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I adore a great and patient woman. Forgive me for my slowness to understand.

I am your husband. I love you.

He also wrote to his mother, breaking a long silence. One night he awoke at 3:45 A.M. and could not get back to sleep—he did not know why—so he washed socks until dawn.

His computing team had put everything aside to concentrate on one final problem: the likely energy of the device to be exploded a few weeks hence at Alamogordo in the first and only trial of the atomic bomb. The group’s productivity had risen many times since he took over. He had invented a system for sending three problems through the machine simultaneously. In the annals of computing this was an ancestor to what would later be called parallel processing or pipelining. He made sure that the component operations of an ongoing computation were standardized, so that they could be used with only slight variations in different computations, and he had his team use color-coded cards, with a different color for each problem. The cards circled the room in a multicolored sequence, small batches occasionally having to pass other batches like impatient golfers playing through. He also invented an efficient technique for correcting errors without halting a run. Because a mistake only propagated a certain distance in each cycle, when an error was found it would have tainted only certain cards. Thus he was able to substitute small new card decks that eventually caught up with the main computation.

He was at work in the computing room when the call came from Albuquerque that Arline was dying. He had arranged to borrow Klaus Fuchs’s car. When he reached her room she was still. Her eyes barely followed him as he moved. He sat with her for hours, aware of the minutes passing on her clock, aware of something momentous that he could not quite feel. He heard her breaths stop and start, heard her efforts to swallow, and tried to think about the science of it, the individual cells starved of air, the heart unable to pump. Finally he heard a last small breath, and a nurse came and said that Arline was dead. He leaned over to kiss her and made a mental note of the surprising scent of her hair, surprising because it was the same as always.

The nurse recorded the time of death, 9:21 P.M. He discovered, oddly, that the clock had halted at that moment—just the sort of mystical phenomenon that appealed to unscientific people. Then an explanation occurred to him. He knew the clock was fragile, because he had repaired it several times, and he decided that the nurse must have stopped it by picking it up to check the time in the dim light.

The next day he arranged an immediate cremation and collected her few possessions. He returned to Los Alamos late at night. A party was under way at the dormitory. He came in and sat down, looking shattered. His computing team, he found the next day, was deep in a computing run, not needing his help. He let his friends know that he wanted no special attention. In her papers he found a small spiral notebook she had used to log her medical condition. He carefully penned a final entry: “June 16—Death.”

He returned to work, but soon Bethe ordered him home to Far Rockaway for a rest. (His family did not know he was coming until the telephone rang and a foreign-accented voice asked for him. Joan replied that her brother had not been home for years. The voice said, When he comes in, tell him Johnny von Neumann called.) There Richard stayed for several weeks, until a coded telegram arrived. He flew from New York Saturday night and reached Albuquerque at noon the next day, July 15. An army car met him and drove him directly to Bethe’s house. Rose Bethe had made sandwiches. Feynman was barely in time to catch the bus to the observation site, a ridge overlooking the patch of New Mexican desert, the Jornada del Muerto, already called by its more modern name, ground zero.

We Scientists Are Clever

The test seared images into all their memories: for Bethe the perfect shade of ionized