Bronsky was arguing with someone, Charlie heard it from outside. He knocked anyway. At first the voices continued, but when he knocked a second time the debate ceased. Still no one invited him in. He worked up his nerve, and opened the door.
The Detonation Division chief was on his feet, face red as a beet, while Mather sat in a chair, feet on the man’s desk, hands folded on his belly. The informality of it, their familiarity, halted him in the doorway.
“Fish,” Mather said. “Like I always say, as stubborn as a salmon.”
“Gentlemen.”
“Fishk,” the chief said. “I hear you have positive test on twenty-four nodes. Good news. We are schedule to test tomorrow at nine in concrete bowl. I hope it works.”
“It works,” Charlie said. “But it won’t work.”
Bronsky made a face. “Please to explain.”
“You’ll be able to blow up twenty-four little bombs tomorrow. And they’re as close to simultaneous as humanly possible. But it doesn’t matter. The Gadget won’t work.”
Mather scoffed. “And why not?”
“Diffusion.” Charlie took a few steps into the office, placed the folder on the desk, then retreated to the doorway. “The metal will absorb too much of the burst. As the Gadget is currently designed, you will waste your plutonium and not get a reaction.”
“Nonsense.” Bronsky scowled. “Good men, smart men, have make calculate. In whole department, no dissent.”
“It’s right there for you to read,” Charlie said, pointing at the folder. “All you’ll get is an expensive metal ball with twenty-four dents in its shell.”
Mather opened the folder, but only glanced at the top page before flipping it closed again. “Fish, you didn’t just make an announcement. You brought us something to read, which means you’ve thought further. Did you solve the problem you found?”
He sighed. “I’m so tired, the numbers may be wrong.”
“Whole concept is wrong,” Bronsky said.
“What did you find?” Mather persisted.
Fiddling with the doorknob, Charlie spoke at the floor. “Thirty-two. It will take thirty-two detonators.”
“And”—Mather held up a hand to silence Bronsky—“how do we build such a thing? When everyone agrees that twenty-four is the physical limit?”
“It’s not possible.”
Bronsky relaxed his frown. He faced Mather and nodded. “Where you would start, Fishk? What is step one?”
Charlie rubbed his face. “Step one is sleep.”
“All right. We are seeing you at test tomorrow morning?”
Charlie nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He had left the room and made it halfway down the hall before Mather yelled after him, “Nice work, Trigger.”
Charlie was too tired to protest.
He had almost reached the stairway when the lights went out, yet another power failure. But by then, he was an expert at them. Charlie trailed his fingers along the wall, holding the railing as he went down the steps. Once he was outside, he found his way to the barracks by the light of innumerable stars.
39.
The soldier had died nine minutes after the war ended. That was the first sentence of the first newspaper story I saw that morning. A tank detachment in Czechoslovakia had come under attack from a German unit that was unaware of the May 7 cease-fire. I read that the radio operator received a transmission that the fighting was over at the very moment his buddies were shooting at the Americans. When he told them to stop, they immediately did, and his captain raised a white flag in order to come forward and apologize. At first it appeared no one was harmed, but then they found the body of an unarmed mechanic’s mate, a nineteen-year-old from Santa Fe.
Reverend Morris was already in action. Passing the table where I sat reading, he barely paused. “The service is today at three. Would you play that Bach piece you’ve been working on? The one I overheard the other day?”
“The Bach Toccata in D Minor?”
“Yes, at the end of the service. It’s martial enough.”
“I don’t know that piece securely, sir.”
He waved my objection away. “Play the portions you know. That opening passage will be perfect for this poor grieving family.”
Poor grieving family? What could I say?
The turnout was huge, pews and balcony filled to capacity, people standing along the walls. Apparently the boy was from a prominent local family, and he’d been the high school’s star athlete only eight months ago. Instead of delivering a sermon, Reverend Morris allowed the soldier’s father to say a eulogy. All the stories he told were about when the boy was six. It slaughtered us.
Then it was time for the toccata. I reminded myself that the music was not about me, it was background—and the entire foreground was grief. That perspective gave me permission to skip the difficult sections and concentrate on the parts worth performing.
Sure enough, as the people filed out no one noticed I existed, much less that I was playing a complicated piece. Relieved at the end and not in the least insulted, I switched the organ off and organized the sheet music. As I finished, Reverend Morris was marching back, I presumed for the sacristy to get out of his vestments. I was out of sight behind the console, so I almost did not notice the woman who emerged from a side alcove, until she hurried across a pew and intercepted him halfway down the aisle.
He pulled up short on seeing her. His neck did that odd stretching tic. But when she opened her arms, he fell into them and they had a long, long hug. When they parted, she continued to hold his elbows. They spoke to each other too quietly for me to hear—not that I wanted to. I was mortified by the whole situation. I would have snuck away if I’d thought it would go unnoticed.
The woman was Mrs. Sanchez, who cleaned the church. Who always went last on the way out of Sunday services. Who had been meeting with Reverend Morris the first time I entered that church. Their conversation continued in murmurs. Whatever passed between them was not my business. I kept still, eyes down, resisting every urge to spy.
Finally they parted, Mrs. Sanchez bustling out the open front door. The reverend passed near enough to notice me. “See, Brenda? You played that piece wonderfully.”
“Thank you,” I said, in a tone as normal as his had been. But as soon as he entered the sacristy, I ran up the aisle and out of the church.
Lizzie was standing at her dresser, putting away laundry. The sight of her made me weak with relief. She took one look and stopped what she was doing. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure.” I was breathless from running up the stairs. “I could be wrong.”
“Out with it, kid. You look like you stepped on a scorpion.”
“I think Reverend Morris is having an affair.”
“What?” Lizzie frowned. “You’re dreaming.”
“With Mrs. Sanchez. I saw them together today, when neither of them knew I was there. It explains why Mrs. Morris is so angry.”
Lizzie made a face I did not understand. She closed the dresser drawer and heaved a huge sigh.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You are wrong, Brenda.” Lizzie said it in a low voice, the tone she used when she talked about missing her husband. “Very.”