Somewhere on an Australian highway, a capsule fell off a truck.
The highway was the ninety-five, a thousand miles of scrub and sand connecting a uranium mine with Perth.
The capsule was little bigger than a grain of rice and contained Caesium-137, which sounded regal in the newscaster’s baritone, as though the progeny of Roman aristocracy was lying stranded in the outback.
The capsule, if spotted, was not to be approached, a government spokesperson warned, as though describing a fugitive armed with radioactivity. How a thing so small could be spotted without first being approached wasn’t explained.
The spokesperson asked people to check their tyres for the capsule. Who these people were and how they were supposed to check without approaching wasn’t explained.
The mining company apologized for causing public concern.
Two weeks later, an emergency services minister stood in front of three flags and a curtain and said the fugitive capsule had been apprehended. “The search groups have literally found a needle in the haystack”. A gross understatement. Also, needles don’t cause cancer.
