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can't allow information of this kind to -- "
"Oh, of course, I didn't tell him anything about Proteus or the machine here,"
Szilard said impatiently. "We're using uranium research and the possibility of
a fission bomb as a cover story. The real subject will be divulged later, only
to Roosevelt in person."
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Pegram looked at Winslade. "You're happy about this, Claud?"
"Oh, yes. Leo was kind enough to clear it with us before he said anything to
Sachs,"
Winslade replied.
There was nothing more to be said. Pegram looked around one more time and then
nodded.
"Very well, let's go and talk to Einstein. Can you arrange a meeting in
Princeton, Leo?"
"He's not there," Szilard replied. "The last I heard was that he's rented a
cabin or something somewhere and gone off to sail his boat. So, first we'll
have to find him."
And so it came about that on Sunday, July 30, 1939, while Teller and Pegram
were at
Gatehouse with Greene studying the construction of the machine, Leo Szilard
and Eugene Wigner found themselves driving with Winslade and Scholder in
Wigner's car, looking for a summer house belonging to a Dr. Moore, somewhere
in the vicinity of Peconic, Long Island.
CHAPTER 19
IT WAS PAST 3:00 A.M., and Stan Shaw, "your very good friend, the Milkman,"
was babbling a cheerful news bulletin between commercials on WNEW's all-night
radio program. Ferracini was dozing, chin on his chest and chair tilted back
to rest his feet on the large table in the center
file:///F|/rah/James%20P.%20Hogan/Hogan,%20James%20P%20-%20The%20Proteus%20Ope
ration.txt (86 of 203) [2/4/03 10:58:31 PM]
file:///F|/rah/James%20P.%20Hogan/Hogan,%20James%20P%20-%20The%20Proteus%20Ope
ration.txt of the mess area. Cassidy was sprawled in an armchair behind a
newspaper, and Floyd Lamson was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall
by the coffeepot, whittling an owl from a piece of wood to add to the
collection of animal forms that was beginning to adorn the room. The rest of
the team at Gatehouse were either asleep or with Einstein and the other
visitors, who were still examining the machine.
Ferracini was picturing again the house that he had lived in as a boy, a
yellow-painted wooden house with a brown-shingled roof, near the gas station
that one of his Uncle Frank's brothers owned. He remembered Frank, lean and
muscular, coming home from the construction jobs he worked on across the river
in Manhattan and talking over dinner about ball games and plans for fishing
trips. When the news in the papers was bad, he talked about the things the
Nazis were doing in Asia and Africa. Aunt Teresa would become very quiet when
Frank talked about things like that.
In the evening, Frank and Harry would sometimes listen to a fight on the
radio, with Frank blocking and jabbing to the commentary as he followed the
action blow by blow. Some nights he would shower, change, and pack his kit to
go to one of the clubs where he boxed himself, or watched a match. On those
nights, sometimes, Aunt Teresa used to sit down with Harry by the fireside and
tell stories about the old days in Italy before Mussolini and the Fascists.
Life then sounded so simple and carefree, with lots of singing, dancing, and
weddings in the village church. The world had seemed to be just a small
community of relatives, friends, and familiar faces such as Father Buivento,
Luigi the Mayor, Dino the Wagonmaker, Rodolfo the
Dairyman, and more whom Ferracini could still picture from his childhood
imaginings. His fantasies had mirrored the security and contentment of the age
at which he had created them; sometimes, in harsher moments of later years --
waiting inside a troop carrier to parachute out into the
Greenland night during arctic training, maybe, or lying motionless for hours
on an Alpine ridge while search parties with dogs combed the slopes below --
he had thought back wistfully to that make-believe world of warmth and caring,
where everybody knew everybody and all had a place to belong.
Now, strangely, he felt he had found something very close to that in the New
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York of 1939. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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