Los Alamos

by Joseph Kanon

  “I don’t know. From one minute to the next. Today—”

  “Don’t think about it.”

  “I did something I never thought I’d do. Deliberately harm someone.”

  “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.”

  17

  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.

  Connolly stood up and walked over to study the photos on the wall. With Lawrence at the Berkeley cyclotron. A group shot of the Tech Area division heads. Eisler looked straight at the camera, his eyes dreamy and benign.

  Finally Oppenheimer was giving in. “Well, that’s that, then. We’ll do what we can. No, I understand. It’s a risk—you should know that. Yes, the sixteenth. You’ll be here, I assume.” And then he was putting down the receiver, still looking out the window.

  “The President wants to tell the Russians at the meeting in Germany,” he said, partly to himself.

  “But they already know.”

  “They don’t know that we know they know,” he said, toying with it, a word game. “For that matter, what do they know? Only that we’re trying. He wants to tell them we’ve done it. At the meeting. Ready or not. So we’ll be ready.”

  “Why at the meeting?”

  Oppenheimer shrugged. “To give him some height at the table, I suppose.”

  “But if they already know—”

  Oppenheimer turned to face him. “The President doesn’t know that, remember? Nobody does. You know it, if you can prove it. Can you do that before they sit down at Potsdam?”

  Connolly said nothing.

  Oppenheimer smiled. “But they’re sitting down anyway. So there’s your deadline too.”

  “It’s out of my hands at this point, you know.”

  Oppenheimer nodded. “Mine too.” He turned to the papers on his desk. “And I still have a picnic to get to. They’ll want a speech. What is it now, a hundred and sixty-nine years? What do you do with a number like that? We were supposed to be having the test today, not eating watermelon and making speeches. History will have to wait a little. Today we deal with cookouts. That was the good general’s thought for today—no cookouts. The whole mesa’s dry as dust. A spark would do it. I suppose he’s got visions of the whole project going up in flames because of one Fourth of July hot dog. I have to say, the man thinks of everything. One minute international conferences, the next lemonade and egg salad. So. Now we’ve got campfire patrol.” He looked up, as if he’d noticed Connolly for the first time. “Anyway, what was it you wanted?”

  “You wanted to see me.”

  Oppenheimer looked puzzled for a moment, then, remembering, frowned. “Yes, right.” He lit another cigarette. “About this trip.”

  “Thanks for the Pullman.”

  Oppenheimer frowned again. “I know this is none of my business.”

  “You want a report? I thought we agreed to keep you in the dark till we had something.”

  “I don’t mean that,” Oppenheimer said quickly. “I thought this trip was work.”

  “It was.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were taking a lady. I hear you’re quite a dancer.”

  “You’re right,” Connolly said evenly, “it’s none of your business.”

  “It is when you’re carrying on with one of the scientists’ wives. That’s all we need right now—a jealous husband. I’m surprised at you.”

  “The trip was work. She was part of it.”

  Oppenheimer raised his eyebrows. “Is that the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you trying to tell me there’s nothing going on?”

  “No,” Connolly said, meeting his stare. “I didn’t say that.”

  “I see.” Oppenheimer put down the paper in his hand. “It wouldn’t be the first time, you know. Put people together and there’s always a certain amount of interest generated. You have to expect that. You have to expect trouble, too. He’s a good man.”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “And that didn’t deter you in the slightest.” Connolly paused. “No.”

  Oppenheimer smiled. “At least you’re honest. I guess. May I ask what she’s got to do with all this?”

  “If you ask, I’ll tell you, but I’d rather you didn’t ask. Not yet.”

  Oppenheimer put out his cigarette. “I used to know everything that went on here. Looks like I wasn’t as well informed as I thought. Murder. Adultery. A vipers’ nest, it turns out. Cookouts.”

  “You’re forgetting espionage.”

  “Yes,” Oppenheimer said, looking at him, “how could I forget that?” He picked up the paper again. “Now what do I do with this? ‘Dereliction of duty. Misuse of government funds. Authorized travel for personal purposes. Sexual’—what do they call it?” He referred to the paper. “ ‘Sexual indiscretions with project personnel.’ Indiscretions.”

