We moved up onto the porch again and were inspecting some cowbells Patricia had soaking in acid when Dr. Morgan appeared on the porch. He was a small stoop-shouldered man with a smile that made me move to his side. “I heard you were in Chicago when they made the first atom bomb,” I said. “I’ve never met a physicist. I’ve been hearing all about you.”

“It was a nuclear reaction. Would you like to come into my study? Would you like to see the photographs?” He smiled the fabulous smile again and I forgot all about Clay and Patricia and followed him into a small office off the kitchen. It was very plain. Pads of yellow paper were on a steel desk. Books were on bookcases along the wall. There was a modern-looking light fixture hanging from the ceiling. The floor was covered with woven mats. He went around behind the desk and took a framed photograph from the wall and held it out to me. It was of three men standing in front of a cement bunker. “Enrico Fermi,” he said. “And one of the young assistants and me. This is where we did it, but it began in the minds of men. Many minds down through the years contributed to this moment. Flashes of intuition and years of thought. I was lucky to be there. I was in a lucky place.” He held one end of the photograph while I looked at it. I was too lucky, too fortunate. What was I doing in this room with this great man? This man was far away from anything I had ever known. This man was a quantum leap away from my reality. Why was he letting me stand here? Why was I being allowed to touch his picture? I looked up at him. He was smiling at me. He was very still. Did he know what he was giving me? Did he know how thick life was in that room at that moment, how distilled and thick and brilliant and translucent that moment would always be for me? Did he know what he was offering?

I held on to one end of the photograph. He held on to the other.

“Dinner is served,” Patricia said. “Come along, Max. Bring her in to dinner.”

There was asparagus casserole and roast beef and hot homemade bread. There was wine, and later salad. I picked at the food, and chattered away about my family and Vanderbilt and my exploits with Charles William. My voice rose and fell. I drank more wine. I was charming. I was undone. I was elated.

“Clay made the bread,” Patricia said. “Isn’t it delicious?”

“You made the bread?” I answered. “How did you know how?”

“She taught me.” He laughed uproariously at that. Everything seemed to make him laugh. There was no aggression in the young man, no secrets, nothing I could recognize.