Charlie thought the hungover man had asked a useful one. “My mailing address?”
“Box 1663, Santa Fe.”
“That’s the same number you gave the other fellow.”
“And everyone else on The Hill too.” She nodded. “We all live there now.”
He wanted to probe further, but the boy tossed Charlie’s crumpled papers into the little fireplace. It was like erasing his past, consuming it in a tidy fire.
Outside, the hungover man occupied the only bench, head in his hands. As Charlie sidled over and sat, the man straightened. “So, I overheard that you’re Charlie Fish. I’m Giles Crosby, straight out of Princeton’s Applied Mathematics.”
Charlie’s eyes went wide. “As in Einstein?”
“I’ve seen him twice in the hallway. Therefore I take full credit for his success.” He made a small bow. “Feel free to send flowers and money.”
“Terrible thing, really, not to be thanked publicly, after all the man owes you.”
Giles smirked. “I’m glad you appreciate how I’ve suffered.”
“It’s the same for me.” Charlie was smiling now. “At the University of Chicago—”
“Bastards, all of them.” Giles gritted his teeth. “That place is notorious for not recognizing how twenty-year-olds are revolutionizing the world.”
Charlie mock-sighed. “We are woefully underappreciated.”
They sat companionably for half a minute before Giles spoke again. “I’ve actually heard you fellows in metallurgy have been going great guns.”
“Just nosing forward an inch a day.”
“The first controlled chain reaction in history? That’s not nosing, friend. That’s elephant-trunking.” Giles scratched himself under one arm. “You managed not to blow yourselves up too. Bully for that.” He heaved the sigh of a general learning he had lost a platoon in battle. “Now we’ve reached the big time, and I feel miserable.”
Charlie opened his folder, then closed it without looking inside. “It’s not my business, but maybe if you cut down on the drink . . .”
Giles bristled. “Is that what it looks like?”
“Near as I can tell.”
“We’re at seven thousand feet, chum. Altitude hits me like a hatchet between the eyes.” He chopped a hand toward his forehead. “You don’t have a headache at all?”
“Come to think of it, I felt one back in Lamy. I blamed it on travel.”
Giles dug in his pocket. “It’ll worsen. Project Y is three hundred feet higher.”
“Project Y again.”
“Now you know what it means. And yes,” he sighed. “You’re right about my condition. I had a six-hour layover in Denver, and arithmetic took over.”
“Arithmetic?”
“Giles plus layover equals hangover. For which your ham sandwich proved medicinal. Here.” He opened his palm to reveal a small white pill. “Feel better.”
“No thanks,” Charlie said, recoiling. “What is it, anyway?”
“Suit yourself.” Giles tossed it in his mouth, swallowing without water. “Aspirin.”
The bus from The Hill arrived late. But it was in better condition than the one from Lamy, with firm seats and brakes that did not scream. The driver paid attention.
He needed to. After twenty miles of flat pavement, they turned uphill onto a dirt road that surpassed anything Charlie had imagined. Potholes and bumps. Gut-wrenching washboard, when the entire bus and everything in it jarred from side to side.
Once they crossed a bridge with a small sign—Rio Grande—the climb began. They navigated perilous switchbacks, sharp corners with a cliff on one side, no guardrails, and the bus swaying to the edge time after time.
“I spoke too soon,” Giles whispered from across the aisle. “This is when we die.”
Charlie swallowed dry-mouthed, while another stretch of washboard rattled his innards, and the next swerve attempted to pitch them off the cliff.
“How about that view, people?” the driver yelled over his shoulder. “Right?”
Charlie glanced out at the landscape below, the multicolored cliffs and jutting mesas, but a rut jerked the bus sideways. Wedging his feet to brace himself, he realized: there is nothing beautiful about being terrified.
“Alchemy,” Giles said, leaning across the aisle. “Know what I mean?”
“Pardon me?” Charlie was not inclined to conversation.
“The Egyptians pursued it first, then the Chinese. In the twelfth century it became a Western obsession too.”
“Sorry, I’m half asleep. What are you talking about?”
“Alchemy, Charlie. The theory that with the right method and ingredients, a base metal like mercury could be turned into a pure one, like silver. People believed it would provide a pathway to immortality. The ultimate challenge was changing lead into gold, because it does not tarnish or decay. Gold stays perfect forever.”
“The place we’re going is trying to make gold?”
“A military version of it, yes. You’ll see soon enough.” Giles slid closer in his seat. “It is not possible to turn lead into gold. But it may be possible to split uranium into barium or radium.”
“And what’s the value of that?”
Giles cupped his hands and made them into a ball. Then, as he spread his hands apart with fingers wide, he whispered, “Poooosshh.”
The bus lurched and they both grabbed their armrests.
“Alchemy,” Charlie muttered. “Whatever in the world.”
Two hours later, dusk settled on the land, the cliff casting long shadows into the canyons. The ground grew level, and the driver downshifted.
“East entry, people. Present your pass, and I’ll be waiting by the gate.”
Charlie followed a queue to the guardhouse. More like a shed, he mused, with a sign on the front: Los Alamos Project, Main Gate. They were surrounded by high barbed wire, with bright lights shining all around. The air smelled sweet and clear. By contrast, the guards wore helmets and uniforms, and carried rifles.
This time Charlie did remember to bring his papers, and he found the cardboard pass. He worked a kink out of his neck. The journey was nearly finished. Giles fell in behind him, digging in his pockets again. Then he started patting them, one by one.
“Hello,” Charlie said, handing his pass to the guard. The man scowled like a bulldog. He studied Charlie’s face, then examined the pass with the same flat expression. He handed it back and waved him on, no words said.
Charlie had returned to the bus before he realized that Giles was no longer behind him. He turned.
“The damnedest thing,” Giles was telling the bulldog guard. “I had it with me when I got on the bus.”
“It’s true,” Charlie said, ambling back. “I was with him when he got it, back at the East Palace Street office.”
Two guards appeared and stood in front of him.
“Move on,” Bulldog said.
“I can vouch for him though,” Charlie persisted.
“Don’t worry yourself about me—” Giles began.
But the guard poked his chest with a finger. “You keep quiet. And you,” he snarled at Charlie. “This would be a good time to mind your own business.”