And that was all. All he had, all he could offer to the woman in Santa Fe who held his heart. Given the speed of sound, how long would it take that G chord to reach her? Thirty-five miles, at give or take five seconds a mile, and the answer was a bit under three minutes, with Brenda’s head on a pillow of the bed where he had slept with her, in the boardinghouse he had snuck in and out of—those notes arriving like the faintest shadows, helping her the littlest bit to awaken.
What a pleasant thought for Charlie, to imagine those sound waves, descending the mountains and crossing the desert to her ears. They rang in every other direction, too, circular ripples dispersing around the world, the gentlest whispers for anyone who needed them. And all at once he realized exactly what was wrong with the Gadget.
The usual tech crew began filing in at about eight, turning on lights and heating up soldering guns, making conversation as they eased into the day. By then Charlie was already surrounded by papers that bore a pigpen of calculations. Those who said hello to him received a bland “good morning,” but he did not lift his head. He’d moved the large drawing of the Gadget’s sphere beside his desk, along with the specification sheets. The pages he was writing on were crowded with arcs.
“Hey there, Mister Charlie.” It was Monroe. “Word’s out you don’t sleep no more. Is it true?”
“As true as the rumor that you are never sober anymore.”
Monroe grinned. “I’m sober right now. Course, it is early yet.” He held a steaming cup of coffee out to Charlie.
“You’re a savior,” Charlie said, accepting the cup and taking a sip. “A saint among mortals. You wouldn’t happen to have a couple of gallons of this, by any chance?”
“Well dang.” Monroe patted his pockets. “Must be I left ’em in my other pants.”
Charlie gulped down more. “What are you fellows up to this week?”
Monroe rubbed the bald top of his head. “I figured you’d know better than me. On account of we’re dying to test your newest thing. All the talk at breakfast is you’re about ready.”
“It ran clean last night.” Charlie waved at the table, where a sheet still covered the assembly. “There’s still something not quite right though.”
“Say, Charlie.” Monroe sidled closer. “You getting enough to eat over here? Hungry horse can’t pull much plow.”
Charlie studied the Gadget design. “Do you know where I could find some sheets of metal? Maybe two or three feet on a side?”
“What kind? Steel and aluminum ain’t the same thing.”
“Well.” He considered. “All kinds, I suppose. Yes, I’d need a sheet of each kind of metal we have around here.”
Monroe scratched his chin. “Not to slow your thinking, Charlie, but I was asking about you getting enough to eat, which most times involves food. Not metal.”
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks.” Charlie waved it away. “I should wrap this little question up by noon or so anyway. I’ll have a big lunch then.”
“What little question is that?”
“Diffusion. If you have a pulse of energy in one place, how far does its force reach, and in what shape does it manifest?”
“I’m a chemist. You may as well be talking Chinese. But why don’t I get my young boys to dig around in the toss-away pit? They’s all kinds of materials in there.”
“Perfect. Also I need a hammer, and large nails.”
Monroe smiled. “If that’s breakfast, I can’t wait to see what you eat for lunch. Back in a jiffy.”
He paused, expecting Charlie’s usual effusive thanks whenever someone did him a favor. Instead Charlie fixed him with a piercing stare. “Are we doing the right thing?”
“Course not.” Monroe laughed. “Didn’t you hear Joseph Rotblat resigned?”
“What? Really?”
“World’s highest expert on neutrons, and he’s vamoosed. Said we were brought here to beat Hitler, which the regular army had already done. And Japan’s got no bomb program. Time to shut The Hill down.”
Charlie stared at his papers. “Is he right?”
“I’ve been arguing with Giles about that something fierce. He says everything’s allowed in wartime.”
“I think we’re making a new definition of everything.”
Monroe shrugged. “Then maybe Rotblat’s right. Anyways, I’ll be back with your metals in two shakes.”
Charlie turned back to the pages covered with arcs, problem after problem.
Probably there was some equation, he thought, some calculus that would produce an answer in minutes. Lacking that knowledge, and unwilling to share the problem until he had solved it, all Charlie could do was try one set of numbers after another. When they did not work, he would change a single variable and see if that one succeeded. It was like throwing darts blindfolded, and hoping for a bull’s-eye.
Midmorning, Monroe returned with the metal: eight square remnants from other tasks on The Hill. “Here you go, Mister Charlie,” he said, dropping them on a desk with a clang. “Steel, tin, aluminum, a couple more. Hammer and nails, too, and I gotta admit, a boatload of curiosity about what you’re up to.”
“Just a theory,” Charlie said. “Only a theory.”
Monroe laughed. “Same thing Newton said, before that apple fell on his head.”
“Can you skip the crew today, and help me out?”
“I don’t much expect as they’ll fire me.”
Charlie led him to another desk, where he’d set up two wooden posts. “What we need is to bend the metal in a uniform curve, so that the two places that touch these posts are exactly nineteen inches apart.”
“Why’s that important?”
“Because that is the curve of the Gadget. We’re copying its exterior.”
