A suspicion had arrived. Hoseyn put his wrist forward so the guard could see the gift from his in-laws, high-priced. The guard had felt something was wrong. He’d fished. And found an eel. Now the Rolex was distracting him. He asked questions about the self-winding Cosmo-graph, the delicate moons at three, six, and nine. Any man would consult such a timepiece instead of a wall clock. The guard was satisfied. Hoseyn passed through the metal detector with a briefcase in hand. It was the object of last resort. If the cocktail failed, he could make the case ignite with the right number of clicks.

He walked down the hallway. A technician from the just-built calutron, holding tea, raised the beverage and said, “To your father.” He did this to mock the hardliners who tried to compel the use of Bedouin phrases in the facility.

“Honor the Prophet, peace be upon him,” Hoseyn returned. They laughed. This was their daily greeting. He would miss that guy.

The air conditioning was excellent, and his damp shirtsleeves flopped against his skin. He hoped he got to keep his watch. It would sadden his in-laws were it to disappear permanently. He imagined them at the gravesite, how inflamed they’d be by driving past the Khomeini mausoleum and shrine—the only way to get to the cemetery. They’d spend the ride home exclaiming against the lavish waste of public funds, the repellent architecture, the deluded pilgrims. He might miss them the most.

Not that he wouldn’t miss their beloved daughter, his wife. She was stubborn outside of his bed. It was a good thing. This was only one of the many lessons marriage had taught him. And he clung to them. He was certain that most in his trade were incapable of learning much outside isotopes, superheavies, and the f-block. A willing wife—most of his friends longed for one. But the extremely few who had them, rued. They complained they were exhausted. They worried that she wandered. There were doctors some consulted. Why? It was a habit of human nature to see only to the nose.

Iran’s greatest topic—the bedding of the wife—was an absorbing one. It branched far and drew in much. He would be, in his new country with his new identity, sorry not to know its latest fluctuations. He had to pity the Americans and the Europeans, with their pornography and tabloids. They missed out on shared confidences—not only of fetish, though the confidences included that—about the quintillion naked acts for which most men lived. He wouldn’t trade the entertainment of those conversations for rampant free expression. In his experience, liberty dulled minds.