by P. D. Smith
Brown’s specialism was the chemistry of rocks, particularly extraterrestrial ones. Time magazine had recently pictured him holding up a meteorite. Now he chose a geological analogy that he was familiar with: ‘You would visualize this, then, something like the Krakatoa explosion, where you would carry out, let us say, one large explosion or a series of smaller ones. The dust goes up into the air and, as was the case in that particular explosion, it circled the earth for many, many months, and even years, and gradually settled down upon the surface of the earth itself?’
Szilard leant back in his chair and spread his hands emphatically: ‘I agree with you…’ The analogy with a volcano was good. Szilard liked it. He had clearly made his point. The doomsday weapon had been born.
Hans Bethe had been listening to Szilard with growing irritation. Although his face still bore the mild-mannered smile that habitually played around his lips, a frown now creased his forehead. It was not that he disagreed scientifically with what Szilard was saying, rather that he was irritated by this typically Szilardian flight of fancy. There was no need to exaggerate the current situation. The H-bomb was going to be quite bad enough – why frighten people with what might come next?
‘You may ask’, said Szilard, anticipating his critics, ‘who would want to kill everybody on earth?’ Any country that wanted to be unbeatable in the field of war, was his dramatic answer. That would be the advantage conferred on any nation that owned the doomsday device – a hydrogen bomb rigged in the way he had outlined, using zinc or, as he later suggested, cobalt.
‘Let us suppose,’ he explained, ‘that we have a war and let us suppose that we are on the point of winning the war against Russia, after a struggle which perhaps lasts ten years. The Russians can say: “You come no farther. You do not invade Europe, and you do not drop ordinary atom bombs on us, or else we will detonate our H-bombs and kill everybody.” Faced with such a threat, I do not think that we could go forward. I think that Russia would be invincible.’
Harrison Brown was clearly struggling with the implications of what Szilard was saying. Would a nation really kill everyone, he asked, rather than suffer defeat? Szilard frankly admitted that he didn’t know the answer to this. But he added this chilling coda: ‘I think that we may threaten to do it, and I think that the Russians might threaten to do it. And who will take the risk then not to take that threat seriously?’
In a public lecture the following month, Brown told his audience that he was now convinced that there were men who would be prepared to destroy all life on earth if they could not have their own way. ‘Can we doubt for a moment,’ he asked, ‘that Hitler in the desperation of defeat would have killed everything, had he had it in his power to do so?’27
That February afternoon, the Round Table panel moved on to consider the possibility of vast hydrogen bombs carried in ships. If exploded in the Pacific, the radioactivity from such monstrous devices would drift across America on the prevailing westerly winds, poisoning the land and its people. It was a new and frightening danger for America. The fear of ship bombs would create headlines for the rest of the decade as America and Russia vied with each other to build the biggest H-bombs. But, as Szilard pointed out, such radioactivity is impossible to control. The awful irony facing them, added Harrison Brown, was that it was ‘easier to kill all the people in the world than just a part of them.’ ‘This is definitely so,’ agreed Szilard.
Before the discussion drew to a close, Hans Bethe talked about his statement calling upon the United States to rule out first use of the hydrogen bomb. Bethe explained that he was willing to work on the bomb in order ‘to keep our bargaining position and not to be confronted, one day, with an ultimatum from Russia that they have the H-bomb and can destroy us.’
Unlike Frederick Seitz, Szilard had not been one of the signatories to Bethe’s plea. He did not hide his disapproval now. ‘I read the statement,’ said Szilard, ‘and I was really more impressed by the sentiment in it than by its logic.’
Neither Bethe nor Seitz were particularly surprised by his blunt words, but Szilard widened his critique to make a point that was central to the whole debate about the hydrogen bomb and weapons of mass destruction generally. Bethe’s statement, according to Szilard, was just the tip of the iceberg. In 1939, he said, the American people were of one mind that it was ‘morally wrong and reprehensible to bomb cities and kill women and children’. But gradually this firm conviction had been eroded: ‘during the war, almost imperceptibly, we started to use jellied gasoline bombs against Japan, killing millions of women and children; finally we used the A-bomb’.
