in their different fashions steady-hearted and robust.
On the way home, and all the evening, Martin kept putting questions to Luke, steering him back to nuclear fission. I could feel, though, that he was waiting for Luke to leave. He had something to say to me in private
At last we took Luke to the bus stop, and Martin and I turned back towards St George’s Square. The full moon shone down on the lightless blind-faced streets, and the shadows were dark indigo. Flecks of cloud, as though scanning the short syllables in a line of verse, stood against the impenetrable sky. Under the moon, the roofs of Pimlico shone blue as steel. The wind had fallen. It was a silent, beautiful wartime night.
‘By the way,’ said Martin, with constraint in his voice.
‘Yes?’
‘I’d be grateful if you could get me in to this project somehow.’
I had never known him ask favour of this kind before. He had not once come to me for official help, either at Cambridge or since. Now he was driven – scruple, pride, made his voice stiff, but he was driven.
‘I was going to suggest it,’ I said. ‘Of course, I’ll–’
‘I really would be grateful.’
My manoeuvre had come off; but as he spoke I felt no pleasure. I had taken it on myself to interfere; from now on I should have some responsibility for what happened to him.
Now the trigger had been touched, he was intent on going: why it meant so much, I could not tell, His career? – something of that, perhaps, but he was not reckoning the chances that night. Concern about his wife? – he would not volunteer anything. No: simple though the explanation might seem for a man like Martin, it was the science itself that drew him. Though he might have no great talent, nuclear physics had obsessed him since he was a boy. He did not know, that night, what he could add at Barford; he only knew that he wanted to be there.
He admitted as much; but he had more practical matters to deal with. Having swallowed his pride, he did not intend to prostrate himself for nothing.
‘You’re sure that you can get me in? I should have thought the first move was to persuade someone else to suggest me. Walter Luke would do…’ Could I write to Luke that night? Could I, as an insurance, remind Mounteney that Martin and I were brothers?
It was late before we went to bed; by that time Martin had written out an aide memoire of the people I was to see, write to, and telephone next day.
5: Advice from a Man in Trouble
MARTIN’S transfer went through smoothly, and he had begun work at Barford by June. With Luke, it took months longer.
In November I paid them an official visit. The Superintendent was still demanding men, and some of his sponsors in Whitehall had become more active; they even began to say that one of the schemes at Barford might give results within two years.
Francis Getliffe and the other scientific statesmen were sceptical. They were so discouraging that the Minister did not feel it worthwhile to inspect Barford himself; but, with his usual desire to keep all doors open, he sent me down instead.
I spent a morning and afternoon walking round laboratories listening to explanations I only one-tenth comprehended, listening also to the clicking, like one-fingered typewriting, of Geiger counters. But I comprehended one thing clearly. There were two main lines at Barford – one which Luke had set up on his own, with a few assistants, mine the other led by a man called Rudd. Rudd was the second-in-command of the establishment; his line was, in principle, to separate the isotope, and they were attempting several methods; it was one of these, on which Martin and a team of scientists were working, which Rudd was trying to sell. As an official, I had been exposed to a good deal of salesmanship, but this, for unremitting obsessive concentration, was in a class by itself.
It was having an effect on me. Next morning I was due for a conference with the Superintendent, and I needed to
On the way home, and all the evening, Martin kept putting questions to Luke, steering him back to nuclear fission. I could feel, though, that he was waiting for Luke to leave. He had something to say to me in private
At last we took Luke to the bus stop, and Martin and I turned back towards St George’s Square. The full moon shone down on the lightless blind-faced streets, and the shadows were dark indigo. Flecks of cloud, as though scanning the short syllables in a line of verse, stood against the impenetrable sky. Under the moon, the roofs of Pimlico shone blue as steel. The wind had fallen. It was a silent, beautiful wartime night.
‘By the way,’ said Martin, with constraint in his voice.
‘Yes?’
‘I’d be grateful if you could get me in to this project somehow.’
I had never known him ask favour of this kind before. He had not once come to me for official help, either at Cambridge or since. Now he was driven – scruple, pride, made his voice stiff, but he was driven.
‘I was going to suggest it,’ I said. ‘Of course, I’ll–’
‘I really would be grateful.’
My manoeuvre had come off; but as he spoke I felt no pleasure. I had taken it on myself to interfere; from now on I should have some responsibility for what happened to him.
Now the trigger had been touched, he was intent on going: why it meant so much, I could not tell, His career? – something of that, perhaps, but he was not reckoning the chances that night. Concern about his wife? – he would not volunteer anything. No: simple though the explanation might seem for a man like Martin, it was the science itself that drew him. Though he might have no great talent, nuclear physics had obsessed him since he was a boy. He did not know, that night, what he could add at Barford; he only knew that he wanted to be there.
He admitted as much; but he had more practical matters to deal with. Having swallowed his pride, he did not intend to prostrate himself for nothing.
‘You’re sure that you can get me in? I should have thought the first move was to persuade someone else to suggest me. Walter Luke would do…’ Could I write to Luke that night? Could I, as an insurance, remind Mounteney that Martin and I were brothers?
It was late before we went to bed; by that time Martin had written out an aide memoire of the people I was to see, write to, and telephone next day.
5: Advice from a Man in Trouble
MARTIN’S transfer went through smoothly, and he had begun work at Barford by June. With Luke, it took months longer.
In November I paid them an official visit. The Superintendent was still demanding men, and some of his sponsors in Whitehall had become more active; they even began to say that one of the schemes at Barford might give results within two years.
Francis Getliffe and the other scientific statesmen were sceptical. They were so discouraging that the Minister did not feel it worthwhile to inspect Barford himself; but, with his usual desire to keep all doors open, he sent me down instead.
I spent a morning and afternoon walking round laboratories listening to explanations I only one-tenth comprehended, listening also to the clicking, like one-fingered typewriting, of Geiger counters. But I comprehended one thing clearly. There were two main lines at Barford – one which Luke had set up on his own, with a few assistants, mine the other led by a man called Rudd. Rudd was the second-in-command of the establishment; his line was, in principle, to separate the isotope, and they were attempting several methods; it was one of these, on which Martin and a team of scientists were working, which Rudd was trying to sell. As an official, I had been exposed to a good deal of salesmanship, but this, for unremitting obsessive concentration, was in a class by itself.
It was having an effect on me. Next morning I was due for a conference with the Superintendent, and I needed to
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