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But so many dead； so quickly； lifetimes measured in milliseconds。
And would there be others； like the experimenter； who would not be lucky enough to die in the
first raw white instant of power？
Finn slowed and turned on to a street leading to the oldest part of Juarez。 The city was quiet； its
life hidden from the afternoon sun。 The second stories of most buildings overhung the sidewalk；
creating tunnels of shade for the few pedestrians。 The square was overhung with large； soft…green
pepper trees that cast feathery shadows on the baked clay ground。 Water tumbled down a stone
and tile fountain。
The car’s tires made no sound as Finn turned onto the sandy unpaved street that led to his
house。 He stopped the Ford in front of an old adobe with a faded canvas awning protecting its
one large window。 Finn got out and closed the door quietly。
He crossed the small patch of sand serving as a front lawn。 The house belonged to his father’s
friend； an official in the Mexican government。 Finn had furnished the adobe with a solid oak
kitchen table； chairs； and a leather…sprung bed with a mattress filled with corn shucks and a few
sprigs of sage。 It was the kind of bed he had been raised on； the bed that he had dreamed about
in the nightmare hammocks of Burma。 The bed was crisp； dry； and smelled of the desert。
The only other furnishings were lamps； a telephone and a stove。 On a rack in a corner of the
single room； which contained the bed and the kitchen； were a 12…gauge pump shotgun； an M…l
carbine with a canvas shoulder strap； and a long…barreled Remington。 Opposite the rack； three
swords hung on the bare adobe wall。 Two of the swords were Japanese； the short and the long
sword of a samurai。 The third sword was Mexican； a ceremonial saber inlaid with silver and
gold。
Even in the diffuse light that entered through the small panel windows set in the thick adobe
walls； the swords shone with bright； hard light。 The Japanese swords combined elegance and
balance with efficiency； the Mexican sword combined pride and wealth with a killing edge。 It had
been carried into battle against gringo invaders by a Mexican Creole general who had died at the
hands of Finn’s great…grandfather。 The sword’s handle was bound in gilt…braided cord after the
manner of its time。
Pride and violence； the twin obsessions of the cultures that had forged the swords。 And now a
new culture； a new weapon； a weapon that was made not of steel but of an unbelievably rare
element； a metal that could end a war and begin a world。
Finn stood just inside the door； letting the coolness of the house wash over him。 Before he could
close the door； the telephone rang imperiously and Ghost； his cat； streaked into the room。 He
shut the door and answered the phone with a quickness that echoed the cat’s。
“Bueno；” he said。
Finn recognized the voice at the other end of the line； a woman’s voice； cool and precise；
professionally remote。 Sarah Campos was the chief operator at the phone exchange in El Paso。
All calls from Juarez to the United States； and vice versa； went through her switchboard。 She；
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like Finn； was paid by the American government。
“You will want to know about new voices？” she asked。
“Yes。”
Finn waited； so focused on Sarah’s call that he barely noticed the cat stropping itself on his
boots。
“There were two。 Yesterday。 Both British。 One was the man I told you about before； the one
who calls from that little town close to the cottonwoods。”
“Yes。” Socorro was the town closest to Los Alamos。 Finn had mentioned the anonymous caller
to Groves； suspecting that the man might be one of the British scientists working in Los Alamos。
“Did you recognize the second man？”
“It was a woman。 She was calling from the Mexican side； a public phone booth。”
“What did they say？”
“Not much that I could understand。 They spoke English at first； then they switched to another
language； very hard and deep in their throats。 I think it was German。 It sure wasn’t Chinese or
Japanese。 The woman spoke the language very well。 The man had problems。 He used English；
too。 It sounded like they were planning a trip to New York。”
“Oh？”
“They kept talking about Manhattan and the Bronx； and something about not being able to ship
stuff directly to the Bronx。 He finally said in English； ‘Look； it can’t be done from here！’ He was
angry。”
For a moment Finn forgot to breathe。 Then he drew in air silently and said； “Anything else？”
“No。 They didn’t talk very long。”
“If you hear any more from them； let me know right away。”
Finn replaced the receiver very slowly； but his mind was racing and his skin was hot with more
than desert heat。 Russian sounded enough like German to confuse an untutored ear。 Masarek
was in Juarez with a woman who had a British accent。 Two priceless pieces of silver…white metal
were on their way to San Francisco。
General Groves had been very wise to keep the route of the Bronx shipment secret； otherwise it
seemed that the Russians were set to intercept the shipment。 Without the uranium； the war
would not end short of a grueling invasion of Japan； an invasion that would culminate in 2
million casualties and a Russian world。
Ghost yeowed bleakly； as though she shared Finn’s thoughts。 Her front paw touched the toe of
his boot and the tip of her tail flicked across his knee。
“Hello； Ghost。”
The cat sat on her haunches； inspecting the room as though seeking mice in its corners or lizards
on its clay et Finn’s and she yeowed again。 She was poised；
healthy and obviously a recent mother。
“Hungry？”
Ghost looked away disdainfully。 She could survive without Finn； which was the only reason he
had allowed her into his life。 Since Burma； he had permitted no living thing to depend on him。
Finn straightened swiftly； found a small can of evaporated milk in the kitchen and punched two
holes in the can with his pocket knife。 He poured the viscous fluid into a saucer and stepped
aside。
Ghost’s nose moved and her whiskers twitched as the thick scent of milk washed over her。 She
