couch reading a computer printout.

"Giulio," Power said. "I want you to meet Sean Raftery."

"A pleasure.” Sean said, standing and taking Giulio's hand and giving it a hearty shake. "You're a brave man to come this far, and with a good education too, as I have been reading. Giulio," he glanced at the printout, "Giulio Balietti. Born in Hoboken, New Jersey — what an unusual name for a city — college. . university. . ahh, a doctorate in physics, atomic physics. And quite young too."

"Atomics," Captain Power said. "They're still looking in that direction. Well, more strength to them."

"Then. . you know…" Giulio said.

"Of course. We pride ourselves on our records. You're not the first, you know. We used to try to keep them out, then we discovered it was much easier to let them in and take care of them then."

"You're going to kill me!"

"Nonsense — we're not the CIA, after all. This is a civilized country. We are going to show you Ireland's great secret, then remove— with no pain — your memory of today. You have worked so hard to get this far we thought it only fair to let you find what you are seeking after. Also, we have discovered that after the memory-removal process the agent is much more relaxed having once actually known what he wanted to know. Somewhere in the subconscious there is a feeling of success and this is most important. Sean, if you please."

"Of course. Our secret, Giulio, is the tapping of an immense strength in the Irish personality and character that has always existed, has always been seen, but never channeled in the right direction. The poets and the authors have taken from this mighty stream and profited thereby. Someone once said about an Irish author, with cruel intent.but nevertheless it holds a germ of truth, that anyone could write that way if they abandoned their mind to it. Perhaps. But only the Irish can do it without scarcely trying."

Giulio watched, eyes widening, as Captain Power wheeled a black suit, like a parody of a medieval suit of armor, before Sean Raftery. It was ugly as an Iron Maiden but seemed to raise no fears in Sean who voluntarily pushed his arms into the extensions of the thing. He even smiled as it was locked around his body.

"The flow of wit and Irish humor is famous, our actors known worldwide, their abilities to express themselves famous." But his powers of expression seemed to be lagging. He stumbled over words and began to repeat himself. "Please excuse. . excuse if you will. You see this is a sensory deprivation suit. I cannot feel anything with my body or hands, I cannot use them. . But, praise be to God, I can still talk.."