—There are always assumptions, said Szilard, forking up a morsel of shrimp cocktail. —We need leverage. A foothold. Before anything we need authority, we need a purview, legitimacy, for lack of a better word. We’re invisible now. We can’t do anything living out of hotel rooms. We need positions, affiliations, the machinery. You should know that better than anyone, Oppie. Don’t you want to be useful?
—So you’re assuming that what we do has significance of some kind, said Oppenheimer.
—Would either of you gentlemen care for another drink? interrupted a waiter. His blond hair fell over one eye in an extravagant flip, and it reminded Ann of high school for a second before he turned away.
—Thank you, yes, said Oppenheimer.
Szilard shook his head impatiently.
—Should I make the opposite assumption? Ridiculous. Also, my funds are nearly depleted. I had cash only. I will be out on the street. Unlike you I have an economic incentive.
—I can help you, said Ann. —You need a guide, right? I can help you.
—I know one way you can help, said Szilard. —If I run out of money, can I stay in your home? Until I have resources?
Ann was stopped short.
—Here you are, said Ben, and there he was beside her, a hand on her shoulder, glancing across the table at Oppenheimer. —Do you mind if I join you?
—Oh! This is my husband, said Ann, and made the introductions.
The man calling himself Oppenheimer delicately spooned at his soup while Ben, a chair pulled up, gnawing at a buttered roll, gazed over Ann’s shoulder at some library books she had eagerly pulled out of her bag.
—Just a minute, I’ll show you, she said, flipping through pages as Szilard slurped loudly on his iced tea. —Here.
She propped the book against the table edge and pointed to a portrait of Oppenheimer.
—There, that’s him.
Ben looked at it, and then up at Oppenheimer, who was certainly identical. No argument there. —J. R. Oppenheimer, he read, from the caption.
—It was taken in 1940, said Ann. —The picture.
Ben looked down at the page again.
—I’m supposed to have died since then, said Oppenheimer apologetically. —I know. Believe me.
He went back to eating his soup, and Ben abandoned his half-eaten roll and leaned over the book again. Although Oppenheimer was ignoring him, Ann was observing him closely and he could feel her eyes on him. He strove to keep his expression neutral.
—And here, she said, fumbling with a paperback. —Leo Szilard. That one was taken in ’45.
Ben took the second book, looked at it and looked at Szilard, and then gave the book back. Also a dead ringer.
—I died in ’64, said Szilard. —We’re both dead. Technically. But we don’t recall that. Last thing we remember it was summer of ’45. And then here we were.
—They’re both dead, said Ann. —See?
She flipped to an index, where a line read Oppenheimer, Julius R., 1904-1967.
Ben flipped back to the portrait in the first book and then to the front cover, which featured a mushroom cloud.
—He’s definitely a lookalike, he said slowly.
—There’s another one around too, said Ann. —I mean, dead physicist. Enrico Fermi.
—He died in ’54, said Szilard.
—So, said Ben, —you say your name is Oppenheimer, Robert?
—I do say it, said Oppenheimer, putting down his spoon and patting at his mouth with a napkin. —In fact I maintain it steadfastly. My name is Oppenheimer.
—I see. I don’t mean to be rude, but would you happen to have, like, identification?
—I believe I can oblige, actually, said Oppenheimer mildly, and pulled a billfold from his pocket. —I don’t have much, but we all came with wallets. It was part of the package, apparently. Here you go.
He passed Ben a folded piece of paper.
—There’s no picture on this.
—We didn’t have photos on licenses then. Let’s see, this is an ID badge for Site Y. Security clearance. This one does have a photo. There. Also a gasoline ration card, a commissary card—
—“War Department, U.S. Engineer Office.” You’re Oppenheimer the famous atom bomb scientist, then.
—I like to think so.
—Uh huh. Who died in 1967.
—That is my understanding.
—The one who was discredited during the McCarthy era.
—So I hear. There’s also a photograph of my wife Kitty—
—I have ID too, said Szilard. —From the Met Lab. Basically, we showed up here the way we were in July ’45, July 16th, right from the time of the Trinity test. The explosion. We came here from that moment.
—We were watching the blast. The explosion of the first gadget. I was, anyway.
—Not me, said Szilard. —I was in Chicago. But I was aware. I knew it was happening. The hour of the test had got leaked to me, actually.
—Who? asked Oppenheimer.
—Forget it.
—And then I was in a motel room. On a cheap bed.
Ben sat back and watched the waiter remove Oppenheimer’s soup bowl.
—How was your soup? he inquired politely.
—Mediocre at best, said Oppenheimer.
—So how did you first—meet my wife?
—At the grocery store, said Ann. —I didn’t tell you that?
—So many different vegetables you people eat! said Szilard.
—I was shopping, said Ann, glancing at Oppenheimer, —and I saw him and I recognized him from some research I’d been doing at the library. I went up to them and asked them their names. He said he was Oppenheimer.
—Then she fell onto my foot, said Oppenheimer.
—They carried me to the employee lounge, put me down on the couch and took off, said Ann.
—We were late for an appointment Szilard had made at the university, said Oppenheimer.
Ben put down his water glass and sat back, thinking assholes. He crossed his legs and folded his hands on his lap.
—So you’re claiming to be dead physicists who worked on the bomb project at Los Alamos in the ’40s. You have no memories of any other, uh, identities.
—None at all, said Szilard.
—You, uh, woke up in these old suits with old ID documents in your pockets.
—Hardly old, asked
