Pandora's Keepers (21 page)

Very sincerely yours,
J. R. Oppenheimer
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The few who were not moved by Roosevelt’s letter were moved by the advantages that scientists enjoyed at Los Alamos. They got everything they wanted; cost was unimportant. They were given top priority for scarce wartime materials. They interacted daily with the finest minds in the world. “I was twenty-three years old when I went up to the Hill and met people I never expected to meet,” recalled a veteran of Los Alamos. “I hadn’t even known that Niels Bohr was still alive, never mind that I might actually be sitting across the table from him. I was totally overwhelmed by all these people I had read about in textbooks.”
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Yes, there would be isolation. But the professional intimacy would make up for it.

Oppenheimer hoped scientists would be inspired to excellence by the beauty of Los Alamos. For many, this happened during their first meal at Fuller Lodge. In the morning, through a picture window, the rugged chain of the Sangre de Cristos ran like a dark silhouette along the horizon. Then the sun rose over the ridgeline and the room suddenly filled with brilliant light. In the evening the ridgeline darkened from violet blue to crimson at sunset. The mountains, the bright clear air, the deep blue sky, the warm sunshine and cool wind, the wildflowers exploding with color in summer, the walks beneath shimmering aspen trees that turned brilliant yellow in autumn—all these things exhilarated and sustained scientists in their efforts. This was the world they hoped to save and understand, and it was breathtaking. They had only to open their hearts a little and the mesa breathed itself into them, sending them climbing in an elation to a height that no fear could reach.

The mesa was off-limits to outsiders, and armed guards patrolled the perimeter on horseback. Los Alamos did not appear on any map; its very name was classified. People were fingerprinted and photographed and lectured about the need for secrecy. They were forbidden to tell anyone the location of the project. They could travel only within a limited radius, and telephone calls were monitored. It was illegal to mail a letter except in authorized drops, and all mail was censored. Driver’s licenses and tax returns were made out to numbers rather than to names. Birth certificates for children born there listed simply “Box 1663, Sandoval County Rural.” The secrecy extended to occupations. Even words such as
physicist
and
chemist
were taboo; they were called “fizzlers” and “stinkers” instead. Everyone lived and worked behind a heavily guarded fence topped with three rows of barbed wire. The fence was a tangible barrier and a constant reminder of Los Alamos’s separation from the rest of the world and of the war that was somewhere out there.

Oppenheimer accepted the heavy security as a wartime necessity, but he adamantly refused to accept secrecy in one area: scientific discussion. Here, the normal security procedure of compartmentalization—limiting discussion to a “need to know” basis—was not followed, despite protests from Army Intelligence. Oppenheimer held weekly symposia on the pressing technical problems of the moment, inviting solutions not only from the groups working on the problems but from the important cross-fertilization of agile minds from other disciplines with novel approaches and solutions. Just as in fission itself, one small suggestion could set off a chain reaction of ideas at a rapid rate. This fostered a cooperative spirit that maintained high morale. It was also a major reason why the bomb was built in such a short time.

Although the army guarded and administered Los Alamos, the heart of the Tech Area was run by Oppenheimer for the University of California under a government contract. Scientists came to Los Alamos as civilians, sharing with the military one mission: to build an atomic bomb as fast as possible and, with it, end the war. The similarities between them began and ended there. The gulf between their two cultures was immense, the tension almost inevitable. While scientists resented army regimentation and restrictions, the military found it irritating to have to pander to eccentrics who did not behave according to regulations. Soon after things got under way, Groves came to Los Alamos and told his staff behind closed doors: “Your job won’t be easy. At great expense we have gathered here the largest collection of crackpots ever seen.”
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On another occasion he told Arthur Compton, “Your scientists don’t have any discipline. You don’t know how to take orders and give orders.”
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Groves could not appreciate the creative dimension of scientific work.

But ultimately Groves did not care what the scientists thought or said about him behind his back as long as project security was maintained and its mission was accomplished. He knew what he wanted: to maintain the project’s secrecy, to build an atomic bomb as fast as possible and win the war with it, to tell the British as little as necessary, and to tell the Russians absolutely nothing. He was not above misleading the scientists if he thought it was for the good of the project. One project scientist recalled that Groves would, for example, deliberately give Los Alamos excessively optimistic reports about what was being accomplished at Oak Ridge; likewise, he would give Oak Ridge excessively optimistic reports about how things were going at Los Alamos. In this way, he could make both groups work harder, since each group would think it was the bottleneck and therefore get things done faster. On the other hand, Groves was willing to stick his neck out for the scientists. They asked for tremendous amounts of expensive and difficult-to-obtain equipment, and if they made a convincing case to him, he was willing to go a very long way to get it. If the Manhattan Project failed, the man who would be the target, and victim, of subsequent congressional investigations into why $2 billion had been squandered on a useless project would be Groves, not them—and he knew it.
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The scientists at Los Alamos were young—their average age was only twenty-seven—and almost no one was older than forty.
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Oppenheimer, the lab’s director, was all of thirty-nine. They were inexperienced and starting from scratch, but they were full of spirit. They worked most every night, but they still found time—and energy—to explore cave dwellings in nearby canyons, ski, ride horses, mountain climb, and dance. Occasionally they visited Santa Fe on Saturday nights, but the city was terribly crowded and the few bars were swarming with security agents from Army Intelligence, immediately recognizable by their snap-brimmed felt hats and poorly fitting civilian clothes.

