Upsetting the Balance

The physicists and technicians stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter and applause. “You had us worried there for a moment, General,” Enrico Fermi said. “We are not used to unadulterated praise from you.”

Another man might have taken that for an insult Groves took it in stride. “Dr. Fermi, when the war is over and the United States has won, I will praise all of you to the skies and ten miles further. Till that day comes, we have too much work to do to waste time saying nice things.”

“No one ever accused you of wasting time in this fashion,” Leo Szilard said, drawing a fresh round of laughter from the Met Lab crew. Groves even saw a smile flicker on the face of Jens Larssen, who had been more gloomy and taciturn than ever since he got back from Hanford, Washington, and found the whole program not only wasn’t moving there but had moved on without him. Groves understood how all that could grate on a man, but didn’t know what to do about it.

It was, in any case, far down on his list of worries. He knew what was at the top of the list: “I wasn’t joking there, my friends. We had help with this bomb: the plutonium we got from the British, who got it from the Polish Jews, who got it from the Germans, who got it from the Lizards with help from the Russians. Next time, we make it all ourselves, all by ourselves. How long till the next bomb?”

“Now that we have made the actual product once, doing it again will be easier; we will make fewer mistakes,” Szilard said. That drew nods from almost everyone, Groves included. Any engineer knew half the trouble in making something for the first time lay in figuring out what you were doing wrong and figuring out how to do it right.

“We have almost enough plutonium for the second weapon now,” Fermi said. “Once we use it in the bomb, though, we will for a time be low. But production is steady, even improving. With what we have now, with the third atomic pile coming into full production, from now on we will be manufacturing several bombs a year.”

“That’s what I want to hear,” Groves said. The production numbers had told him the same thing, but hearing it from the man in charge of the piles was better than inferring it from figures.

“The next question is, now that we have these bombs, how do we place them where we want to use them?” Szilard said. He waved a stubby hand toward the Fat Lady. “This one would have to go on a diet before it could fit in an airplane, and the Lizards would shoot down any airplane before it got where it was going, anyhow.”

Both those points were true. The Fat Lady weighed nearly ten tons, which was more than any bomber could carry. And anything bigger than a Piper Cub drew the Lizards’ immediate and hostile attention. Groves didn’t know how to make a nuclear weapon small enough to fit into a Piper Cub, but he did know that, no matter what theLuftwaffe thought, you didn’t have to deliver a bomb by air.

“I promise you, Dr. Szilard: we will manage when the time comes,” he said, and let it go at that. He didn’t want everybody to hear what the delivery plans were. Security wasn’t as tight as it had been with the Japs and Nazis to worry about; he had trouble imagining anybody vile enough to want to betray American atomic secrets to the Lizards. But he was just an engineer, and knew his imagination had limits. What was unthinkable for him might not be for someone else.

“How do we even get the thing out of the reprocessing plant?” a technician asked. He worked at one of the piles, not here where the plutonium was extracted and the bomb made. Groves just pointed to the wooden cart on which the Fat Lady sat. It had wheels. The technician looked foolish.

He needn’t have. Moving ten tons was no laughing matter, especially when those ten tons included complicated gadgetry and had to be moved in utmost secrecy. Groves had most of the answers now. Inside a week, he needed all of them. He was confident he’d get them. Moving heavy things from one place to another was a technology mankind had had under control since the days of the Pharaohs.

Somebody said, “We got our bombs now. How soon will the Germans have theirs? When will the Russians set off another one? What about the Japs?”

“If there are no other questions, class is dismissed,” Groves said solemnly. That got the laugh he’d hoped for. When it was over, he went on, “The Germans aren’t very far behind us. If they hadn’t had their, ah, accident, they might be ahead of us.”

The intelligence information on which he based that wasn’t firsthand. Much of it came from things Molotov had said when he was in New York. Where Molotov had got it, Groves didn’t know. The Russians had been wrong about the Germans before, generally to their sorrow.