The level of terror imposed in warfare had been rising steadily throughout the twentieth century. Now there was a ‘general uneasiness among the scientists’ about how their science would be used in the future. ‘It is easy for the scientists to agree that we cannot trust Russia,’ said Szilard, ‘but they also ask themselves: To what extent can we trust ourselves?’ It was a chilling thought for a country that had just authorized the construction of what would become the most terrible explosive device the world had ever seen. And after the H-bomb, what next? The doomsday bomb, perhaps?
The next day, the New York Times splashed Leo Szilard’s comments about a doomsday bomb across its front page. Its breathless headline read: ENDING OF ALL LIFE BY HYDROGEN BOMB HELD A POSSIBILITY – RADIOACTIVITY THE KILLER. William Laurence told how the ‘four leading atomic scientists’ had warned that ‘the hydrogen bomb, if developed, could be rigged in such a way as to exterminate the entire world’s population or most of it’. The scientists had revealed ‘hitherto unknown information’ about the ‘potential horrors’ of a war fought with hydrogen bombs. A photograph showed Szilard discussing the issues with his fellow scientists.
Laurence also described to his readers how a hydrogen bomb could ‘transmute’ an element such as cobalt into a ‘radioactive element about 320 times as powerful… as radium’. He continued: ‘This deadly radioactive cobalt would be scattered into the atmosphere and carried by the westerly winds all over the surface of the earth. Any living thing inhaling it, or even touched by it, would be doomed to certain death.’28 For the first time, the cobalt doomsday bomb had hit the headlines. In the coming years it would often return to remind people that humankind now had ultimate power over life and death on earth.
The New York Times was not alone in picking up on these fears of atomic apocalypse. The counter-attack on what Time magazine called ‘hydrogen hysteria’ was led by David Lilienthal.29 Speaking at New York’s Town Hall a few days after the broadcast, Lilienthal criticized what he called the ‘prophets of hydrogen Doomsday’, accusing these ‘Oracles of Annihilation’ of sensationalism. But his criticisms were blatantly political. ‘Hopelessness and helplessness are the very opposite of what we need’, said the former head of the AEC. ‘These are the emotions that play right into the hands of destructive Communist forces.’30
Those were strong words in the year that Senator Joe McCarthy began his anti-Communist witch-hunts in America. The nation that had invested so much in its atomic future could not afford to lose the support of its people. Lilienthal’s targets were clearly Szilard and Einstein, and for most people around the world Einstein was ‘an oracle not to be questioned’.31
But in the autumn of 1950, Szilard’s fears of a cobalt bomb were given independent scientific backing. Dr James R. Arnold of the Institute for Nuclear Studies, Chicago, looked at whether such a weapon was technically feasible. According to Newsweek, the ‘brilliant, boyish (aged 27) physicist’ had ‘started out, slide rule in hand, to demolish Szilard’s arguments. But he finished by agreeing on many points.’
Arnold’s calculations showed that the doomsday device described by Leo Szilard would have to be an enormous weapon, ‘perhaps two and a half times as heavy as the battleship Missouri’.32 The heavy hydrogen (deuterium) that fuelled the H-bomb would cost as much as the Manhattan Project, $2 billion. In addition, at least 10,000 tons of cobalt would be needed to create the l
ethal radioactive isotope, cobalt-60, when the bomb exploded. Most of Szilard’s assumptions about the cobalt bomb were confirmed by the Chicago scientist. Virtually the only area of uncertainty was whether the radioactive dust from such a doomsday bomb would be evenly distributed around the world.
Although Arnold concluded that ‘the human race is in no immediate danger’, because such a weapon would require ‘a full-scale effort by a major country over many years’, he was convinced that ‘the vast majority of the race can be killed off in this way’.33 The only ray of hope that Newsweek could find was that ‘those who would use the weapon for murder must be willing to accept suicide in the bargain’.34
As well as being the birthplace of the atomic age and the cobalt bomb, the University of Chicago was home to the world’s most important journal on atomic affairs – the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. It was the Bulletin that commissioned James Arnold to assess Leo Szilard’s frightening prediction about a doomsday weapon. The Bulletin was conceived in the Stineway Drug Store on 57th Street, east of the University, where Russian-born biophysicist Eugene Rabinowitch met his colleagues Hyman Goldsmith and sociologist Edward Shils for coffee every day.