  “Ignore it. You’re a busy man.”

  “Not half as busy as you, it seems. I can’t ignore a security request. They want you out of here.”

  “They’re just blowing smoke. Ignore them.”

  “They won’t let up, you know.”

  “You take your friends in security too seriously,” Connolly said, thinking of the young scientist and his meeting.

  “My friends,” Oppenheimer said. “You seem to think they’re a joke. Did you know they refused to give me a clearance until Groves personally vouched for me? Me. Did you know they still investigate my old associates, my family? They’ve put my brother through hell.” He saw the look in Connolly’s eyes. “But you knew that. He was a member of the party at Stanford. Given that, we both must be disloyal. They keep my file active—they never close it. So I’ve learned to be a little sensitive about our friends. I try not to annoy them.”

  Connolly got up. “The lady in question helped me make contact with someone I hope will lead to Karl’s killer. The money was mine. She shared my hotel room, but I was sleeping there anyway. Our friends in security think we were off on a toot and it’s just what I want them to think. You’re not buying any favors with them, you know. You’ll always scare them. You’re everything they’re not.”

  Oppenheimer was quiet for a minute, then smiled faintly, a tic. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “A small one.”

  “You want me to vouch for you, then.”

  “Groves vouched for you.”

  “You forget I have a certain amount of responsibility to keep this project secure.”

  “So did Groves.”

  Oppenheimer paused. “So he did,” he said, taking the paper and letting it flutter to the wastebasket. “Now will you do something for me? Keep your indiscretions discreet, will you? This particular husband is too valuable right now to be worrying about his wife.”

  “I don’t think he knows. He’s at Trinity most of the time.”

  Oppenheimer started and then jotted something down. “Thank you for reminding me. I almost forgot about the cables.”

  “Cables?”

  “Coaxial cables. The rats are chewing the wires at the site. We have to patrol the whole damn desert floor now, night and day. Miles of wire. It’s got everybody jumpy.” He caught Connolly’s look. “Sorry, what were we saying?”

  “Nothing. I was going to be more discreet.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Oppenheimer paused. “Be careful. They usually do know.�
�

  “Who?”

  “Kitty was married when we met. We thought her husband didn’t know, but he did.”

  Connolly looked up at him, surprised, then let it go. “You ought to get some sleep,” he said.

  “Everybody says that, but nobody tells me how.”

  The whole mesa seemed on edge, like some extension of Oppenheimer’s nervous system. Connolly had come back west with a sense of relief—the high, dry air was the air he breathed now—but the Hill had changed. It was curiously deserted, with hundreds gone to the test site and the usual traffic at the gates slowed by travel restrictions. Los Alamos was left to bake in the arid July air. The grass had long since dried up, the little patch gardens scraggly and cracked. Children, out of school, played ball in a swirl of dust. Mothers spread blankets over bare dirt for impromptu picnics or sat in the shade of the hutments and prefab houses, fanning themselves. Without being told, they knew something was about to happen. Lab windows were bright all night. With so many gone, the summer should have been quiet and lethargic. Instead, it was anxious, wide awake, as if everyone were waiting for forest fires to break out.

  Connolly checked the mail, went for walks, wandered in and out of the Tech Area looking for something to do. Eisler’s books were sold to raise money for the school, his personal effects doled out by Johanna Weber to friends in the émigré community. Connolly had asked her for a picture—the theoretical team on an outing in the Jemez Mountains—and, surprised, she had given it to him with sentimental tears in her eyes. He placed it on the bureau next to the photograph of Karl, two pieces in the puzzle. He saw Emma at the movies, but they stayed away from each other, afraid to divert their attention from the waiting. Finally, after a week, claustrophobic in all the wide space of the mesa, he drove into Santa Fe to see Holliday.

  “I’d just about given up on you,” Holliday said pleasantly. “Coffee?”

  “In this heat?”

  “Old Indian trick. Just pay it no attention and after a while you don’t know it’s there.”

  “It’s there,” Connolly said, wiping his neck.

  They sat out behind the office where a table had been set up in the shade of a giant cottonwood tree.

  “Sorry I haven’t been around. I just haven’t had anything to tell you.”