“All right then.” While Monroe measured nineteen inches on the first sheet, making notches to keep it exact, Charlie placed the hammer on a small scale, adding pieces of wood to its head until it reached the weight he wanted.
“I’ve calculated the force we’ll need,” he said, taking the tape measure, raising the hammer till it hung poised, six inches above the nail. “Ready?”
“This ain’t gonna explode, right?”
“That’s exactly my theory. Watch.”
Charlie let the hammer fall, the nail drove through the sheet, and the metal dented for several inches in all directions.
“I knew it,” he said, shaking the sheet in Monroe’s face. “See what I mean?”
Monroe eyed him sideways. “You’re looking a bit crazy right about now, you know.”
Charlie laughed. “I’m sorry. I should explain.” He held the sheet of metal out, a round dent in its middle. “The effect of the hammer is all near the impact. If you get as little as three inches away, there is no sign that I drove a nail through.”
“Okay. Now what all does that mean?”
“It means”—Charlie seemed giddy—“the ignition won’t work. The Gadget won’t implode everything into a small, dense space. It will only crowd the plutonium a little, and make it slide up to places that weren’t bent.”
Monroe straightened. “You mean to say we’re screwed?”
“For this metal at least, yes. We need to try the others.”
“Why does this make you happy?”
“Because I figured it out now, instead of a month from now. When we would have wasted half a billion dollars of plutonium, and lost who knows how many soldiers.”
Monroe stood, hands on hips, looking at Charlie.
“What is it?” He picked up another nail. “We need to test these other metals.”
“Just thinking,” Monroe said. “Some brain you’ve got on you, Mister Charlie.”
“Get out of here,” Charlie said.
Saying nothing more, Monroe reached for the next sheet of metal, and measured out nineteen inches.
By lunch it was clear that the detonator would not work. All the sheets had dented similarly. Charlie could not stop there, though, and he returned to his pages of arcs. At noon,
Monroe brought him a sandwich. Charlie took a huge bite, then set it aside. Eventually Monroe rejoined his work crew, and later the other tech workers left for the evening. Charlie took no notice.
He needed a metallurgist. If only he could call his uncle John. But no, he was all pro-bomb now. He’d gone over to the other side. Funny, that was how Charlie used to think of the enemy.
The math told him there were two ways to make the plutonium work. The first was to use more explosives. That might rupture the exterior, though, flinging the plutonium unexploded into the open air. In other words, the opposite of crushing it down on that volatile nut. The second was to increase the number of detonators, though it had taken months to make twenty-four of them work together. That would create smaller explosions, keep the skin intact, and cause an effective implosion. Perhaps.
Now he dug through stacks of papers, reviewing his calculations. If you put the first detonator on the sphere’s north pole, where should the others be located? How far should they be from one another? How many did you need?
Through the open windows Charlie heard a microphone from Fuller Lodge, someone was repeating a code. It was a distraction, this strange, slow sequence of numbers, going on for what seemed like hours—until finally the noise distracted him enough to listen closely, and he realized that people were playing bingo.
He took a second bite of his sandwich and discovered that the bread had gone stale. He reached to put it back on the plate, but was already working his numbers again, and wound up placing the sandwich on the desktop. Bending over the papers, he dove into a universe of arcs.
When he finally arrived at the right answer, Charlie did not celebrate. He was too tired. Was it still Tuesday? Still the same day Monroe had helped him? Charlie had been awake since Sunday morning, so this was a new record.
After arranging the pages that proved his solution, tucking them into a manila folder, he brought all of the other papers to a metal bin in the corner. A sign above it read, Waste Documents.
“Isn’t that the truth?” Charlie said, slapping his armload on top.
He arched his back, stretched his head from side to side, rubbed his face to wake himself up. Then he took the folder and headed down the hall.
Bronsky was arguing with someone, Charlie heard it from outside. He knocked anyway. At first the voices continued, but when he knocked a second time the debate ceased. Still no one invited him in. He worked up his nerve, and opened the door.
The Detonation Division chief was on his feet, face red as a beet, while Mather sat in a chair, feet on the man’s desk, hands folded on his belly. The informality of it, their familiarity, halted him in the doorway.
“Fish,” Mather said. “Like I always say, as stubborn as a salmon.”
“Gentlemen.”
“Fishk,” the chief said. “I hear you have positive test on twenty-four nodes. Good news. We are schedule to test tomorrow at nine in concrete bowl. I hope it works.”
“It works,” Charlie said. “But it won’t work.”
Bronsky made a face. “Please to explain.”
“You’ll be able to blow up twenty-four little bombs tomorrow. And they’re as close to simultaneous as humanly possible. But it doesn’t matter. The Gadget won’t work.”
Mather scoffed. “And why not?”
“Diffusion.” Charlie took a few steps into the office, placed the folder on the desk, then retreated to the doorway. “The metal will absorb too much of the burst. As the Gadget is currently designed, you will waste your plutonium and not get a reaction.”
“Nonsense.” Bronsky scowled. “Good men, smart men, have make calculate. In whole department, no dissent.”
“It’s right there for you to read,” Charlie said, pointing at the folder. “All you’ll get is an expensive metal ball with twenty-four dents in its shell.”