“Life is not at all hard on this ‘magic mesa,’” reported one young physicist. “The group is large enough so that people can choose friends to their liking, and living conditions are entirely comfortable. Soon after arriving, I purchased a spirited part-Morgan horse that is the love of my life. I have taken several pack trips and have just returned from deer hunting.”
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Singles sponsored dorm parties fueled by punch spiked with grain alcohol. Sometimes the liquor flowed too fast and the noise lasted too long. One dormitory received this warning from army authorities:

It has come to the attention of this headquarters that parties held in your dormitory are getting slightly out of hand and that on the morning after, your dayroom is littered with broken beer bottles and similar debris, fire hose is found unrolled down the corridor, and other evidences of abuse of Government buildings and property appear.

This situation must be corrected at once, as abuse of Government property cannot be tolerated; and any further reports coming to this headquarters will make it necessary to revoke the privilege of having parties in your dormitory.
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Parties at Los Alamos were so intense because they were one of the few ways to relieve the pressure. “I’ve never drunk so much as there,” recalled one wartime resident, “because you had to let off steam, you had to let off this feeling eating your soul: ‘Oh God, are we doing right?’”
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The future Nobel laureate Richard Feynman, then in his early twenties, relieved the stress by playing bongo drums, challenging censors with coded letters, and picking combination locks of safes containing classified documents. Scientists at Los Alamos could not unburden their souls by bringing their doubts and complaints to outsiders; they had to remain either within themselves or within the community.

Coexisting with this tension, however, was the pride of being part of a historic enterprise. “I have never seen such esprit de corps in a scientific group,” wrote a physicist at the time.
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Here was a chance to show the world how powerful, important, and useful physics could be: Western civilization was threatened by a fanatic barbarism, and it looked as though only science could save it. “There was this amazing feeling that what you did was very important, that you damn well better do it right, and that everybody else around you was in the same fix,” said one who was there.
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Oppenheimer voiced this feeling of excitement and purpose later when he wrote:

Almost everyone realized that this was a great undertaking. Almost everyone knew that if it were completed successfully and rapidly enough, it might determine the outcome of the war. Almost everyone knew that it was an unparalleled opportunity to bring to bear the basic knowledge and art of science for the benefit of his country. Almost everyone knew that this job, if it were achieved, would be a part of history. This sense of excitement, of devotion and of patriotism in the end prevailed.
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It was hard to remain unaffected while working amid an astonishing array of scientific talent striving to harness a great force of nature in a race with an evil regime. The interest of technical developments, the interplay of brilliant personalities, the belief that the weapon they were making would decide the outcome of the war—all these things drew scientists deeply and completely in what appeared to be a good, and urgent, cause. That perception, in turn, dampened a lot of personal frictions. It would be hard to exaggerate the intensity of life at Los Alamos during the war. The whole thing lasted a little more than two years, but these were years that shaped for life the people who were there. It was their great moment. But the moment was always clouded by the awareness of the project’s purpose, and its possible consequences.

Everyone at Los Alamos felt Robert Oppenheimer’s presence. “When he walked into a room—boy, you knew he was there without even looking up,” recalled one scientist.
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A slender figure in a close-fitting suit with a beaklike nose and close-cropped hair—he had cut it when he left Berkeley—he habitually wore a wide-brimmed hat that exaggerated the gauntness of his face. His nervous energy and piercing blue eyes seemed to take in everything at a glance. Early each morning, he left his home at 1967 Peach Street on “Bathtub Row” and walked to his Tech Area office on the far side of Ashley Pond. From the moment he reached his office, Oppenheimer threw himself into an endless round of progress reports, phone calls, and meetings. He paced constantly, smoking and coughing. When he spoke, he spoke slowly and eloquently. The voice was educated and genteel, but when it told you to do something, you did it. He never seemed in doubt. His mind was as sharp as a knife and his powers of concentration and understanding were phenomenal. “He was so quick that he gave you an inferiority complex,” said a friend.
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Such leadership was not instantaneous. At first Oppenheimer strained to bring the new laboratory into existence. “Every time I think about our problem a new headache appears,” he confided to a colleague just a few weeks into his new job; “we shall certainly have our hands full.”
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Groves was accustomed to pushing subordinates, but Oppenheimer threw himself into his new role with such heedless intensity that even Groves was afraid he might break. He applied his familiar talents—his quick and broad intellect, his personal charisma, his thoughtfulness for others—to the problems of a large and multi-faceted project. And Oppenheimer learned fast. But the most important factor was the change that seemed to have taken place in Oppenheimer’s personality. He showed a new determination and clarity, as if iron had entered his soul. Soon he was overseeing activities on the Hill with a self-evident competence and outward composure that almost everyone came to depend on.

Creating a new laboratory was stimulating work for Oppenheimer at first. Then an inevitable reaction set in; Oppenheimer realized the enormity of the task and became discouraged. His wife, Kitty, struggled to settle into life on the Hill and began to drink heavily. Time with his son, Peter, and daughter, Toni, born in December 1944, was limited to fleeting moments. He was kept under constant surveillance, his home and office bugged by security officials who remained suspicious of him and who picked over the details of his past. Brusquely dismissing others’ complaints about the opening of their mail, he told Teller, “What are they griping about? I am not allowed to talk to my own brother.”
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In the summer of 1943 he confided to his close friend, theoretical physicist Robert Bacher, that he was going to give it up. He felt overburdened by the many problems of the project and his difficulties with the security people. He felt overwhelmed—he could not go through with it. “There isn’t anybody else who can do it,” Bacher told him.
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