HE WOKE TO the phone ringing. He looked at his watch, which had belonged to his father. It was two-thirty. It wouldn’t be Guttman calling at this hour; it could only be Stacey. He wondered how often she’d called since receiving his letter.
Eventually it stopped. He knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep, so he got up and put his clothes on. He was just dressed when the phone started ringing again, and he had left the apartment before it stopped.
He walked up to 57th Street, where the street lights made the shut storefronts and empty sidewalk look like a movie set before the actors had arrived. He walked all the way to Ellis Avenue before he even heard the sound of a car. At Stagg Field the guard was sitting behind his desk, awake, but making no effort to show he was alert. Nessheim couldn’t blame him; he himself was still feeling more whisky than hangover, but knew it was going to be downhill for the next few hours. Hours? His heart sank at the prospect of the days and weeks and months ahead, as he struggled with the knowledge of Stacey’s betrayal.
Zinn and his crew of young men from the stockyards were busy in the court that had become a workshop. Saws sang out in a screechy chorus, joined by the basser notes of the power drills used to bore holes for the insertion of uranium in the graphite blocks. The blocks were being carried by hand to the court next door, where Anderson was directing junior scientists on their placement. He held a big sheet of paper, on which each level of blocks had been drawn and numbered, and the alternation of plain graphite with uranium-loaded ones marked as well. A massive airtight rubber cover, commissioned by Anderson from Goodyear, enveloped the back half of the Pile on three sides like a vast balloon. It was intended, once sealed, to exclude neutron-absorbing air, though Nessheim had overheard Szilard say that there was no point to it, and that it only got in the way.
He went up on to Fermi’s command post and found a director’s chair with a canvas back by the instrument console. He pushed it against the wall and sat down. No one below took any notice of him. He knew now the basic outlines of the project, and recalled enough from his one physics course in college to understand that it involved a chain reaction, one which had to be controlled. Somehow the energy released was going to be harnessed to a weapon; he assumed it would have to be a bomb. It must be a very big bomb, he thought, as he leaned back in the chair, doing his best not to think about Stacey. He hoped Guttman had alerted Fermi to Kalvin by now.
He woke with no sense of the hour and, funnily enough, the whisky had not left him hungover. He put it down to the agitation he felt. He had been so gullible – he saw that now. The realisation made him feel terrible, and tense.
A man was standing a few feet away by the edge of the balcony, with his back to him. It was Fermi. He was dressed this time in the ubiquitous racquets court uniform of grey overalls and was studying the measurements record in his right hand and directing the men down below. When he stirred in his chair, Fermi turned around and smiled. ‘Good morning. You have begun early today, Jim.’
He realised it was the only time Fermi had ever called him by his first name. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ he asked, trying not to yawn.
‘As predicted, even General Groves was satisfied.’ He gave a mock salute and Nessheim tried to laugh, wondering how long it would take really to laugh again. Fermi said, ‘My wife tells me you have been busy while I was away. I want to thank you for your help.’ He looked embarrassed.
‘I was just happy the cat burglar turned out to be a cat.’
It took Fermi a moment to understand, but then he nodded. ‘That is not all you found, I understand,’ he said, looking slightly nervous.
Nessheim said softly, ‘Your wife explained. There is no problem. Except you need to find a better hiding place.’
‘I saw Assistant Director Guttman yesterday. I thought when he called to arrange an appointment, it might be about the money.’
‘He knows nothing about it,’ Nessheim said emphatically. ‘There’s no need to tell anyone.’
‘Thank you. Mr Guttman explained there was a problem with one of the physicists. I believe you know about it.’
‘I do.’
‘I will take care of it. The man is not back yet, but I am scheduled to see him as soon as he is.’
Nessheim pointed to the Pile, which now loomed high above the balcony. ‘Are you just about there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will something happen?’
‘Like a big bang? No, you can feel comfortable. It will merely show on this machine here when the event has occurred.’ He pointed to one of the counters on the table next to Nessheim. ‘It will not be a drama like Shakespeare.’ He smiled, almost sadly. ‘But it is,’ and he paused, as if trying to put in words just how momentous it all was, ‘a most important event. Szilard is sure it will change the world for ever. And not for the better.’ Fermi was sombre for a moment. Then to lighten things, he said, ‘Tell me, how is your Miss Madison?’
Nessheim found himself suddenly so pained that he could not pretend. ‘She is not my Miss Madison any more, Professor.’
‘No! What has happened?’ He looked concerned. Nessheim couldn’t bring himself to speak, and Fermi said gently, ‘My wife says that woman adores you.’ Nessheim found that his heart was pounding, and his pulse made a mockery of his stillness, sitting in the chair. Watching him closely, Fermi said, ‘Of course, if you do not feel the same, then all I can say is …’ He stopped for a moment, seeming to search for the phrase.
‘Yes?’ asked Nessheim, expecting an Italian exposition on the merits of true love. Charming and utterly irrelevant.
Instead Fermi said bluntly, ‘I would advise you to change your mind.’ And he turned on his heel and went down the stairs.