“Here comes the rodeo,” Giles said.
The truck rattled to a halt, its passenger climbing out: John Simmons, wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. He glared in at the driver. “Nearly killed me, you idiot.” But then he saw Charlie, and broke out his trademark smile. “Ah, there’s my fine nephew.”
Charlie muttered to Giles, “No rodeo, just a politician.” But he came forward and introduced his friend.
Simmons took in the test area, the trees and detonation craters. “Gorgeous spot you’ve been working in.”
Charlie made no reply, so Giles filled the pause. “What brings you to The Hill?”
“This guy right here,” he said, clapping a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Victory is only one day old, but some people already have big plans for Trigger.”
“Please don’t call me that,” Charlie said.
“Sorry.” He held up both of his hands. “Sorry. But look.” He tipped his hat backward, as if he’d just unsaddled a mare. “We need to talk, son.”
“I have to finish here,” Charlie said. “In time for the afternoon bus to Santa Fe.”
“Hell with that.” Simmons made a dismissive wave. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“Um.” Charlie stared down at the canyon. “A lift.”
“Sure. Meet you at the mess hall at four. That way we can chat at our leisure.”
The professor strode back to the truck, and they heard him speaking as he climbed in. “Now, are you going to drive me back like a sane person?”
They watched as the truck turned around and eased uphill.
“Phoniest man who ever lived,” Charlie said.
“Isn’t he your uncle?”
“That makes it harder. No one likes to realize their relative is a fake.”
“Maybe,” Giles replied. “But you told him you have to finish here, when you know that will take months.”
“Guilty, Your Honor.”
“What opportunity could he possibly have for you at this point? They haven’t even signed the surrender documents.”
“I have no idea or interest,” Charlie said, as he started the wheelbarrow toward the concrete bowl. “Unless it involves whiskey.”
Simmons did not have a truck for the ride to Santa Fe. He had a blue Ford sedan, which he parked directly in front of the mess entry, forcing hundreds of people to squeeze around him. Charlie came along with his face washed, wearing a fresh shirt.
“Now you’re looking sharp,” the professor said, opening the passenger door. “But, Charlie, did you hurt your leg?”
“No, why?”
“I thought you might be limping.”
Charlie shook his head and sat in the car. “My legs are fine.”
The road from The Hill, he noticed, was an entirely different experience if you weren’t in a bus. Simmons drove slowly, and Charlie’s stomach stayed in one place.
“You know, son, you’ve made us very proud with the work you’ve done here.”
Charlie pursed his lips and said nothing.
“You’re a hero to us all,” Simmons continued.
“I am not a hero,” Charlie said. “I was barely in the war.”
“Nonsense,” he said, chuckling. “I mean, sure, people died because of our bombs. But think of the countless people who did not die because of them. Japanese men and women. American soldiers. You saved hundreds of thousands of lives.”
“Why am I suddenly reminded of my mother coming home from a dress sale with a stack of boxes, telling my father how much money she had saved?”
The professor took a long look at Charlie before bringing his eyes back to the road. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”
Charlie ran his thumb along the door handle. “Uncle John, I feel very, very old.”
They rode in silence for a while. Simmons cleared his throat and tried again. “What about all the wars you have prevented? The Hitlers that will never rise, because mankind fears this new weapon so much?”
“Only until other nations learn how to make atomic bombs. We did it, from zero to Hiroshima, in twenty-nine months. How long do you think it will take the Soviets?”
The professor chewed on his lower lip and did not speak. As the road turned toward Santa Fe, they caught up with the bus from The Hill. “Tell me this doesn’t feel good,” Simmons said. He accelerated and passed the bus, air roaring in the car’s open windows. Slowing again, he patted Charlie’s leg. “You know, this conversation hasn’t been going at all as I’d expected. But I want to tell you about some options you have.”
“Options for what?”
“Next steps, son. The future.”
“There is a future?”
“There are several futures. And your uncle is in a position to help, as of about forty-eight hours ago. First option is that you stay on The Hill. It will remain a national research laboratory. I can offer you a post under Hans Bethe, who will be writing a history of the bomb project. An incredible honor to work with him, of course. Where you climb from there depends on how well you do. I’ll be on the scene in a related role, to make sure your path is a smooth one.”
“There’s another option?”
“I am approved to offer you a spot in the PhD program in physics at Stanford University. You will work with Nobel Prize winners, in the best labs, with a brilliant research career before you.”
Charlie shook his head. “I can’t afford anything like that. I have a wife now.”
“So I heard, and congratulations,” Simmons said, flashing his toothy smile. “But you misunderstand. This offer would be a full ride: tuition, books, a housing stipend.”
“How is that possible?”
“Let’s just say that you live in a grateful nation.”
Charlie had no reply for that. They had reached the outskirts of Santa Fe.
“You’ll need to direct me,” the professor said. “I don’t know this town.”
Charlie checked his watch. “I’m glad we’re early. I have something I need to do.”
“Happy to help.” The rest of the ride they were silent, Charlie saying left and right as needed, till they arrived at East Palace Avenue. Charlie had opened his door when Simmons reached out to grasp his forearm. “You can study all kinds of physics there, you know. It doesn’t have to be military.”
“That’s what I thought about math.”
“This offer won’t wait, son.” He let go. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“Maybe.” Charlie headed across the square. Outside a boot store, a man perched on a stool had an elaborate mermaid inked onto his arm. Charlie, having noticed him before, approached the man and they had a brief conversation. The man pointed up the street, angled his hand to the right. Charlie set off in that direction. Only then did Simmons drive away.
Five minutes later Charlie rapped on the glass of a tattoo parlor. A man so sunburned his skin looked like leather came to the door and mouthed no.
“It’ll be quick,” Charlie called through the glass. “Only a few numbers.”
The man shook his head again. Charlie could see an eagle on his neck, stretching as the man moved. He waved a wad of bills back and forth.