The first issue appeared on 10 December 1945, a few months after the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs. In June 1947 the Bulletin’s cover gained its iconic image of the doomsday clock, designed by Martyl Langsdorf, the wife of a Manhattan Project physicist. Initially this graphic representation of how close we were to a nuclear holocaust was set at seven minutes to midnight. But after the first Soviet atomic test in 1949, the clock was reset to just three minutes before doomsday, in order to reflect the magazine’s growing concern at the world situation. The countdown to atomic Armageddon had begun.
The Bulletin’s co-founder Edward Shils knew Leo Szilard well. The journal provided a platform for the campaigning scientist, publishing his peace plans and his short fiction, which he started writing after 1947. When his friend died in 1964, Shils wrote a perceptive memoir. Szilard hated being tied down, said Shils, to a person, a job, or a home: ‘He was a restless, homeless spirit. He owned no property, very few books… Hotel lobbies, cafés, Jewish delicatessens, poor restaurants, and city pavements were the setting for the discussions which were his main form of communication – he said the age of books had passed.’35 His favourite deli was a regular haunt of Central European refugees on upper Broadway in New York. There he could rediscover the food and the old-world atmosphere of his youth – the coffee houses of Budapest and Berlin where he spent many hours debating politics and science with some of the brightest brains of the age.
Szilard once told Shils that he saw himself as a ‘knight errant’ in the scientific world, someone who needed ‘to be free to go wherever important ideas in science or in the effort to protect the human race would take him’.36 Apart from a letter to the New York Herald Tribune in March 1950 rebutting Lilienthal’s criticisms, Leo Szilard made no further public comments on the cobalt bomb. This was wholly in character. Like a neutron in a chain reaction, Szilard liked to think of himself as the vital spark that ignites an explosion of ideas. He had set the ball rolling with the Chicago Round Table broadcast. Now there were new horizons to explore – such as his biological research into phage (viruses which infect bacteria) with Aaron Novick – as well as the small matter of saving the world from atomic doomsday.
According to Edward Shils, Szilard was a one-man peace movement, tirelessly pressing his case with the politicians and opinion-formers in Washington. Once when Shils visited him at a hotel, he found Szilard holding two long-distance telephone calls simultaneously. The phones were in different rooms, and he was ‘going back and forth, putting down the receiver in one room while he went to take up the conversation in the other’. In each room were groups of ‘actual and potential collaborators’, none of whom seemed to know quite what was happening. But Szilard liked it that way; he was always surrounded by an air of intrigue and expectation. Leo Szilard was, said his friend memorably, ‘an extraordinarily sweet and calmly desperate genius’.37
James Arnold had been shocked to discover that the science of destruction had progressed to such a degree that ‘a practicable method for self-destruction’ could be built with current technology. In the coming years, as Arnold had predicted, the science of destruction made rapid progress and the arms race gathered momentum. In 1953, the doomsday clock moved forward to just two minutes before midnight as the United States and the Soviet Union tested H-bombs within nine months of each other. That year the young Sylvia Plath gave voice to the atomic angst of her generation in the poem ‘Doomsday’:
The streets crack through in havoc-split ravines,
The doomstruck city crumbles block by block;
The hour is crowed in lunatic thirteens.38
Throughout the 1950s and into the 1960s, the cobalt doomsday bomb became a familiar spectre. In best-sellers such as Nevil Shute’s On the Beach (1957) and Hollywood films such as the Planet of the Apes series, it was a symbol of man’s Promethean hubris. The British film Seven Days to Noon came out in the year in which Leo Szilard described the cobalt bomb. In the film, as in real life, people began to blame the scientific creators of these weapons for giving humankind such godlike power over the future of life on earth.
