This story is more timely today, over thirty years later, than it was when it was written; the danger is enormously greater.
And again this warning will be ignored. But it won't take much of your time; it's a short - short, a mere 2200 words.
ON THE SLOPES OF VESUVIUS
"Paddy, shake hands with the guy who built the atom bomb," Professor Warner said to the bartender. "He and Einstein rigged it up in their own kitchen one evening."
"With the help of about four hundred other guys," amended the stranger, raising his voice slightly to cut through the rumble of the subway.
"Don't quibble over details. Paddy, this is Doctor Mansfield. Jerry, meet Paddy - Say, Paddy, what is your last name?"
"Francis X. Hughes," answered the barkeep as he wiped his hand and stuck it out. "I'm pleased to meet any friend of Professor Warner."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Hughes."
"Call me Paddy, they all do. You really are one of the scientists who built the atom bomb?"
"I'm afraid so."
"May the Lord forgive you. Are you at N.Y.U., too?"
"No, I'm out at the new Brookhaven Laboratory."
"Oh, yes."
"You've been there?"
Hughes shook his head. "About the only place I go is home to Brooklyn. But I read the papers."
"Paddy's in a well - padded rut," explained Warner. "Paddy, what are you going to do when they blow up New York? It'll break up your routine."
He set their drinks before them and poured himself a short beer. "If that's all I've got to worry about I guess I'll die of old age and still in Thy rut, Professor."
Warner's face lost its cheerful expression for a moment; he stared at his drink as if it had suddenly become bitter. "I wish I had your optimism, Paddy, but I haven't. Sooner or later, we're in for it."
"You shouldn't joke about such things, Professor."
"I'm not joking."
"You can't be serious."
"I wish I weren't. Ask him. After all, he built the damned thing."
Hughes raised his brows at Mansfield who replied, "I'm forced to agree with Professor Warner. They will be able to do it - atom - bomb New York I mean. I know that; it's not a guess - it's a certainty. Being able to do it, I'm strongly of the opinion that they will do it."
"Who do you mean by 'they'?" demanded the bartender. "The Russians?"
"Not necessarily. It might be anybody who first worked up the power to smash us."
"Sure," said Warner. "Everybody wants to kick the fat boy. We're envied and hated. The only reason we haven't been smeared is that no one has had what it takes to do it - up to now, that is!"
"Just a minute, gentlemen - " put in Hughes. "I don't get it. You're talking about somebody - anybody - atom - bombing New York. How can they do it? Didn't we decide to hang on to the secret? Do you think some dirty spy has gotten away with it while we weren't watching?"
Mansfield looked at Warner, then back at Hughes and said gently, "I hate to disturb your peace of mind, Mr. Hughes - Paddy - but there is no secret. Any nation that is willing to go to the trouble and expense can build an atom bomb."
"And that's official," added Warner, "and it's a leadpipe cinch that, power politics being what it is, a dozen different nations are working on the problem right now."
Hughes had been looking perturbed; his face cleared. "Oh, I see what you mean. In time, they can dig it out for themselves. In that case, gentlemen, let's have a round on the house and drink to their frustration. I can't be worrying about what might happen twenty years from now. We might none of us be spared that long what with taxicabs and the like."
Mansfield's brows shot up. "Why do you say twenty years, Paddy?"
"Eh? Oh, I seem to remember reading it in the papers. That general, wasn't it? The one who was in charge of the atom - bomb business."
Mansfield brushed the general aside. "Poppycock! That estimate is based on entirely unwarranted national conceit. The time will be much shorter."
"How much shorter?" demanded Hughes. Mansfield shrugged.
"What would you do, Paddy," Warner asked curiously, "if you thought some nation - let's say some nation that didn't like us - had already managed to manufacture atom bombs?"
The saloon cat came strolling along the top of the bar. Hughes stopped to feed it a slice of cheese before replying. "I do not have your learning, gentlemen, but Paddy Hughes is no fool. If someone is loose in the world with those devil's contraptions, New York is a doomed city. America is the champion and must be beaten before any new bully boy can hope to win - and New York is one of the spots he would shoot at first. Even Sad Sack - " He jerked a thumb at the cat. " - is bright enough to flee from a burning building."
"Well, what do you think you would do?"
"I don't 'think' what I'd do, I know what I'd do; I've done it before. When I was a young man and the Black and - Tans were breathing down the back o' my neck, I climbed on a ship with never a thought of looking back - and any man who wanted them could have my pigs and welcome to them."
Warner chuckled. "You must have been quite the lad, Paddy. But I don't believe you would do it - not now. You're firmly rooted in your root and you like it - like me and six million others in this town. That's why decentralization is a fantasy."
Hughes nodded. "It would be hard." That it would be hard he understood. Like leaving home it would be to quit Schreiber's Bar - Grill after all these years - Schreiber couldn't run it without him; he'd chase all the customers away. It would be hard to leave his friends in the parish, hard to leave his home - what with Molly's grave being just around the corner and all. And if the cities were to be blown up a man would have to go back to farming. He'd promised himself when he hit the new country that he'd never, never, never tackle the heartbreaking load of tilling the soil again. Well, perhaps there would be no landlords when the cities were gone. If a man must farm, at least he might be spared that. Still, it would be hard - and Molly's grave off somewhere in the rubble. "But I'd do it.
"You think you would."
"I wouldn't even go back to Brooklyn to pick up my other shirt. I've my week's pay envelope right here." He patted his vest. "I'd grab my hat and start walking." The bartender turned to Mansfield. "Tell me the truth, Doctor - if it's not twenty years, how long will it be?"
Mansfield took out an envelope and started figuring on the back of it. Warner started to speak, but Hughes cut him off. "Quiet while he's working it out!" he said sharply.
"Don't let him kid you, Paddy," Warner said wryly. "He's been lying awake nights working out this problem ever since Hiroshima."
Mansfield looked up. "That's true. But I keep hoping I'll come out with a different answer. I never do."
"Well, what is the answer?" Hughes insisted.
Mansfield hesitated. "Paddy, you understand that there are a lot of factors involved, not all of them too clear. Right? In the first place, it took us about four years. But we were lavish with money and lavish with men, more so maybe than any other nation could be, except possibly Russia. Figured on that alone it might take several times four years for another country to make a bomb. But that's not the whole picture; it's not even the important part. There was a report the War Department put out, the Smyth Report - you've heard of it? - which gives anyone who can read everything but the final answers. With that report, with competent people, uranium ore, and a good deal less money than it cost us, a nation ought to be able to develop a bomb in a good deal less time than it took us."