Charles Snow - The New Men

‘By the end of June at the outside, we must start again,’ said Luke. Hoarsely he went on:

‘I expect it will have to be you this time.’

‘Yes,’ said Martin. He had been studying Luke and Sawbridge with a clinical curiosity that unnerved me, because he wanted to know what might happen to himself. But, as Luke made his effort, as he called on an ultimate reserve of hope when his body had none, for an end which to them all seemed at that moment as simple as getting first to the top of a mountain, Martin lost the last peg of his detachment.

It was not that he felt fonder of Luke or overwhelmed with sorrow for him; just then none of these three men was interested in another; there was something to do, that was all; in this they were one.

Luke was tired out, but as we stood over the bed, he still kept up a harsh whisper.

‘We must have more bods. Tell them we must have more bods.’

I was in suspense during the last days of the German war. The scientific teams in Germany had reported, months before, that the Germans had got nowhere with their pile; but now, when one could count days to the surrender, I kept thinking could there have been one hidden? In terms of reason, I told myself, it was impossible, it was superstitious nonsense — but during those last few days I became nervous when I heard an aircraft.

It was not until the formal end that I could go to my flat and sleep twelve hours in anticlimax and relief. It was because the anticlimax stayed with me, because I did not want to share the sadness of the first weeks of peace, that I saw nothing of my Barford friends that May. Later I wished that I had heard them talk, immediately the German war finished. All I heard in fact was that the new laboratories were being built ready for the second attempt in June: that Sawbridge was a good deal better, and that Luke was now definitely expected to live.

Then came the morning of Pearson’s news.

The rain had just stopped; through the windows of Rose’s room drifted the smell of wet leaves from the Park. It was right at the end of May, and the kind of dark warm morning which brought back days of childhood, waiting at the county ground for the umpires to come out again. Instead, Rose was meeting his five senior colleagues on a problem of reconstruction — ‘an untidy one’, he said. We were getting towards the end of the morning, when his personal assistant brought in a note for Rose. He read it, and passed it to me. It said:

Dr Pearson has just arrived back from Los Alamos, and says he wants to see the Perm Sec at once. He says it can’t wait.

Rose glanced at me under his lids. Himself the most ceremonious of men in dealing with others’ dignity, he never stood on his own.

He said: ‘I really am most apologetic, but this is something I probably ought to attend to, and perhaps we’ve got nearly as far as we can go today. I do apologize.’ He asked me to stay, and, when the others had left, Rose and I sat looking out over the rain-washed trees. Just once Rose, who did not spare time for useless speculation, remarked: ‘I wonder if there really is anything in the wind, or whether this man has just dropped in to pass the time of day.’

As soon as the girl brought Pearson in, Rose was on his feet, bowing, showing Pearson the armchair opposite mine, hoping that he had had a pleasant journey.

‘As pleasant as flying the Atlantic in bumpy weather can be,’ said Pearson.

‘When did you actually arrive?’

‘I wanted to get rid of this commission’ (‘commission’ was one of their formal words, and simply meant that he had been asked to give news by word of mouth), ‘so I came straight here.’

‘That was very, very good of you, Dr Pearson, and I can’t tell you how extremely grateful I am. I do hope you’re not too tired?’

‘As tired as I want to be, thanks. I shan’t be sorry to sleep in my own bed tonight,’

Rose, unwearying in politeness, said: ‘We are grateful to you for many other reasons, of course, Dr Pearson. We have heard the most glowing accounts of you from the American authorities. They told us that you’ve been of inestimable value, and it’s very nice to have you and some of our other friends putting up our stock over there. I do congratulate you and thank you.’

It was all true. Pearson had been a great success in America, working on the actual fixing mechanism of the bomb.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said, with a diffidence that was awkward and genuine, but lay on top of his lazy, invulnerable confidence.

‘You may not know, but we do,’ said Hector Rose. Then lightly: ‘You said you had a little business for us, did you?’

Pearson did not reply at once but glanced edgewise through his spectacles at me. He said to Rose: ‘I’ve got a piece of information that I am to give you.’

‘Yes, Dr Pearson,’ said Rose.

‘I’ve no authority to give it to anyone else,’ said Pearson.

Rose was considering.

‘I take it,’ he said, ‘this information is to go to the committee?’

‘The sooner the better,’ said Pearson.

‘Then I can authorize you to speak in front of Eliot, with many thanks for your precautions. Because you see, Dr Pearson, Eliot is part of the secretariat of the committee, and in any case I should have to pass him this information at once.’

Pearson tilted back his head. He did not care for me, but that was not moving him; he was a rigid, literal, security-minded man. On the other hand, he was a practical one.

‘If Eliot’s got to channel it through the committee, he might as well know now as after lunch, I suppose,’ he said,

‘That would be my view,’ said Hector Rose.

‘As long as it’s understood that this is a time when there mustn’t be one word out of school. I’m not authorized to speak to anyone at Barford, and neither are you. This is for the committee and no one else in this country.’

‘We take that point, Dr Pearson.’ Rose inclined his head.

‘Oh, well then,’ said Pearson, in a flat casual tone, ‘we’ve got a bomb.’

He announced it as though it were an off-hand matter of fact, as though he were informing two people, neither of whom he thought much of, that he had bought a new house.

Rose’s first reply was just as flat.

‘Have you indeed?’ he said. Then he recovered himself: ‘I really must congratulate you and our American colleagues. Most warmly.’

‘We’re just putting the final touches to the hardware,’ said Pearson. ‘It’s nearly ready for delivery.’

Rose looked from Pearson’s face, pale from travel but relaxed, out to the soft, dank, muggy morning. Under the low sky the grass shone with a brilliant, an almost artificial sheen.

‘It really is a remarkable thought,’ said Rose.

‘I always expected we should get it,’ said Pearson.

I broke in: ‘What happens now?’

‘Oh, before we make many more, there are lots of loose ends to tie up,’ said Pearson.

I said: ‘I didn’t mean that. What happens to the bombs that do exist?’

Pearson pushed up his spectacles.

‘They’re going to explode one in the desert soon,’ he said, ‘just to see if it goes off all right.’

‘And the others?’

‘I didn’t have much to do with the military,’ he said, in the same offended tone, ‘but there’s some talk they’ll try one on the Japs.’

I said: ‘How do the scientists over there take that?’

‘Some of them are getting a bit restive.’ He might not have heard the feeling in my question, but he was not a fool, he knew what lay behind it. ‘Some of the people at Barford will get restive, too,’ he said. ‘That’s why they mustn’t hear until there’s proper authority for them to do so.’