The phenol peak had broadened overnight. Tova saw it at once on the lab screen, before she had even taken off her coat: the curve that usually rose like a blade was now spread into a soft hump, and under that hump two small peaks were lost in the background noise. The client was waiting for the report at midday. Tova swore under her breath.
The pyrolysis unit sent the samples into an oven, then into a capillary column, then into a mass detector. Between the oven and the column there was a path of tubes, fittings and valves. That path separates nothing: it carries. And that, Tova suspected, was where the peaks were being lost.
"I’ve been taking the valves apart one by one for three weeks," she said to Malik, the maintenance engineer, who was putting his head round the door.
"And?"
"And nothing. The valves are clean. The fittings are new. The oven holds its temperature."
Malik came over to the screen. He had an eye for crooked curves.
"Have you tried the balloon?"
The balloon was their name for the krypton. A gas that sticks to nothing. It is injected in one go, like a flick, and it travels the whole path, spreading as it goes. By watching how it spreads, you can work out how much it broadens. Then you know that any molecule passing through the same path will undergo the same broadening. It is a bit like letting a balloon go in a crowded corridor: the balloon does not run, it floats, but by measuring how it disperses between the doors and the baffles, you know the delay those obstacles add to any runner.
Tova injected the krypton. The tracer curve appeared, and it was more spread out than the day before. She compared it with the one recorded at midday. The area under the curve had not changed, but the width had. Something in the path had altered overnight.
"Look," she said to Malik. "The shape has moved. Not the flow rate, not the temperature. The shape."
Malik frowned.
"The shape. What does that mean?"
"It means the gas is passing through a dead volume that wasn’t there yesterday. A fitting that has shifted, a seal that has compressed, something."
She went back over the curves one by one. The model she used gave a number: the ratio between the energy of the flow and the spreading. The smaller that number, the more the gas spreads. The day before, it was twenty-two. This morning, fifteen. A drop of seven points in one night.
"It’s not the column," she said. "The column hasn’t moved. It’s the path before the column."
Malik took apart the fitting that connected the injection valve to the oven. Inside, an O-ring had slightly deformed, creating a small cavity where the gas lingered before moving on. Nothing visible to the naked eye. But the tracer had felt it.
They replaced the seal. Tova re-injected the krypton. The number climbed back to twenty-one. She ran the phenol again. The peak regained its blade shape.
"So," said Malik, "three weeks spent looking for a fault that didn’t exist, and it’s a gas that reacts with nothing that found the problem in ten minutes."
Tova nodded. She thought of the client, who would get the report at midday. But she thought of something else too. The next day, she tested the same sample at three different flow rates. At low flow, the model predicted the broadening well. At high flow, the prediction broke down: the gas flowed too fast for molecular spreading to have time to act, and another phenomenon, probably turbulence in the bend, took over. The model did not see it coming. She noted the limit in her notebook, next to the diagram of the path.
"So what’s the use of it?" asked Malik, reading over her shoulder.
"To stop taking valves apart at random. To know in ten minutes whether the problem is in the path or in the column. For a lab that turns out results every day, ten minutes is already a day’s work."
She put the notebook away. Outside, the freight train was passing along the canal, and the morning light came in flat across the benches. Tova ran the krypton one last time, just to watch the curve return to its place.