those deaths.
‘We can teach them,’ said Mounteney. ‘We’d better see that the scientists are ready to assert themselves in case there is any whisper of nonsense.’
I said: ‘Why scientists specially?’
Mounteney answered: ‘Because no one could do it if they could imagine the consequences. The scientists can imagine the consequences.’ He gave an ironic smile, unfamiliar on him. ‘After all, scientists are no worse than other men.’
Martin smiled. It all seemed far in the future, the shadow of horror passed away.
Suddenly Martin exclaimed. ‘It’s a mistake to be absent-minded,’ he said. We asked him what the matter was.
The swan was stretching his neck, asking for more. ‘I’ve just given him a piece from the palm of my hand,’ Martin remarked. ‘I’m glad he left my fingers on.’
He threw the last piece of bun into the water, then stood up.
‘It wouldn’t do any harm,’ he said, returning to the discussion, but only out of his habit of precaution, ‘to drop a word in high quarters if we get a chance.’
14: Unexpected Encouragement
I decided to report that conversation about the use of the bomb to Hector Rose. To him it seemed almost unbelievably academic.
‘I fancy our masters will cross that bridge when they come to it,’ he said. He was as impatient as he ever allowed himself to be. Scientists talked too much; here they were, speculating about ethical dilemmas which might never arise, as though they were back in their student days. ‘But I’m grateful to you for keeping me in the picture, my dear Eliot, many, many thanks,’
To Rose, Barford did not present any problems for decision, either then or for months to come. The pile was going up, the first instalment of heavy water had arrived; so far, so good. He was immune to the excitement that had infected me, and, as 1943 went on, I had nothing new to tell him. On my visits, I could see no change. Luke paid a visit to Canada, but otherwise was still fretting his nerves away, unoccupied, playing his piano. Martin spent much time on the hangar floor, watching the builders putting up the frame inch by inch, correct to a thousandth, making a progress perceptible to them and himself, but not to me.
By this time he was showing the strain though in a fashion opposite to Luke’s. Instead of blowing and cursing, Martin sank into a kind of frozen quietness. He was more capable of pretending than Luke, and was still reasonable company. He and Irene seemed friendly when I saw them together; she was a better mother than many people were willing to believe, and the scandal about her had died down. At Barford her name was mentioned without malicious gossip, and in consequence with disappointment, lack of tone and interest.
Often, alone with Martin, I wondered how much in those months of waiting and semi-idleness, he harassed himself about her. How right was Hanna? Was he living with that suspense, as well as the public one?
Even the public one he kept clamped down, but occasionally he was remote, as though thinking of nothing but the day when they would test the pile.
I was beginning to feel confident for him, even confident enough to ask Pearson’s opinion, the most certain of all to be discouraging, when he called at my flat one evening that autumn.
He was just leaving for Los Alamos, and had come to fetch some papers. I had not been into the office that day, because of an attack of lumbago: Pearson had no more taste for conversation than usual, and intended to take the documents and depart without the unnecessary intermediate stage of sitting down. But, as he was glancing the papers over, the sirens blew, and we heard gunfire in the distance: it sounded like the start of one of the short, sharp air raids that were becoming common that November.
‘I think you’d better stay a little while,’ I said.
‘I might as well,’ said Pearson.
He sat down, without having taken off his mackintosh. He sat as though he were
‘We can teach them,’ said Mounteney. ‘We’d better see that the scientists are ready to assert themselves in case there is any whisper of nonsense.’
I said: ‘Why scientists specially?’
Mounteney answered: ‘Because no one could do it if they could imagine the consequences. The scientists can imagine the consequences.’ He gave an ironic smile, unfamiliar on him. ‘After all, scientists are no worse than other men.’
Martin smiled. It all seemed far in the future, the shadow of horror passed away.
Suddenly Martin exclaimed. ‘It’s a mistake to be absent-minded,’ he said. We asked him what the matter was.
The swan was stretching his neck, asking for more. ‘I’ve just given him a piece from the palm of my hand,’ Martin remarked. ‘I’m glad he left my fingers on.’
He threw the last piece of bun into the water, then stood up.
‘It wouldn’t do any harm,’ he said, returning to the discussion, but only out of his habit of precaution, ‘to drop a word in high quarters if we get a chance.’
14: Unexpected Encouragement
I decided to report that conversation about the use of the bomb to Hector Rose. To him it seemed almost unbelievably academic.
‘I fancy our masters will cross that bridge when they come to it,’ he said. He was as impatient as he ever allowed himself to be. Scientists talked too much; here they were, speculating about ethical dilemmas which might never arise, as though they were back in their student days. ‘But I’m grateful to you for keeping me in the picture, my dear Eliot, many, many thanks,’
To Rose, Barford did not present any problems for decision, either then or for months to come. The pile was going up, the first instalment of heavy water had arrived; so far, so good. He was immune to the excitement that had infected me, and, as 1943 went on, I had nothing new to tell him. On my visits, I could see no change. Luke paid a visit to Canada, but otherwise was still fretting his nerves away, unoccupied, playing his piano. Martin spent much time on the hangar floor, watching the builders putting up the frame inch by inch, correct to a thousandth, making a progress perceptible to them and himself, but not to me.
By this time he was showing the strain though in a fashion opposite to Luke’s. Instead of blowing and cursing, Martin sank into a kind of frozen quietness. He was more capable of pretending than Luke, and was still reasonable company. He and Irene seemed friendly when I saw them together; she was a better mother than many people were willing to believe, and the scandal about her had died down. At Barford her name was mentioned without malicious gossip, and in consequence with disappointment, lack of tone and interest.
Often, alone with Martin, I wondered how much in those months of waiting and semi-idleness, he harassed himself about her. How right was Hanna? Was he living with that suspense, as well as the public one?
Even the public one he kept clamped down, but occasionally he was remote, as though thinking of nothing but the day when they would test the pile.
I was beginning to feel confident for him, even confident enough to ask Pearson’s opinion, the most certain of all to be discouraging, when he called at my flat one evening that autumn.
He was just leaving for Los Alamos, and had come to fetch some papers. I had not been into the office that day, because of an attack of lumbago: Pearson had no more taste for conversation than usual, and intended to take the documents and depart without the unnecessary intermediate stage of sitting down. But, as he was glancing the papers over, the sirens blew, and we heard gunfire in the distance: it sounded like the start of one of the short, sharp air raids that were becoming common that November.
‘I think you’d better stay a little while,’ I said.
‘I might as well,’ said Pearson.
He sat down, without having taken off his mackintosh. He sat as though he were
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