Plague of Iridium 192

Little Del Northway, 4, of Houston was not happy. The kids would not play with him. He ran to his mother crying, "Why are they mean to me?" Mrs. Northway was not happy either. None of her neighbors had called on her, she said, "since the men with the Geiger counters came." Her bit of Houston was still trying to adjust itself to an accident that may become commonplace in the Atomic Age.

The trouble began March 13 when H. E. Northway, Del's father and manager of the Houston plant of M. W. Kellogg Co., was opening a shipment of intensely radioactive pellets of iridium 192, which Kellogg's nuclear division uses to take X-ray pictures of heavy metal objects. Helped by Jackson McVey and two other men, and working with remote-control apparatus from behind a thick shield, Northway opened the 800-lb. shipping container, took out the sealed metal canister full of deadly pellets and put it on a remotely controlled lathe. When the lathe's tool cut into the metal, there was something like an explosion. Compressed gas in the canister blew radioactive dust into the air and touched off the radiation alarm system.

Unseen Dust. The hot cell--the shielded space--was closed after a fashion, but no one seemed to realize that hotly radioactive dust was being carried by air currents over the top of its six-foot walls. Unseen, unfelt and unsuspected, it moved around the building, getting into clothes and shoes. An attempt at cleanup was made, but the spill was not reported.

On April 11, 29 days after the accident, W. B. Converse, manager of Kellogg's nuclear division, made a routine visit to the Houston plant. The monitoring instruments told him that something was wrong. He shut the plant and called in experts of Tracerlab Inc. to check and decontaminate. He did not report the spill to the Atomic Energy Commission. The other Kellogg people tried to keep it quiet too--no easy job. The Tracerlab men with their instruments attracted unavoidable attention, and rumors flew thick. Both the Northway and McVey houses proved to be radioactive. So were the hair and one paw of Peggy, the Northways' dog.

Evacuation. By this time Manager Converse was thoroughly alarmed. When he got the full report from Tracerlab, he telephoned the Northways and McVeys, told them to buy new clothes, take showers, put on the new clothes and get out of their houses. Both families moved to motels. Their secret was out, and their neighbors began to shun them as if radioactivity were as catching as smallpox.

At last the spill was reported to the AEC, and a news item from Washington told the Houston papers. A wave of hysteria beat on the Kellogg plant and the people concerned with its accident. Friends of Mrs. Northway refused to ride to church in her car. Excitement increased when the Northway and McVey houses were vigorously decontaminated.

The Northways and McVeys are now back in their decontaminated houses. The Kellogg Co. says that it will pay for all damages. The AEC has suspended Kellogg's license to use radioactive materials pending hearings. It does not believe that anyone's health has been damaged, and it deplores the idea that any persons concerned might contaminate third parties. Commissioner Willard F. Libby pointed out that iridium 192 has a rather short half-life of 75 days. Mere passage of time will eliminate any overlooked traces.

But the Northways have not cheered up. The neighbors still shun them, and if they have to sell their house, they anticipate difficulty. And H. E. Northway does not believe that buyers will listen to long-haired talk about the short half-life of iridium 192. "No one wants a radioactive home," he says glumly.

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