Читать книгу Going Nuclear - Stephen Hart - Страница 6

About four months later, in mid-September 1969, Arthur sat across the desk from his new supervisor at the University of Notre Dame Radiation Laboratory, Dr. Claude Fischer. Feeling somewhat nervous in the unfamiliar surroundings, he shifted in his weight restively, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs, as Dr. Fischer, a thin, small-boned man, pored over Arthur’s graduate school transcript.

“Okay, good, good,” Dr. Fischer mumbled, his narrow face diminished further by the large lenses in his wire-rimmed frames. “Looks like you did well in quantum mechanics and kinetics.”

“I worked hard,” Arthur replied.

“Yes, yes, and your thesis described mechanisms for the initiation of free radical reactions?”

“Right. I think you have a copy of it there.”

“Yes, I’m sure I do. I’m sure everything is fine. I know we went over all of this before, but I wanted to refresh my memory. Looks like you have a good background for this area.” Dr. Fischer looked up at Arthur.

“Apparently there’s still a lot of opportunity in radiation chemistry.” Arthur responded eagerly. “A lot of things we don’t know yet.”

“Yes. That’s for sure.”

“And I understand the Radiation Lab has been here for quite a while,” Arthur added, trying to avoid any awkward pauses. “Of course, this building is fairly new.”

Dr. Fischer sat back in his chair and took off his glasses. “Oh, yes, yes, you bet. The building is new, but it all started with the Manhattan Project in the early forties. Dr. Franks told you about that, I believe. We had a 2.5 million electron volt accelerator at the time, which the Army needed. They needed our expertise, too. I think all that work’s still classified though, for some reason.”

“Dr. Franks did mention something about the Manhattan Project, but I thought the first atomic bomb was developed at the University of Chicago, under the football stadium, by Enrico Fermi and his group.”

“It was. But the Radiation Lab here played a significant role as well. All part of the same team. Everyone wanted to do their part. Very patriotic times. Very different from what we have today, if you know what I mean.”

“I suppose.”

“Now we have a bunch of little know-it-alls running around, protesting the war and everything else they can think of while they write checks off their parents’ accounts.”

“I guess that is different.”

“Let’s just say things were much simpler back then.” He nodded his head slowly and closed his eyes.”

“But don’t you think World War II was a lot different than Vietnam? I mean with Hitler and Mussolini being such blatant tyrants.”

“No,” Dr. Fischer replied. “No, I don’t. I think Ho Chi Minh was just as ambitious and reckless as Hitler or any other self-obsessed political dictator. But we let him off the hook. That’s the sad thing.”

“How is that?”

“We just haven't had the same commitment to winning that we did during World War II. We’re not focused enough on victory.”

“You don’t think we’re trying to win?”

“Not enough. Not the way we did before. We went all out during World War II, drafted everyone, then dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. If we hadn’t done that, hadn’t dropped the bombs, I mean, if we had gone on with conventional warfare in the Pacific, we might very well have gotten bogged down in the Japanese countryside like we are now in the jungles of Vietnam.”

“So you think we should nuke North Vietnam? Not that it hasn’t been suggested before. That’s what Goldwater apparently wanted to do in sixty-four.”

“If we could afford to,” Dr. Fischer replied, stroking his chin. “If we could afford to, I think that would be an elegant solution, a very elegant solution. The only problem is the Soviet Union. The Russians would very likely launch missiles against us in retaliation. But if we could, I think dropping a couple of nuclear devices on North Vietnam would make a lot more sense than watching our boys get butchered over there, year after year, getting nowhere on the ground. Of course, if the Russians did fire missiles at us, we would fire missiles back at them, and that would be the end of the world as we know it. So, back to square one. But I think a lot of the frustration we feel now about Vietnam comes from knowing that we’re fighting with one arm tied behind our back and that Ho Chi Minh took full advantage of the situation.”

“We can put a man on the moon, but we can’t end the war,” Arthur said, repeating a popular epigram. He glanced at Dr. Fischer and wondered if his father’s generation would ever get past the World War II paradigm of good versus evil? Probably not, he thought. Just too set in their ways.

Later that afternoon, his first day on the job completed, Arthur stopped by Dr. Fischer’s office to let him know that things were proceeding on course.

“Sounds good,” Dr. Fischer said. “The first day’s usually kind of hard—a new lab, new equipment. But things will fall into place soon enough. Don’t worry about that.”

“Thanks. Like I said, I made up the solutions we talked about and worked with the instrumentation a little, so we should be able to start the irradiation and electron spin experiments tomorrow.”

