“Diffusion. If you have a pulse of energy in one place, how far does its force reach, and in what shape does it manifest?”
“I’m a chemist. You may as well be talking Chinese. But why don’t I get my young boys to dig around in the toss-away pit? They’s all kinds of materials in there.”
“Perfect. Also I need a hammer, and large nails.”
Monroe smiled. “If that’s breakfast, I can’t wait to see what you eat for lunch. Back in a jiffy.”
He paused, expecting Charlie’s usual effusive thanks whenever someone did him a favor. Instead Charlie fixed him with a piercing stare. “Are we doing the right thing?”
“Course not.” Monroe laughed. “Didn’t you hear Joseph Rotblat resigned?”
“What? Really?”
“World’s highest expert on neutrons, and he’s vamoosed. Said we were brought here to beat Hitler, which the regular army had already done. And Japan’s got no bomb program. Time to shut The Hill down.”
Charlie stared at his papers. “Is he right?”
“I’ve been arguing with Giles about that something fierce. He says everything’s allowed in wartime.”
“I think we’re making a new definition of everything.”
Monroe shrugged. “Then maybe Rotblat’s right. Anyways, I’ll be back with your metals in two shakes.”
Charlie turned back to the pages covered with arcs, problem after problem.
Probably there was some equation, he thought, some calculus that would produce an answer in minutes. Lacking that knowledge, and unwilling to share the problem until he had solved it, all Charlie could do was try one set of numbers after another. When they did not work, he would change a single variable and see if that one succeeded. It was like throwing darts blindfolded, and hoping for a bull’s-eye.
Midmorning, Monroe returned with the metal: eight square remnants from other tasks on The Hill. “Here you go, Mister Charlie,” he said, dropping them on a desk with a clang. “Steel, tin, aluminum, a couple more. Hammer and nails, too, and I gotta admit, a boatload of curiosity about what you’re up to.”
“Just a theory,” Charlie said. “Only a theory.”
Monroe laughed. “Same thing Newton said, before that apple fell on his head.”
“Can you skip the crew today, and help me out?”
“I don’t much expect as they’ll fire me.”
Charlie led him to another desk, where he’d set up two wooden posts. “What we need is to bend the metal in a uniform curve, so that the two places that touch these posts are exactly nineteen inches apart.”
“Why’s that important?”
“Because that is the curve of the Gadget. We’re copying its exterior.”
“All right then.” While Monroe measured nineteen inches on the first sheet, making notches to keep it exact, Charlie placed the hammer on a small scale, adding pieces of wood to its head until it reached the weight he wanted.
“I’ve calculated the force we’ll need,” he said, taking the tape measure, raising the hammer till it hung poised, six inches above the nail. “Ready?”
“This ain’t gonna explode, right?”
“That’s exactly my theory. Watch.”
Charlie let the hammer fall, the nail drove through the sheet, and the metal dented for several inches in all directions.
“I knew it,” he said, shaking the sheet in Monroe’s face. “See what I mean?”
Monroe eyed him sideways. “You’re looking a bit crazy right about now, you know.”
Charlie laughed. “I’m sorry. I should explain.” He held the sheet of metal out, a round dent in its middle. “The effect of the hammer is all near the impact. If you get as little as three inches away, there is no sign that I drove a nail through.”
“Okay. Now what all does that mean?”
“It means”—Charlie seemed giddy—“the ignition won’t work. The Gadget won’t implode everything into a small, dense space. It will only crowd the plutonium a little, and make it slide up to places that weren’t bent.”
Monroe straightened. “You mean to say we’re screwed?”
“For this metal at least, yes. We need to try the others.”
“Why does this make you happy?”
“Because I figured it out now, instead of a month from now. When we would have wasted half a billion dollars of plutonium, and lost who knows how many soldiers.”
Monroe stood, hands on hips, looking at Charlie.
“What is it?” He picked up another nail. “We need to test these other metals.”
“Just thinking,” Monroe said. “Some brain you’ve got on you, Mister Charlie.”
“Get out of here,” Charlie said.
Saying nothing more, Monroe reached for the next sheet of metal, and measured out nineteen inches.
By lunch it was clear that the detonator would not work. All the sheets had dented similarly. Charlie could not stop there, though, and he returned to his pages of arcs. At noon, Monroe brought him a sandwich. Charlie took a huge bite, then set it aside. Eventually Monroe rejoined his work crew, and later the other tech workers left for the evening. Charlie took no notice.
He needed a metallurgist. If only he could call his uncle John. But no, he was all pro-bomb now. He’d gone over to the other side. Funny, that was how Charlie used to think of the enemy.
The math told him there were two ways to make the plutonium work. The first was to use more explosives. That might rupture the exterior, though, flinging the plutonium unexploded into the open air. In other words, the opposite of crushing it down on that volatile nut. The second was to increase the number of detonators, though it had taken months to make twenty-four of them work together. That would create smaller explosions, keep the skin intact, and cause an effective implosion. Perhaps.
Now he dug through stacks of papers, reviewing his calculations. If you put the first detonator on the sphere’s north pole, where should the others be located? How far should they be from one another? How many did you need?
Through the open windows Charlie heard a microphone from Fuller Lodge, someone was repeating a code. It was a distraction, this strange, slow sequence of numbers, going on for what seemed like hours—until finally the noise distracted him enough to listen closely, and he realized that people were playing bingo.
He took a second bite of his sandwich and discovered that the bread had gone stale. He reached to put it back on the plate, but was already working his numbers again, and wound up placing the sandwich on the desktop. Bending over the papers, he dove into a universe of arcs.
When he finally arrived at the right answer, Charlie did not celebrate. He was too tired. Was it still Tuesday? Still the same day Monroe had helped him? Charlie had been awake since Sunday morning, so this was a new record.
After arranging the pages that proved his solution, tucking them into a manila folder, he brought all of the other papers to a metal bin in the corner. A sign above it read, Waste Documents.
“Isn’t that the truth?” Charlie said, slapping his armload on top.
He arched his back, stretched his head from side to side, rubbed his face to wake himself up. Then he took the folder and headed down the hall.