‘You must tell them so.’
Suddenly Drawbell gave a surprisingly sweet smile. ‘I’ve told them already, Eliot, and I shall go on telling them.’
He behaved as though it were no use abusing me further, and began to talk in a realistic manner,
‘Well,’ he said, ‘assuming that you’re right to be hopeless — how many scientists shall I get?’
I had not replied before Drawbell put on a grin, half coaxing, half jeering: ‘Come on. Just between you and me.’
So all that display of indignation had been an act; he was ready to use his own moods, my comfort, anything or anyone else, for the sake of Barford.
This time I was cautious. I said that another establishment, doing work of the highest war priority, had just been allowed to search for thirty scientists of reputation. If the Minister and the committees made out the strongest case for Barford, they might get ten to twenty.
‘Well, if it’s only ten,’ said Drawbell, surprisingly reasonable, ‘that’s better than a slap in the belly with a wet fish.’
He regarded me with good nature, as though I had, through no special fault of my own but for a higher purpose, been roughly handled. It was amiably that he inquired: ‘Would you like to know what I shall do with them?’ I expected him to say — they will go to Rudd. Drawbell made a theatrical pause, and said: ‘I shall put them where they are most needed.’
I asked, impatient at this new turn, where that would be.
‘Rudd thinks he will get them all,’ said Drawbell.
‘Will he?’
‘Not on your life. It’s not good for anyone to think they’re the only runners in the field.’
He gave a cheerful, malevolent chuckle. One could tell how he enjoyed using his power, keeping his assistants down to their proper level, dividing and ruling.
To complete the surprise, he was proposing to reinforce Luke whom he disliked, whom he had heard disparaged for weeks.
‘It doesn’t matter who brings it off,’ he said, ‘so long as someone does.’
He nodded, for once quite naturaclass="underline" ‘I don’t know whether you pray much, Eliot, but I pray God that my people here will get it first. Pray God we get it.’
7: Voice from a Bath
LOOKING back, I re-examined all I could remember of those early conversations at Barford, searching for any sign of troubled consciences. I was tempted to antedate the conflict which later caused some of them suffering. But it would have been quite untrue.
There was a simple reason why it should be so. All of them knew that the enemy was trying to make a fission bomb. For those who had a qualm of doubt, that was a complete ethical solvent. I had not yet heard from any of the scientists, nor from my friends in government, a single speculation as to whether the bomb should be used. It was just necessary to possess it.
When Drawbell prayed that the Barford project might succeed, he was not speaking lightly; he happened to have kept intact his religious faith. In different words, Puchwein and the fellow-travellers, for just then there was no political divide, would have uttered the same prayer, and so should I.
When I first heard the fission bomb discussed in the Minister’s room, my response had been the same as Francis Getliffe’s, that is, to hope it would prove physically impossible to make. But in the middle of events, close to Martin and Luke and the others, I could not keep that up. Imperceptibly my hopes had become the same as theirs, that we should get it, that we should get it first. To myself I added a personal one: that Martin would play a part in the success.
During my November visit to Barford my emotions about the project were as simple as that, and they remained so for a long time.
Yet, soon after that visit, I was further from expecting a result even than I had been before. Within quite a short time, a few weeks, the wave of optimism, which had been stirred up by Drawbell, died away; others began to accept what Martin had warned me of by the Barford bridge. It was nothing so dramatic as a failure or even a mistake; it was simply that men realized they had underestimated the number of men, the amount of chemical plant, the new kinds of engineering, the number of years, before any of the methods under Rudd could produce an ounce of metal.
Then America came into the war, and within a few weeks had assigned several thousand scientists to the job. The Barford people learned of it with relief, but also with envy and a touch of resentment. There seemed nothing left for them to do. A good many of them were sent across to join the American projects. The Minister, whose own post had become shaky, was being pushed into letting others go.
By the early summer of 1942, the argument had begun as to whether or not Barford should be disbanded.
Just as that argument was starting, we heard the first rumours of Luke’s idea. Could the Canadians be persuaded to set up a heavy-water plant? the Minister was asked. If so, Luke saw his way through the rest.
No one believed it. The estimates came in, both of money and men. They were modest. No one thought they were realistic. Nearly all the senior scientists, though not Francis Getliffe, thought the idea ‘long-haired’.
Following suit, Hector Rose was coming down against it, and deciding that the sensible thing was to send the Barford scientists to America. High officials like Rose had been forced to learn how much their country’s power (by the side of America’s) had shrunk; Rose was a proud man, and the lesson bit into his pride, but he was too cool-minded not to act on it.
I did not believe that Luke’s idea would come to anything. I did not know whether anything could be saved of Barford. As for Martin, I was angry with him again because his luck was so bad.
I was wondering if I could help find him another job, when in July I received a message that he urgently wished to talk to me and would be waiting at my flat.
It was a hot afternoon, and the Minister kept me late. When I arrived at Dolphin Square I could see no sign of Martin, except his case: tired, out of temper, I began to read the evening paper, comfortless with the grey war news. While I was reading, I heard a splash of water from the bath, and I realized that Martin must be there. I did not call out. There would be time enough for the bleak conversation in front of us.
Then I heard another sound, inexplicable, like a series of metallic taps, not rhythmical but nearly so, as though someone with no sense of time were beating out a very slow tattoo on the bathroom wall. Inexorably it went on, until I cried out, mystified, irritated: ‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to lodge the pumice-stone on the top of the shaving-cupboard.’
It was one of the more unexpected replies. From his tone, I knew at once that he was lit up with happiness. And I knew just what he was doing. He kept his happiness private, as he did his miseries; and in secret he had his own celebrations. I had watched him, after a success at Cambridge, stand for many minutes throwing an india rubber up to the cornice, seeing if he could make it perch.
‘What have you been up to?’ My own tone had quite changed.
‘I moved into Luke’s outfit a few weeks ago.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got in on the ground floor.’
It was a phrase quite out of character — but I did not care about that. I had ceased to respond to his joy, I was anxious for him again, cross that I had not been consulted.
‘Was that wise?’ I called.
‘I should think so.’
‘It must have meant quarrelling with your boss.’ (I meant Rudd).
‘I’m sorry about that.
‘What about Drawbell? Have you got across him?’
‘I thought it out’ — he seemed amused that I should be accusing him of rashness ‘—before I moved.’