“Excellent.” Dr. Fischer ran his index finger slowly down the side of his face. “You know, I may have come across a little strong this morning about Vietnam and everything. And God knows, most of the powers that be around here are dead set against the use of nuclear weapons for any reason, even testing purposes. So I—”

“I understand. You were just expressing a personal opinion.”

“Right, that’s right.” Dr. Fischer turned his attention to a report on his desk.

Arthur waited a few seconds longer, then turned and left without saying anything further. As he ambled across the parking lot, Arthur loosened his tie and took off his sports coat. At his car, a white Porsche with a black leather interior, he popped open the door and tossed the coat onto the passenger seat. His first day on the job completed, Arthur decided to take a spin around the campus. He had always been a bit awed by the ambience of Notre Dame: the architecture and statues, the golden dome. As he drove, he recalled his tour through the main building during the job interview process—the ornate wood paneling, the distinguished portraits on the walls, the mosaic-tiled floor, the ever-ascending staircases. Not that the University of Illinois didn’t have a traditional college look; it did. But Notre Dame seemed more ideal, somehow. Maybe it had something to do with the students themselves. For the most part, they were more clean-cut, more conventional. A throwback to the early sixties.

As he turned a corner, he recalled the day he’d purchased the Porsche, the same day he’d learned that his PhD thesis was approved. It had been a magical time, an exciting culmination to his college career. He had hoped that owning a hot set of wheels would help jump-start his social life, help him meet the girls in miniskirts who had so far eluded him, but it didn’t work out that way. No one’s head was turned. No one seemed to care. He thought about his life at the University of Illinois—a Spartan-like existence, late-night hours in the lab and at the library, studying for written examinations and oral presentations, trying diligently to win over his thesis advisor. But his focus on school work didn’t fully explain his lack of success with the opposite sex. He’d had opportunities. They just never went anywhere. Maybe it was his lack of ease around girls, the sense that he was out of his element somehow. Maybe he just never learned how to play the game. His only sexual experience had been with his high school sweetheart, beginning the night they both graduated. But that fall, they each left home to attend different colleges, and although they continued to see each other for a while on school breaks, she sent him a letter during his junior year breaking off the relationship, telling him that she was going to marry someone else that spring. He dialed her number several times after that, but always hung up before the call could go through.

After a second lap around the campus, Arthur turned off in the direction of a bar that one of his new co-workers had mentioned, Frankie’s, supposedly a good place to meet young women. He pulled into the parking lot, cut the engine, and got out of the car. So, what kind of girls go to Notre Dame bars? He wondered. He straightened his tie and put his sport coat back on. Inside the bar, two dozen or so young men, obviously students, were drinking and talking. “Magic Carpet Ride” was playing on the jukebox. And to Arthur’s disappointment, there were only two girls in the whole place, both of whom were accompanied by guys. So much for jumping into the fast lane, Arthur thought. He climbed onto a stool at the end of the bar, wondering if he would ever feel at home in South Bend.

Five minutes later, as he stared at the half-empty beer glass in front of him, two young women walked in and sat down on two stools next to his.

“I can’t believe only five people turned out today,” complained the young woman closest to him, a thin red-haired girl in bell-bottom jeans, a tie-dye tee shirt, and sandals. She dropped a handful of fliers down on the bar.

“I know,” the second young woman echoed. She had dark hair but wore nearly the same attire as her friend. “The Dow recruiters will be right here on campus in November and nobody cares. I don’t know what to say.”

Arthur turned to the girls and asked, “Why would anyone care?”

The girls looked back at him but said nothing. Arthur suddenly felt very conspicuous. He had no reason to think they would answer his question or even acknowledge him, and his coat and tie certainly didn’t help. Feeling that he must look like a freshly minted establishment icon hot off the assembly line, Arthur desperately wanted to tell the girls that his appearance was misleading, that he knew they were talking about protesting the war, that he had protested against the war himself at the University of Illinois, that he simply wanted to join their conversation. He felt his face turning crimson but was afraid to look away, afraid he would lose the girls if he did.

“Who are you?” the brunette asked at last.

“Arthur, Arthur Weiss.”

“Are you a professor?” the girl with red hair asked.

“No, I work at the Radiation Lab.”

“Are you sure you’re not just a student after a job interview?” the brunette gibed, eyeing his tie.

“No, I received my PhD from the University of Illinois last spring. This was my first day on the job. I didn’t know what to wear, so I wore a coat and tie. I think I overdressed a little.” Arthur cleared his throat. “So why would anyone care about recruiters from Dow showing up on campus?”

“Have you been living under a rock?” the brunette asked.

“Dow Chemical makes napalm, in case you didn’t know,” the redhead added. “It burns and kills everything it comes in contact with, including the people in Vietnam it’s dropped on.” She scanned Arthur’s face for a reaction.

