THE DUST CAPSULE

The noise began behind the plate, a short knock every seven turns of the exhaust fan. Renan, refrigeration technician for the utility company, arrived by the veranda with a torque wrench strapped to his forearm and a box of thermal blades at his waist. His skin was whitened with dust up to the hairline and he kept in his left ear a voice file he listened to before every job. His daughter rehearsed in it the words of a song, always breaking off at the same line. Ilva was waiting by the cabinet. The grille was still on the ground, with two screws between the rubble and the duct. Inside, the portion of corn occupied the space between the reading boxes. Renan saw the container, saw the band tied to the bracket and did not ask who had done that. The order projected on the wall required restoring the cold flow without moving domestic material. The same order stated that no food could remain in the technical compartment. He read it twice, ran his thumb over the mouth of the wrench and asked for room. The plate recognised his face. The refrigerated air escaped only across the width of the opening, close to the machines. Outside it, the heat thickened under the roof of old tiles. Renan lay down on the cement, put his head and one arm into the cabinet, while the rest of his body stayed in the sun. He touched the blade to the first duct. Forty-three degrees at the inlet, twenty-one at the outlet, a greater difference than the utility company had forecast. The fan struck again. He removed the front guard. The blade of the fan had built up a red crust on one side. The fine metal from the pit came through the cracks in the whitewashed wall, sticking to the moisture the boxes produced. Renan locked the shaft with the short wrench, scraped the crust with a blade and collected the dust in a service capsule. If he let it fall on the optical board, he would lose his professional access for contamination. If he breathed it in, he would carry the mineral in his lungs until the next shift. He held his breath for twenty seconds. He scraped again. At thirty-two, he drew his head back and pulled in the hot air of the veranda. Nael appeared at the opening of the corridor with the marked stone between his hands. Antônio came after, bringing the analysis container. Célia stayed near the wall, without taking out the device kept against her body. The visit still forbade Nael to speak. He watched the capsule with the dust, pointed to the groove in the stone and to the back of the cabinet. Renan went in again. He ran the thermal blade along the connections until he found a strip three degrees colder under the lower box. There, a narrow tube collected the condensation from the machines. The tube went through the rammed earth and down to the old corridor. Before the mining, Antônio and Nael used to hide balls in that space so the bigger men would not take them. The bar's first refrigerator had also spent three nights there, under a cloth, bought with the money Nael had received for driving an excavator to the edge of the Lajes. Now the same cavity carried water from the machines to a line the utility company attributed to Antônio's land. The knock of the fan stopped when Renan removed the last plate of crust. The fan completed seven turns, then twenty. The technician opened the capsule only enough to insert the dirty blade and closed it with pressure. His fingers trembled from the force held on the tool. The panel calculated the mass removed and offered an exposure bonus, equal to half a meal, on condition that the residue be classified as external dust. He chose internal origin. The bonus disappeared. The order changed to infiltration investigation, with no pay during the wait. Renan loosened the lower box and held its weight against his chest. Sweat ran down his chin and dripped onto the cement. The box had to stay suspended while he reached the tube, and no one there had a profile to hold it. After four minutes, the muscle of his forearm began to fail in small jumps. Ilva crouched in front of the opening. If you offer your iris, said Renan, they close the origin of the channel and free my second hand. The authentication proposal reappeared on the wall. The utility company accepted Ilva's reading as substitute proof for Antônio's sample. In exchange, the territorial review would end with the current route, in which the tube from the boxes merged with the old line. She took the long wrench lying beside the grille. She slid its tip under the box and made a lever against the cement. The weight left Renan's arm and passed to the metal. The concession did not recognise the solution. The work went on. He opened the joint. A drop formed in the tube, ran along the edge and fell into a dark groove. Another came eleven seconds later. The cold water from the machines ran down into the channel Antônio had reopened, where it would be counted as seepage supplied by the property. Renan measured the diameter, compared the pressure and took a blind coupling from his belt. The panel rejected the part. Blocking the tube would produce thermal deviation, a responsibility already linked to Ilva. He could put it back as it was and finish the job. The portion would remain preserved, the fan would turn without knocking, and the water would go on thickening Antônio's debt drop by drop. Renan heard in his left ear the beginning of his daughter's song. He waited for the break at the line, took the file off automatic repeat and fitted the coupling. He tightened one turn, then another, until the torque vibrated in his palm. The next drop swelled at the edge and stayed caught. The utility company left the investigation open and suspended the close of the shift. Ilva did not offer her iris. Renan put the grille back with the recovered screws, lifted the toolbox and went down into the corridor, carrying the dust capsule against his body.