Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

“That depends on how you look at it.”

“I’m not even sure it was wrong. How is that possible? Not to know what’s wrong. And I didn’t mind. I wanted it to work. And now we’re laughing at that man and dancing, as if nothing had happened. What sort of person does that make me?”

He looked at her. “I don’t care. Like the rest of us, I suppose. Everybody has his reasons.”

“Even Matthew.”

“I don’t know the answer to that, Emma. Some are better than others, maybe.”

“So maybe you can be wrong for the right reasons.”

“I don’t know that one either. We’re not going to solve it here, you know. Let’s take a little time out. You’re still all keyed up.”

She smiled weakly at him. “The wine, no doubt. At least you didn’t say that. I have to sort it out sometime, though.” She looked up at him, studying his face. “What about you? What were you thinking about today?”

“In the restaurant? That I wasn’t helping you at all.”

“But you did. You made it easy.”

His eyes asked a question.

“I didn’t know how I would feel. And then it was easy-I knew I could do it. It’s easy when you don’t love somebody anymore.”

“He was a fool to let you go.”

“We let each other go. Anyway, he’s gone.”

“Pretty quick divorce, by the way.”

She smiled. “I couldn’t resist. I wanted to hear what he’d say. I must say, he might have protested a little,” she said lightly. “Anyway, there’s our answer. Free. Aren’t you pleased?”

He looked at her. “He’s not the one I’m worried about.”

Oppenheimer’s voice came through the half-open door, as angry as Connolly had ever heard it. “You picked one hell of a time, Jeff,” he was saying, his tone almost witheringly sharp.

“It’s the right time,” a voice answered, so young it seemed adolescent. “There’ll never be a better one.”

Connolly could see Oppenheimer standing behind his desk, holding a bulletin board notice. “ ‘The Gadget and the Future,’ ” he read disdainfully. “And just what the hell do you expect to accomplish with this little town meeting? Where do you think we are, Palo Alto?”

“We can’t just ignore it, Oppie,” the young man said, holding his ground. “There are issues. The scientific community has a right to a voice in this. While there’s still time.”

“There isn’t any time. We’ve got people working twenty-four hours a day. We don’t have time for seminars on civilization and its discontents.”

“We should.”

Oppenheimer, at any rate, must be working around the clock, Connolly thought. His frame, always frail, was now alarmingly thin, the eyes set deeply in their sockets, the bony fingers clutching the cigarette nearly skeletal. His voice, dry and scratchy, seemed to cry out for rest, but instead his body was in constant motion, pacing edgily, his arms jerking involuntarily to relieve the tension of being awake.

“Is Leo behind this?” he said suddenly.

“Leo?”

“Szilard. In Chicago. You know very well what Leo. Don’t fence with me, Jeff.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Oppie.”

Oppenheimer looked up, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t? Sorry. I thought he might be, that’s all. He’s circulating a petition. No doubt you’ll want to sign it. Meanwhile, I’d appreciate it if you’d cancel this damn-fool meeting.”

“Why?”

“Security wouldn’t like it.”

“So what?”

“It upsets them. This is a sensitive time, Jeff, you know that as well as anyone. Let’s not make it more complicated than it is.”

“Oppie, we’re talking about scientists getting together to discuss the implications of what we’re doing. That’s all.”

“I know what we’re talking about,” Oppenheimer snapped, taking a puff on his cigarette. “I’m talking about a test scheduled for today that’s now two weeks late. I’m counting hours. Kisty’s down at S Site fixing the explosive lenses himself. You know that. In fact, why aren’t you down there helping, instead of-instead of—” His voice sputtered, caught by the look on the man’s face.

“What?”

“Scheduled for today? The glorious Fourth? What was the idea-the biggest fireworks ever?”

“Don’t be a jerk. Not precisely the Fourth. This week. Nobody thought about fireworks.” He stopped and smiled to himself. “In fact, nobody did think about that. Odd. Anyway, what’s the difference? We didn’t make it.”

“Oppie, are you ordering me not to have this meeting?” the man said calmly.

Oppenheimer lit a fresh cigarette from the end of the other, his body visibly backing down. “No,” he said finally, “I wouldn’t order you to do that.”

“You were the one who started the open meetings.”

“Yes.”

“And to hell with the security bozos, remember?”

“All right, Jeff, if the men want it—”

“So what happened? We haven’t had a meeting in quite a while.”

Oppenheimer looked at him, his eyes flaring in anger again. “I got busy, Jeff. I’m busy now, in fact.”

“You’re welcome to attend, by the way. In fact, people would really like that-to hear what you have to say. We’re not trying to hurt the project.”

“I know,” Oppenheimer said gently.

Connolly knocked on the open door.

“Speak of the devil,” Oppenheimer said. “One of your security bozos, in the flesh.”

Jeff, a young scientist in horn-rimmed glasses, flushed.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Connolly said breezily. “We don’t listen at keyholes.”

“Yet,” Oppenheimer said quickly.

“Sunday,” Jeff said, turning to leave. “If you can make it.”

Oppenheimer watched him go, then looked back. “Mr. Connolly,” he said wearily. “Pleasant trip?”

“What was that all about?”

“It’s beginning to dawn on them that the gadget has implications,” he said, his voice still taut.

“What hath God wrought?”

“I haven’t been called that yet. No, they think we might be in league with the other one. Implications. Where has everyone been? The implications were there from the start. Now the hand-wringing. The Chicago lab wants to talk to the President-the President, if you please-about a demonstration for the Japanese. Blow up some little island somewhere and the emperor and the rest of the samurai will fall to their knees, begging for terms. And no one gets hurt.”

“It’s an idea.”

“Don’t be a fool. It’s already decided.” The answer, quick as whiplash, stung Connolly, as if he had been sent to the children’s table. Sometime during the technical crises and the drought regulations and the personal tantrums, Oppenheimer had been to Washington and watched while someone drew a target circle around a city. Already decided.

“You don’t think it would work,” Connolly said tentatively.

“They’re fanatics,” Oppenheimer said flatly. “If it’s a dud, we’d actually end up prolonging the war.”

“You don’t believe that-that it’s a dud.”

“I don’t know. Nobody does. Right now all we’ve got are numbers on paper. Numbers on paper. Yes?” he said to his secretary, who’d appeared in the door.

“General Groves on the line for you.”

Connolly made a sign question- Do you want me to go? — but Oppenheimer waved his hand dismissively and pointed to the chair.

“One minute,” he mumbled and picked up the phone, turning his body halfway to the left, creating the privacy of an imaginary booth. “General. Yes, thanks. It’s the lens castings-hairline cracks, even a few bubbles. I don’t know what the hell they thought they were doing. We’ve got accuracy to one thirtieth and we need one three-hundredth just to be safe. We’re going to need a few more days.” A burst of talk from the other end. “No, it’s not just a snag,” Oppenheimer said waspishly. “It’s a problem. I’ve got Kisty working on it now. He’s down there himself. He might make it, he might not.” Another burst. “I don’t think you understand. He’s working with dentist drills and tweezers and anything he can lay his hands on. Filling in the bubbles. Just to get one decent set of explosive lenses. Two more days.” His face, already drawn, seemed to grow even tighter as he listened to Groves’s reply. A dressing-down, Connolly guessed, or at least a frustrated sputtering. “I know we’ve moved it once already.” And then he didn’t speak again, staring out the window at the Tech Area as Groves went on. He’d clearly not expected an argument or he wouldn’t have asked Connolly to stay, and now he was stuck with an audience.