“Of course—I’m well aware of that,” Arthur replied. “But what good does demonstrating against Dow do? People have picketed Dow for years. Napalm is still being dropped every day.”

“We can’t just give up,” the redhead insisted, raising her voice somewhat. “Producing napalm is a way for Dow to make easy money, blood money. We want everyone to know what they’re doing. We want everyone to boycott their regular products. We’re not going to give up until they stop.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

A deep male voice interrupted the conversation. “Would you two young ladies like to join my friends and me at that table over there?” A huge young man with a crew cut planted one hand on the bar between Arthur and the redhead. With his back to Arthur, he nearly let his flexed triceps rest against Arthur’s chest. Arthur said nothing, despite a strong urge to jump up and shove the young man backwards across the room.

“No,” the redhead said firmly. “We’re just having a drink, and then we’re going to go.” His hand still on the bar, the young man turned and sneered at Arthur. After a long second, he skulked back to his table. Arthur wanted to smash the overgrown bastard with a chair or something, but he didn’t want any problems with the campus police. And to be honest, the guy looked big and strong enough to easily put Arthur away.

“Those guys are something else,” the redhead groaned. “They think they own this town.”

“Well, they do, in a sense,” the brunette said, smiling.

“Football players?” Arthur asked.

“Notre Dame football players,” the brunette answered. “They think every girl in South Bend wants them.”

“You have to admit they have their share of groupies,” the redhead noted. “And they do like to party.”

“That’s right,” laughed the brunette. “Sometimes they get drunk, get up on the tables, drop their pants, and moon everyone.”

Arthur looked taken aback.

“Welcome to Notre Dame,” the redhead said, grinning at him.

Arthur looked directly at the girls. “You never told me your names,”

“Donna Will,” the redhead replied. “And this is Sandy Swenson.”

“Glad to meet you.”

“So, you moved here to work at the Radiation Lab?” Donna asked.

Arthur noticed that her eyes were taking in everything about him as she talked. “Right. Like I said, this is my first day. I still have unpacking to do.”

“Does that mean you’re an eccentric scientist or something?” Donna pressed, continuing to smile at him.

“A radiation chemist.” Arthur answered with a shrug. “It’s an interesting area, at least to me.” He looked back into her eyes.

“Where are you from originally?” she asked.

“Everywhere. I grew up in the military. I guess I spent more time in Chevy Chase, Maryland, than anyplace else. That’s where I went to high school. My father was assigned to the Pentagon. Still is.”

“He probably has a picture of Nixon in his office.”

“Probably.”

“Did you like growing up in the military?”

“Not really. And I certainly don’t want any part of it now. Before I graduated, I had the typical job interviews with major corporations, but they reminded me too much of the Army. All the games, everyone trying to climb the ladder. I came here hoping to do research in an academic environment, without having to deal with all that crap.”

“And oblivious to the war.”

“No. I’ve actively opposed it. I can see how ridiculous it is. But it seems like the thing is going to go on forever, no matter what I do.”

“We’d better go. Here comes that jock again,” Sandy whispered.

“I thought you girls were going to leave,” the football player said, standing directly behind the girls with his arms folded. “Did you change your mind or something?”

“They are leaving,” Arthur said, standing as he spoke. “With me.”

“And who are you supposed to be?” the football player taunted. “The baby Jesus?”

“I’m on the faculty,” Arthur replied, in the most authoritative voice he could muster. “And my understanding is that you gentlemen are to treat people with courtesy and respect if you expect to continue representing the University on the football field.”

“If you’re on the faculty, what the hell are you doing here? This is a student bar.”

“I stopped by for a drink with these two young ladies. But if that’s a problem for you, perhaps I should take it up with some of my friends in the Athletic Department. They seem to be a little more concerned about image than you apparently are.”

“Talk to whoever you want. I could care less.” The football player turned back toward his table.

“Right,” Arthur said to the back of the young man’s head. Turning to Donna and Sandy, he asked, “Are you ready to go?”

In the parking lot, Arthur stopped at his Porsche.

“Is this yours?” Donna asked.

“Yes. Would you like to go for a ride?”

“No. I have to be getting back.”

“Well, at least give me your phone number. After all, I saved you from that overgrown Neanderthal in there.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t pulverize you,” Donna said, smiling.

“He’s lucky I didn’t pulverize him,” Arthur replied.

Donna laughed and wrote her telephone number down on the back of one of the fliers. “You’d better take this before that jock decides to come out here. Oh, too late. There he is.”

Arthur’s head jerked in the direction of the bar, but he saw no one.

“My mistake,” teased Donna, laughing again. She pressed Arthur’s forearm briefly between her thumb and index finger. “See you,” she said, then turned away and began walking toward her car.