Mather opened the folder, but only glanced at the top page before flipping it closed again. “Fish, you didn’t just make an announcement. You brought us something to read, which means you’ve thought further. Did you solve the problem you found?”
He sighed. “I’m so tired, the numbers may be wrong.”
“Whole concept is wrong,” Bronsky said.
“What did you find?” Mather persisted.
Fiddling with the doorknob, Charlie spoke at the floor. “Thirty-two. It will take thirty-two detonators.”
“And”—Mather held up a hand to silence Bronsky—“how do we build such a thing? When everyone agrees that twenty-four is the physical limit?”
“It’s not possible.”
Bronsky relaxed his frown. He faced Mather and nodded. “Where you would start, Fishk? What is step one?”
Charlie rubbed his face. “Step one is sleep.”
“All right. We are seeing you at test tomorrow morning?”
Charlie nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He had left the room and made it halfway down the hall before Mather yelled after him, “Nice work, Trigger.”
Charlie was too tired to protest.
He had almost reached the stairway when the lights went out, yet another power failure. But by then, he was an expert at them. Charlie trailed his fingers along the wall, holding the railing as he went down the steps. Once he was outside, he found his way to the barracks by the light of innumerable stars.
39.
The soldier had died nine minutes after the war ended. That was the first sentence of the first newspaper story I saw that morning. A tank detachment in Czechoslovakia had come under attack from a German unit that was unaware of the May 7 cease-fire. I read that the radio operator received a transmission that the fighting was over at the very moment his buddies were shooting at the Americans. When he told them to stop, they immediately did, and his captain raised a white flag in order to come forward and apologize. At first it appeared no one was harmed, but then they found the body of an unarmed mechanic’s mate, a nineteen-year-old from Santa Fe.
Reverend Morris was already in action. Passing the table where I sat reading, he barely paused. “The service is today at three. Would you play that Bach piece you’ve been working on? The one I overheard the other day?”
“The Bach Toccata in D Minor?”
“Yes, at the end of the service. It’s martial enough.”
“I don’t know that piece securely, sir.”
He waved my objection away. “Play the portions you know. That opening passage will be perfect for this poor grieving family.”
Poor grieving family? What could I say?
The turnout was huge, pews and balcony filled to capacity, people standing along the walls. Apparently the boy was from a prominent local family, and he’d been the high school’s star athlete only eight months ago. Instead of delivering a sermon, Reverend Morris allowed the soldier’s father to say a eulogy. All the stories he told were about when the boy was six. It slaughtered us.
Then it was time for the toccata. I reminded myself that the music was not about me, it was background—and the entire foreground was grief. That perspective gave me permission to skip the difficult sections and concentrate on the parts worth performing.
Sure enough, as the people filed out no one noticed I existed, much less that I was playing a complicated piece. Relieved at the end and not in the least insulted, I switched the organ off and organized the sheet music. As I finished, Reverend Morris was marching back, I presumed for the sacristy to get out of his vestments. I was out of sight behind the console, so I almost did not notice the woman who emerged from a side alcove, until she hurried across a pew and intercepted him halfway down the aisle.
He pulled up short on seeing her. His neck did that odd stretching tic. But when she opened her arms, he fell into them and they had a long, long hug. When they parted, she continued to hold his elbows. They spoke to each other too quietly for me to hear—not that I wanted to. I was mortified by the whole situation. I would have snuck away if I’d thought it would go unnoticed.
The woman was Mrs. Sanchez, who cleaned
the church. Who always went last on the way out of Sunday services. Who had been meeting with Reverend Morris the first time I entered that church. Their conversation continued in murmurs. Whatever passed between them was not my business. I kept still, eyes down, resisting every urge to spy.
Finally they parted, Mrs. Sanchez bustling out the open front door. The reverend passed near enough to notice me. “See, Brenda? You played that piece wonderfully.”
“Thank you,” I said, in a tone as normal as his had been. But as soon as he entered the sacristy, I ran up the aisle and out of the church.
Lizzie was standing at her dresser, putting away laundry. The sight of her made me weak with relief. She took one look and stopped what she was doing. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure.” I was breathless from running up the stairs. “I could be wrong.”
“Out with it, kid. You look like you stepped on a scorpion.”
“I think Reverend Morris is having an affair.”
“What?” Lizzie frowned. “You’re dreaming.”
“With Mrs. Sanchez. I saw them together today, when neither of them knew I was there. It explains why Mrs. Morris is so angry.”
Lizzie made a face I did not understand. She closed the dresser drawer and heaved a huge sigh.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You are wrong, Brenda.” Lizzie said it in a low voice, the tone she used when she talked about missing her husband. “Very.”
“All right, then. Spill.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m not supposed to tell.”
“My job, my housing, and my future depend on these people, and they have a huge secret. And supposedly you are my friend.”
Lizzie was wearing an old shirt of her husband’s, a long flannel one, and she wrapped it tighter before answering. “Promise you won’t discuss this with anyone?”
Universe of Two Page 31
