“How did you manage that? Seeing as how there’s not much of it left. Isn’t it radioactive?”

“Less than a chest X-ray,” he replied. “Water absorbs most of the hard stuff, and currents have scattered the core.”

“Harry.” He looked at me expectantly. I took a sip of oxygen and tried to think; the problem was there were too many problems. He was probably right about the scattered plutonium being mostly harmless, but still…. Expensive, dangerous… that wouldn’t stop rich and frivolous Harry. But I managed to come up with something.

“Drinks. How do you expect your guests to get drunk when they’re wearing JIM suits? Their martinis will flow away in the current. Sober guests? It’ll be a disaster.”

“I’ve thought of that: we’ll have sippy straws in the suits attached to a tank full of gin and vermouth. No one else in the world will be throwing a party at the bottom of the Pacific in the debris field from the worst space disaster in history! It’ll be the event of the season!”

I couldn’t disagree with that.