walked slowly to the dish； her every movement telling Finn that she could live very well without
him。 The milk was like Finn； nice； but not necessary to her survival。
“That’s right； cat；” he said softly。 “No guarantees。”
Jacame
50 Hours Before Trinity
Refugio drove without lights through the dry desert night as though it were noon。 Drops of
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sweat gathered in his enormous black eyebrows like rain in a raven’s wings。 That was the only
outward sign of the strength and concentration required to hold the rocketing Cadillac on the
narrow dirt road。 Refugio dominated the car with a combination of drama and ruthlessness that
exican。
Vanessa Lyons braced herself in the back seat； trying not to be shaken loose by each bump； each
rut； each lunge and swoop of the heavy car。 She assumed that Refugio was indulging in the
strutting maleness she detested in all Latin cultures。 She glanced at Masarek； silent in the front
seat。 He balanced against the careening car with the cold self…control that was his trademark。
Vanessa started to speak； then decided not to。 Her orders had been clear。 All speed。 Although
her orders were now nothing more than ashes flushed into the sewer； their urgency remained。
They had flown from Juarez to Mexicali and now were rushing toward the place where they
could safely cross into the United States。
Refugio glanced in the rearview mirror； attracted by the movement of Vanessa’s head。
Moonlight made her gold hair shimmer as though it were burning。 Her eyes were the dense blue
of expensive English china。
And she was watching him。
Refugio’s black eyes shifted to the passenger in the front seat； the man called Masarek。
Contained； quiet； Masarek would have made a good smuggler or soldier or assassin。 Refugio
suspected that Masarek had been all three。 Though his hairline had retreated into gray and his
face showed the first inroads of age； Masarek moved with the ease of men half his years。
The car’s metal joints rattled and groaned over a straight segment of road that had attained the
washboard surface common to unpaved desert tracks。 Gradually the car slowed until its
roostertail of dust no longer leaped toward the white moon。
“Is something wrong？” asked Vanessa； using the breathy voice she affected when she wanted
men to underestimate her。
“Do not worry； chica；” said Refugio； smiling and turning toward her to show teeth that were
hard and white。 When he spoke English； his light accent gave his words a deceptively gentle
edge。 “I drive slow now for the same reason I drove without lights。 We are close to Jacame。 The
American border patrol knows that Jacame is a poor place。 Only smugglers have money for
cars。 Bueno。 We do not show our lights。”
Vanessa looked out the window； but saw nothing。 Then she noticed the tiny brillance of lights
scattered in the distance like fallen stars。
“Is that it？” she asked。
Refugio chuckled。 “No； chica。 That is Jacumba； on the gringo side。 The Mexicans in Jacame have
no electricity。 What do smugglers need with light？”
“Are you sure the Americans don’t know about your route？” asked Vanessa； skepticism clear in
spite of her husky voice。
Refugio shrugged。 “If they knew my route； they would put me in one of their grand calabozos
with hot and cold water and never let me out。 They want me very much。”
“Then why don’t they shoot you？” asked Masarek in a colorless voice。
Refugio glanced at the other man。 “That’s what you would do； no？” He laughed。 “That’s what I
would do； too。 But the gringos won’t shoot me because that would be against their rules。” He
looked at Vanessa in the rearview mirror。 “It is a foolish idea they took from your country； no？”
Vanessa agreed； but did not answer； irritated to find that she agreed with Refugio about
anything that smacked of politics。 One of the things that had driven her first to Fabian socialism；
then to Marxism and finally to radical communism； was the British male’s insistence on living –
and often losing – by arcane rules of chivalry。
Refugio laughed again； the full…bellied laugh of real amusement。 “So the Americans have nice
rules and I have nice pleasure breaking them。 They will never catch me because I am a man； not a
gentleman。”
Vanessa stared out the window； ignoring Refugio。 “How far are we from the border？”
Page 32
“That way；” said Refugio； gesturing widely to her right； “Perhaps a kilometer。 But from my
house； much less。”
The car bounced off the dirt road onto something that was little better than a goat path。 Ahead
of the straining car； an amorphous black blot resolved into a cluster of small； worn houses。
Whether through neglect or design； the windows of the houses were so dirty as to almost
obscure the lantern light burning within。
A pack of rough…coated dogs burst from the direction of the houses。 Lean； half…starved； the
dogs raced toward the Cadillac as though it were their natural prey。
Refugio neither slowed nor turned aside。 He aimed the car into the center of the pack。 At the
last second the dogs scattered to either side； snapping at tires before giving up and trotting back
toward the houses。
The buildings were scattered in a random arrangement dictated by the rumpled nature of the
land。 What once might have been a town square was now the final refuge for a canted；
three…wheeled wagon and the rusty remains of cars that had no wheels at all。 Dirt and sand crept
up the sides of the vehicles； engulfing them silently； blurring the boundary between artifact and
desert； past and present。 Just beyond； almost hidden by the wreckage； was the communal well。 It
was circled by a low stone wall and roofed by a ragged wooden structure。 When the car bounced
by； doves fled into the night； cooing their distress in liquid tones。
The car skidded to a stop in a turbulent cloud of grit that was swirled away by the pre…dawn
wind。 Refugio got out； stretched； and walked to meet the two men who were approaching from
separate directions。 Like those men； Refugio was just over medium height； black…haired； with
brown skin and ebony eyes。 Unlike him； the men were bent by poverty。
“Buenas noches； don Refugio；” said the first man。 Then like an echo； the second man