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Ich bin Feuer und Flamme dafür. [I am fire and flame for it.]
—Albert Einstein, on the Institute for Advanced Study
Szilard and Einstein headed out into the fall afternoon, the air chill and tart as a McIntosh fresh from the tree. Leo usually had a sprightly step, but he slowed in deference to his friend’s age. They left Einstein’s white clapboard house behind them as they made their way down tree-lined Mercer Street to the Institute for Advanced Study. Founded by a five-million-dollar donation by brother-and-sister retail millionaires Louis Bamberger and Carrie Fuld, the Institute boasted some of the world’s top minds in physics and mathematics, as well as a smattering of equal intellects devoted to humanistic studies.
Tonight was Hallowe’en. Last year, in Chicago, Leo had seen jack-o’-lanterns carved with Hitler’s face or slanted eyes—the scariest faces then imaginable by Americans. Now, though, they were back to being goblin countenances and beneficent smiles ... or perhaps victorious grins.
“You’ll see that the grounds are vast,” said Einstein, still in German. “We now have over two hundred and forty hectares”—better than six hundred acres—“but the pride and joy is the Institute woods. Aspen, maple, beech, oak, birch: you name it, we’ve got it. There’s a lovely brook and, in spring, beautiful wildflowers. I know you like to walk, Leo. The trails are soothing, and warblers and other songbirds will keep you company.”
“It sounds enchanting.”
“It is. Of course, we’ll have snow soon enough; I don’t partake myself, but I’m told the cross-country skiing is first-rate. We have our own excellent library, growing every year, but Princeton”—he clearly meant the university, not the city—“is only a short distance away, and its library is wonderful.”
“Are there accommodations on site?”
“Yes. Quite luxurious, too. I prefer my house—this mile-long walk to the Institute does me good each day—but many of our members make their homes on campus. The director takes pride of place; he lives in Olden Manor, quite a charming house.”
“Who else is on faculty?”
A soupçon of French: “La crème de la crème.” Then back to German: “Kurt Gödel, Oswald Veblen, and Hermann Weyl have been here since the beginning, or nearly so. We also have Wolfgang Pauli—how could we exclude him?” Einstein chuckled. “Many more, as well. I tell you, Leo, the leading center for physics is no longer Göttingen or even Berkeley but right here.”
They had come to the main gate. The guard waved at Einstein, and the famous man treated him to a wide smile and a friendly nod.
“And there are no teaching duties?” asked Leo.
“None. No students, no endless departmental meetings. Just the very best minds and plenty of time to think.”
Szilard looked around, impressed, as they approached a sprawling three-story building of reddish-brown brick surmounted by a clock tower. “This is Fuld Hall,” said Einstein, “built for us in 1939.”
“Bespoke construction!” declared Leo. “I know you never saw Los Alamos—and I avoided it like death itself—but they were trying to make do with buildings originally used as a boys’ school, plus Quonset huts and other such affronts to taste and comfort that could be hastily erected, all in the middle of a desert. Nobody could think straight in a place like that! I said everybody who went there would go crazy. And they did!” He recalled what Fermi had told him after one of the Italian navigator’s visits to Los Alamos: “I think those people actually want to build a bomb!”
Einstein nodded sadly.
“But this place!” said Szilard. “In such a place, a man could work happily for years, for decades.”
“I have no idea how many years I have left,” Einstein replied, “but I intend to spend all of them here. Heaven, should such a thing turn out to exist, will doubtless be a step down.” They’d entered the marble lobby of Fuld Hall now. “And speaking of a step down, Johnny’s pet project has been relegated to the basement.” Einstein led the way below, holding onto the wooden banister for support.
As they entered a large but mostly empty room, lit only by bare bulbs mounted in the concrete ceiling, Szilard beheld his old friend for the first time since before the war; he was hunched over a desk. Von Neumann, six years Leo’s junior, was now forty-one, but Leo felt the years had been kinder to himself than to his compatriot. Johnny’s hairline had retreated to the crown of his head and his cheeks had begun the slow melt into jowls. “Jancsi!” Leo called out, using the Hungarian diminutive.
