Connolly stood up to go. “No apologies. You want to be guilty for everything? That’s just playing God again. Wipe the whole thing away in some-what? Sacrifice? You’re right, it’s not enough for me. You want me to understand. What? How everything was justified? But what was actually done? ‘Compromise’ the project? What is that? Betraying Oppenheimer, an old friend. Betraying your colleagues, all the work they’ve done. Do you know what hell this is going to make for them? Do you think it ends here with you? Prometheus, for Christ’s sake. They’ll have to live with all this shit, the secrecy-the war will never end for them. And Karl? A conniver, a snoop. ‘So unfortunate. We couldn’t allow-’ So you know how they found him?” He saw Eisler wincing now, almost cringing in his chair, but he couldn’t stop. “His head cracked-you knew that. Did you also see him get his face smashed in? Or did your friend do that later, a little goodbye gesture? A kick-several kicks. The poor bastard. They couldn’t recognize his face. But I guess that was the point. Pulp and blood. And his pants yanked down, with his dick sticking out so that everybody would think-So that’s how Karl ended. That’s the way it goes down in the books, one kind of disgrace he had no right to expect. Let’s not even think about the future, all the bombs and God knows what. I just want to know, did you see his face? And for what? Some cause? Your big idea? Your wife? All this. Was it worth it to you?”
Eisler raised his head, his tired eyes filled with tears, as if he were being beaten.
But Connolly couldn’t stop. “Was it worth it?” he said, his voice hoarse. “Was it?”
“I don’t know,” Eisler said, a whisper.
It was the only outburst. He saw Eisler’s face in the night, floating through his sleep like a plea, old and uncertain, and felt ashamed. In the morning they went on as before, a couple who’d had a spat, careful and polite, eager to put things behind them. Connolly couldn’t let go. The radiation poisoning had created a deadline, firm and immediate, so that he felt himself in a race, like the men at Trinity, who worked too fast, with no time for consequences. When had he left the Hill that day. Were they alone at San Isidro before Karl arrived. Describe the contact. Had Karl mentioned anyone else from the early days. How had it been left. Was another meeting scheduled. Were there people in place at Hanford, at Oak Ridge. Describe the contact. But Eisler deteriorated with the meetings, the pain coming swiftly, knotting his face, and Connolly found himself fighting the drugs now as well as time. The lucid periods, fencing with remembered details, became a kind of martyrdom, some final struggle for Eisler’s soul.
They were alone. At first Oppenheimer refused to see Eisler at all, devastated by the betrayal, but Connolly couldn’t ask about the science and there was no one else. But his visits were erratic, stolen time. It was Connolly who kept the vigil. He welcomed the isolation, away from the others’ questions, sealed off from the rest of the Hill. Holliday, Mills, even Emma had to be content with promissory notes. Not now, not yet. He couldn’t leave. One evening, when the pain was very bad, Eisler gripped his hand, and he was startled at the touch, bony, desperate to make any contact, and he felt, oddly, that he had become Eisler’s protector. In the close, sour-smelling room, he was tormentor and guardian, Eisler’s last thread.
Oppenheimer had turned away. He had never quite recovered from the shock of that first day. Connolly had insisted they leave the office and walk over toward Ashley Pond. “What the devil is this all about?” Oppenheimer had protested, annoyed at the interruption, but when Connolly told him, he stopped still in the road. People, unnoticed, passed around them, and for a minute Connolly thought that something had happened-a heart attack, a stroke, as if the mind couldn’t absorb the blow alone and had passed it on to the body. “You’re sure?” Oppenheimer said finally, and Connolly, unnerved by his calm, was almost relieved when he noticed that Oppenheimer’s hands were shaking as he lit his cigarette. He didn’t know what reaction he had expected-a howl? a denial? — but when Oppenheimer began to talk, he didn’t mention Eisler at all. Instead, irritated, he said, “Was it really necessary to bring me out here?”
“We have to assume your office is wired.”
His eyes flashed for a moment in surprise. “Do we? Don’t you know?”
“They don’t tell me. I’m the one they brought in from outside, remember?”
“Vividly.”
“They check on me too.”
“Who? The general?” Then, as if he’d answered his own question, Oppenheimer started to walk. “My God, I suppose you’ll have to tell him.”
“I think it might be better coming from you. On a safe phone, if you can manage it.”
“According to you, there’s no such thing. Aren’t you letting your imagination run away with you? Anyway, I fail to see the difference. They’ll have to be told.”
