“Not to her. Help her.”
He looked straight at Connolly and then over toward Mills. “Ah,” he said wearily, “I forgot. In America, always the happy ending. Better than the truth. And so easy. Even a car and driver.” He took a step, then turned. “But always there’s the loose end, you know. Even here.” He looked away, then pointed to a jeep farther along the road. “That needs to go back to the bunker. You’ll return it?”
Connolly nodded.
“Straight out that road. You can’t miss it. There’s nothing else there now.”
Connolly watched him walk heavily over to the car and open the back door, nodding to Mills as he got in, not turning around.
The road to S 10,000 was busy with vehicles, visitors returning from the blast area, and soldiers still collecting sensors. Connolly saw Oppenheimer’s porkpie hat outside the door of the control station, bobbing in a sea of heads. Somebody was taking a picture. He parked the jeep and sat for a few minutes, not wanting to interrupt, looking out across the waste. When the group broke up, Oppenheimer spotted him and walked over, his face no longer pale, as if it had colored with excitement and was just calming down.
“How about a lift?” he said.
“Sure. Where?”
“Out there,” Oppenheimer said, indicating the far edge of the blast area. “I want to get away for a bit. It’s quite safe as long as we don’t go near the crater. You need a lead-lined tank for that.”
The paved road ended a short distance past the bunker. Out on the dead sand, Connolly looked toward the huge blast crater, the sun reflecting off what seemed to be pieces of green glass.
“The ground fused. In the heat,” Oppenheimer said calmly.
There was no destination. After a while they simply stopped and got out, looking around at the empty desert. There was no sound at all in the new silence, not even the faint scratching of lizards and insects. Oppenheimer stood still, looking at nothing.
“The worst part is, I was pleased,” he said suddenly, still looking away. “When it went off. It worked.”
Connolly looked down to where the funhouse mirror of the morning glare stretched their shadows out along the ground. “They’ll blame you,” he said.
Oppenheimer turned to him slowly, surprised. “You think so? Prometheus?”
“No. Fire was a gift. This is a curse.”
Oppenheimer was quiet. “It need not be. It doesn’t have to be-this,” he said, spreading his hand.
“Anyway, it’s the end of war. They won’t dare, now.”
Oppenheimer looked down. “You’re an optimist, Mr. Connolly. That’s what Alfred Nobel said about dynamite. He was wrong.”
“I’m not.”
“We’ll see. I hope so. That would be quite a thing-to be blamed for ending war.”
“They’ll honor you first. And then—”
Oppenheimer looked at him, and Connolly saw that his usual ironic glint had faded.
“Get out while you can,” Connolly said.
“After this?” Oppenheimer said, looking around again. “Do you want me to leave the generals in charge?”
“No,” Connolly said reluctantly. “You can’t.” He turned away, kicking at the sand. “Anyway, it worked. Numbers on paper. You found it. Is it what you expected?”
“It was waiting to be found, Mr. Connolly. A problem.” And then, a trace of smile. “Like yours, perhaps. Waiting to be found. You said you solved it. Is it what you expected?”
“I didn’t expect anything,” Connolly said. “I just wanted to know.”
“Yes,” Oppenheimer said, almost to himself. “That’s all I ever wanted too.” He walked away, lighting a cigarette. “And how did it come out? You were going to tell me.”
“Groves will fill you in. A worker on the Hill. There’s one thing he doesn’t know.”
Oppenheimer raised his eyebrows in question.
“He was working for Hannah Beckman. She was Eisler’s contact.”
“Hannah,” Oppenheimer said blankly, as if he had misheard.
“Your old friend.”
“We used to go riding. When I first came out to the ranch. But it’s impossible. Hannah? She had no politics at all.”
“It’s possible. It was her.”
Oppenheimer took this in, not saying anything. “Was?”
“They’re both dead. There’s no need for anyone to know about her part in it.”
Oppenheimer looked at him curiously. “Why?”
“Because you’d be walking into a buzz saw. They’re after you as it is. And this one’s too close to home. You’d be handing them a gun, you and Eisler. If it comes out that the project was being sold out by old friends of yours, they’ll smell the blood all the way to Washington. The truth won’t matter. They’ll destroy you.”
Oppenheimer held his eyes with a flicker of the old intensity. “According to you, they’re going to do that anyway.”
“Not with my help, they’re not.”
Oppenheimer smiled involuntarily, then frowned. “So I just-say nothing?”
“You don’t know anything to say. You never heard a word.”
“You want to rewrite history.”
“Just a little. You’ve made plenty of it to go around. Now just change a little piece for yourself.”
Oppenheimer looked at him, thinking. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want to keep you out of trouble. I think we’re going to need you.”
Oppenheimer said nothing for a minute, then nodded. “Thank you.”
“Okay,” Connolly said, holding his eyes and nodding back. Then, uncomfortable, he turned away. “We’d better get back. It’s a great day for the project. You don’t want to miss any of it.”
“Yes,” Oppenheimer said wearily. “I was pleased,” he said again, still wondering at himself, and then pointed. “The tower was over there. It evaporated. Just-evaporated. Can you imagine that?” He looked around, now lost in his thoughts. “Everything’s dead.”
Connolly waited.
“We’re going to use it on people.”
“I know. Once.”
“Twice,” Oppenheimer said, correcting him. “There are two. That’s what the general said to me right after it went off. ‘Two of these and the war is over.’”
“Why not just one?”
“We’ve only tested the plutonium gadget,” he said, a scientist again. “The uranium bomb needs—” And then he caught himself and shrugged. “I suppose he wants to scare them to death.”
They started for the jeep.
“This is what they’ll remember,” Oppenheimer said, looking at the desolation. “Not the rest of it. They’ll wonder what we were doing all this time. What am I going to tell them?” He paused. “My God, I was never happier in my life.”
“Not just you. Everybody.”
Oppenheimer glanced at him. “Yes,” he said. “The time of our lives. It won’t be convenient to remember that. That we enjoyed doing it.” He stopped. “God help me, it’s true.”
For a minute Connolly thought he would break down, his thin body finally overcome by contradiction.
“People do funny things when they’re scared to death. I’m worried about you,” Connolly said, unable to keep the intimacy out of his voice. He looked at the frail figure beside him, the hollow cheeks and anxious eyes, and suddenly wished him back at the blackboard at Gottingen, thinking out puzzles.
“I’m worried about all of us,” Oppenheimer said.
“I can’t think about that many. Right now I’m just worried about you.”
But Oppenheimer had recovered and had moved his chalk to the larger problem. “They won’t stay scared,” he said. “A little learning’s a dangerous thing. A lot isn’t. Maybe it’s what we need-to know this much. To