Von Neumann looked up. “Szilard!” He rose, closed the distance—footfalls echoing in the vast chamber—and pumped Leo’s hand. “What a pleasant surprise!” he continued in Hungarian, then he poked Leo in the belly. “I see the war still had rations of cake and pie for you!”
“The mind requires energy,” replied Leo, also in their native tongue.
“What brings you here?” von Neumann asked, switching to German so that Einstein could join in. “Did you finally blow up Chicago?”
“No, no, no. I came to seek Einstein’s counsel. And he said you were working on something interesting and useful.”
“Ja!” replied von Neumann. “I am thinking about something much more important than bombs. I am thinking about computers.”
“Ah, the old Jancsi!” said Szilard. “Always with an eye for the ladies.”
“Not the women,” said von Neumann. “The machines. And we intend to build the best one ever right here.”
“You know,” said Albert, switching for the moment to English, “I originally opposed this. So did the director, Frank Aydelotte—which was funny because, see, this thing will be able to add a lot.” Albert looked expectantly at Leo. “Nothing? Ah, well.”
Szilard, who only ever laughed out loud at Charlie Chaplin’s films, served up a weak smile, and Einstein went on in German: “This Institute is meant to be a refuge, a sanctuary for pure thought with no regard to practical applications—no more refrigerator patents for us, dear Leo! The Institute’s members do theoretical work only; no experiments. But Johnny fought long to convince us we need his great electronic monstrosity to speed our figuring, and just this month he secured the funding. Me, I’m old now; haste hasn’t interested me for a long while.”
“There are things that a computer will be able to do that no human will ever manage with a slide rule,” said von Neumann. “One project we have in mind is perfect weather forecasting. And, after that, maybe even control of the weather.”
“Everybody talks about the weather,” said Leo, “but nobody ever does anything about it—until you, Jancsi.”
Von Neumann—who had been known as “Good-Time Johnny” for his love of boisterous parties back when he and Leo had been in Berlin in the 1920s—had worked here at the I.A.S. since 1933. He’d fled Hitler’s rising anti-Semitism after a symbolic conversion to Catholicism had failed to prove sufficient protection. In 1943, he had taken a leave to help Oppenheimer at Los Alamos, but most of his war-related work had been on ENIAC, the world’s first electronic computer, at the University of Pennsylvania. “We learned a lot from those early efforts,” said von Neumann. “But the computer that will soon fill this room will use a new—” he waved a hand vaguely, seeking a term “— architecture. It will be the model upon which all future computers will be based, I’m sure.”
“Oh?” said Leo.
Von Neumann nodded. “I designed the calculating elements used in ENIAC, and I know they are as archaic as dinosaurs compared to what we will build here.” He looked up as if envisioning it. “A whole new approach.”
“Well, new approaches are precisely what we’re going to need,” replied Szilard.
“For what?” asked von Neumann.
“Jancsi, excuse us. I need a word with Einstein.” Leo put an arm around the older man’s shoulders and propelled him out into the corridor. Szilard bounded up the staircase and headed out into the October sun again. He waited for Einstein to catch up, then made a gesture encompassing the vast grounds. “This is the place,” he said firmly.
“The place for what?” asked Albert.
“To headquarter the effort to save humanity, of course. Where better? Before they all disappear into teaching posts, let’s rally the very best of the great minds at Los Alamos and Chicago to come here. Albert, old friend, surely you have the sway, no?”
Einstein’s eyebrows rose, two clouds striving to join the others serenely moving across the sky. He nodded slowly. “They do have a history of listening to me, Johnny’s computer notwithstanding.”
“Excellent. We should speak to your director, this Add-a-Lot.” Leo stretched out the name, recalling Einstein’s pun; the fact that he’d employed it brought a smile to the old man’s face.
“Actually, Frank told me he’s thinking of retiring; he turns sixty-five next year. He hasn’t let the faculty know yet, but he’s planning to announce it next week.”
“Ah, then this wonderful place will need a new director,” declared Leo, with relish. “And I know just the man!”