People’s anxieties about the scientists they had once hailed as saviours, as paragons of progress, found expression in the figure of one fictional scientist. Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 black comedy Dr Strangelove brilliantly captured the insane logic of the arms race and the science of destruction. Kubrick’s film also features Szilard’s doomsday device – the cobalt bomb.
Dr Strangelove, an ex-Nazi scientist working for the United States, came to personify the alliance between cold-war science and power politics. Memorably played by Peter Sellers as a psychotic rationalist, Dr Strangelove has been identified with many real scientists of the time. The father of the H-bomb Edward Teller, the German rocket designer Wernher von Braun, computer pioneer John von Neumann, physicist and nuclear strategist Herman Kahn, even Henry Kissinger – all have been suggested as possible models for this unforgettable character created by Kubrick and British author Peter George.
Leo Szilard thought it was simplistic to blame scientists alone for the technologies of destruction. In his view, the roots of the problem ran far deeper. The dream of the superweapon was not limited to scientists such as Dr Strangelove. Scientists and engineers may have built the Bomb, but the dream was there many years before. Fiction writers, journalists, film-makers, ordinary men and women had all known this dream. Szilard was once asked whether he agreed that it was the tragedy of the scientist to make great advances in knowledge which are then used for purposes of destruction. He replied without hesitation: ‘My answer is that this is not the tragedy of the scientist; it is the tragedy of mankind.’39
3
The Plutonium Collector
The process of decay was forestalled by the powers of the light-ray, the flesh in which he walked disintegrated, annihilated, dissolved in vacant mist, and there within it was the finely turned skeleton of his own hand… and for the first time in his life he understood that he would die.
Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain (1924)
A few months after Leo Szilard unveiled his vision of the doomsday bomb, the FBI raided a house in the suburbs of Denver and arrested a 28-year-old research scientist. The astonished neighbours watched as the quiet, bespectacled man was led in handcuffs across the toy-littered lawn of the house where he lived with his wife and three children. Next day the G-men announced to the press that Sanford Lawrence Simons had been charged with the theft of plutonium.
Sanford Simons was working at the University of Denver on top-secret studies of the upper atmosphere for the United States Air Force. During the war he had been employed on the Manhattan Project at Los Alamos, New Mexico, where the atomic bombs were built. In 1946 he had removed from the weapons laboratory a glass vial containing plutonium, the new artificial radioactive element tha
t was at the heart of the Nagasaki atomic bomb. After a brief search, the FBI found the plutonium, still in its original glass vial, hidden beneath his rented home. FBI agent Russell Kramer refused to say how much Simons had taken or what it was worth, but when pressed by journalists, he said that he’d heard figures ranging from $500 to $200,000. In the drawer of a dresser in the Simons’ house, the G-men also found several pieces of uranium.
He admitted straight out that he’d taken the radioactive material. But Simons, who had trained as a metallurgical engineer, claimed it was just a ‘souvenir’ of his time at Los Alamos, which he left in July 1946. Flanked by two impassive US Marshals sporting Humphrey Bogart fedoras, Simons talked freely with the journalists after he had been committed for trial. Unshaven and handcuffed, though still clutching his pipe, Simons seemed remarkably unfazed by his predicament. Under the Atomic Energy Act he faced a possible maximum sentence of five years in prison and a $10,000 fine. Just a few weeks earlier, the FBI had arrested Ethel and Julius Rosenberg in New York on suspicion of atomic espionage. They were both convicted the following year. Despite pleas for clemency from around the world, including from Einstein, the couple were subsequently executed in the electric chair.
‘Why did I take it?’ said Simons sheepishly, in answer to reporters’ questions. ‘Well, it seems pretty silly now, but I’ve always collected mineral samples. I realized almost instantly that I didn’t want it, but it was like having a bull by the tail. I couldn’t let go!’
One of the newspapermen asked how he managed to smuggle the plutonium out of the top-secret military research laboratory.
Simons grinned: ‘I just walked out with it.’ He explained that the plutonium sample had been lying around on his desk for some time. No one had asked for it back, and eventually he simply couldn’t resist it. ‘There was no real check-up on what was taken out of the place at that time,’ he added with a shrug.
