Upon these shores by Lyra

Of Inventions and Regret

Maglor and J. Robert Oppenheimer meet in a diner in the 1960s. They speak of television and the bomb, and in a way, of Silmarils.

Started for the B2MeM 2012 Bingo prompts "Maglor in History 1: Manhattan Project" and "Smells: Pipeweed" (O68). Also sort of covers "Maglor in History 2: The Cold War" (B13). Finished for B2MeM 2016.

Of Inventions and Regret

The air in the roadside diner was stuffy, heavy with the smells of sweat and coffee, frying fat and nicotine. All tables were taken, and the young, dark-haired fellow balancing his tray with one hand and carrying a cello case in the other looked around with some exasperation. Finally he caught sight of a table occupied by only one person, and he weaved his way through the crowded room.
"Pardon me, sir," he said to the lone occupant with a slight bow. "Would it be all right if I sit here?"
The lonesome diner nodded his agreement, and the tall young man set down his tray, spilling some of his coffee in the process. He sat down with some difficulty – the chairs and tables had been made with smaller people in mind – and tucked the cello case safely between his knees. Then he gave his table companion a friendly smile. "One might think they're giving food away for free here, huh?"
The other man, still reasonably handsome in spite of some early signs of ill health, smiled in return. "Yes, indeed. And they should – it's lousy. You took the omelette? Good luck."
"I've had worse, I'm sure," the young man said with a disarming grin. "But I'm sorry - don't I know you? Not in person, but I think I may have seen your picture in the papers..."
"That is perfectly possible," the older man said, and his easy smile disappeared. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back.
The young man grimaced. "I've touched a sore spot, it seems. My apologies – Mr. Oppenheimer?"
Oppenheimer nodded, cautiously. "Not your fault, I suppose. But as you know my name now, may I ask who I have the honour of dining with?"
"Not much of an honour. My name is Laurence. Marc Laurence."
"Any relation to Bill Laurence?"
"The journalist? Not that I know of."
"I see," Oppenheimer said. "Well, Mr. Laurence, your omelette is going cold, and it's not going to get any better."
"That is true," said Laurence. He cut a slice off his omelette and grimaced as some half-congealed egg white blobbed out. "I see what you mean," he told Oppenheimer.

With the help of much ketchup and pepper, the omelette was eaten. Oppenheimer studied the young man. A small-town boy, he thought, trying to make his way to the city, and then, in the city. His eyes looked older than they should, so probably some trauma in the past. Oppenheimer took a sip of his coffee, then decided to make conversation. "So, Mr. Laurence, where are you headed? I don't suppose you're planning to stay here."
"I don't think anyone's planning to stay here," Laurence said amiably. "We're all travellers on the way to our respective destinations. Mine is New York City. I have an audition with the Symphonic Orchestra tomorrow."
"So you're an up-and-coming musician! Will we see you on television soon, I wonder?"
"I suppose it is a possibility," Laurence said. He did not sound enthusiastic about the prospect, which made Oppenheimer frown.
"One should think that a young fellow like you would be excited about appearing in television," he said.
The young man raised an eyebrow. "Not in its current quality. The human mind manages to recognise patterns anywhere, of course, so even those blurry images will scan as an orchestra at work; but they are still lousy. Not to mention the sound. Put a couple of mice into a tin box, and they'll produce a better attempt at a symphony than anything the television can deliver. No doubt in a couple of years people will look back and laugh in derision at what is considered high technology today." He shrugged.
Oppenheimer raised his eyebrows. "Alas, there is no way to broadcast images and sound in a better quality," he said. "And if there were, we have no technical possibility of receiving them. And even if we had, we would lack the power to keep it all running, especially since every household is aspiring to have its own set."

Laurence smiled in a mild, knowing way that looked out of place on his young face. "A-tomos," he said. "Indivisible. That's what the ancients believed. But we know today – you better than anybody, I daresay – that the indivisible can be divided. Similarly, we may not have the technical possibilities for better television today, but it is not impossible. If enough people consider it important that we should have them, we will – in the future."
"That's right," Oppenheimer conceded. "If enough money is spent on it... and then, one day, the great invention will turn into a curse."
"They always seem to do that," Laurence agreed readily. "And those who put their life's work into them are left to watch while their creations lead to ruin and suffering. They may end up vilified for their trouble, too..."
"Are we talking about the bomb now?" Oppenheimer said.
"We were talking about television," replied Laurence. "But we may also talk about the bomb, if you wish."
"If I wish... I would wish for other things. So what side are you on, Mr. Laurence? Will you vilify me for helping to create the bomb, or will you vilify me as a communist, or what?"
Another mild, far-too-mature smile. "Communism as an idea is a wonderful thing," he said. "I was a communist for a while, in a way, before the realities of life demanded a change of course. As for your creation... I think the atomic bomb is a vile thing. I do not think it makes you a vile man."
Oppenheimer didn't react to the exculpation, instead putting the tips of his fingers together. "If you're a commie, I probably shouldn't be seen talking to you."
"Oh, that was a long, long time ago. I don't think I'm on any present record," the young man said, shrugging. "At any rate, I'll be moving on soon. I have to catch my bus in," he leaned sideways to catch a glimpse of the chrome-framed clock on the wall. In spite of the thick cloud of cigarette smoke, he seemed to have no trouble reading the time. "Twelve minutes. And you will no doubt continue your journey, too..."
"I would already have, if you hadn't come along," Oppenheimer admitted.
"My apologies."
"Oh no; it has been an interesting conversation," said Oppenheimer, beginning to gather his belongings. "You have an interesting future ahead of you, I am sure." He raised his eyebrows. "And an interesting past. Tell me, young Mr. Laurence, how old are you exactly?"
The young man turned his face away on instinct, but then seemed to think better of it. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said, looking Oppenheimer in the face. Gone were the haunted but youthful eyes of the small-town boy, replaced by something ancient and inscrutable. Suddenly, the aging scientist was gripped by a powerful sense of fear as old superstitions, long since overcome by reason, awoke in his mind.
"What are you?" he whispered.
Marc Laurence smiled a sad smile. "Many things, Mr. Oppenheimer. But nothing that you need to be afraid of."
He bobbed his head in farewell, and made his way out. Despite the cumbersome cello case, he seemed to have little trouble making his through the narrow aisle and the thronging customers. Without thinking but with a great deal more pushing and squeezing, Oppenheimer followed him out of the diner and to the bus stop.
"You have seen the past, Mr. Laurence; but can you also see the future?"
Laurence smiled gently. "No more than any other man. Why do you ask?"
"Because I worry about the future. I worry about my invention - about what it means in the many conflicts that are brewing on this planet, particularly with the Soviets. We wanted to harness the light of the sun for the good of mankind, but we don't seem to have done a good job of it. I would hate to be the cause of the apocalypse. I had hoped that you could put my mind at rest."
Laurence set down his cello case. "I cannot see the future, but from what I've seen of the past, I know that mankind is capable of learning. So we can hope that they've learned enough – on either side. Maybe they will manage to end war without wiping each other out first. Maybe one day, the light can be harnessed for the good of mankind. Just because there have been many failed attempts, that doesn't mean it won't be done in the future."
"But that's not knowing - only hoping."
"Yes. While we breathe, there is hope." A Greyhound bus drew up, and Laurence picked up his cello. "Goodbye, Mr. Oppenheimer. And good luck."
"Good luck to you, Mr. Laurence. I'll keep watching for you on the television."
Laurence snorted. "Better watch for a live performance."
"Maybe I will do that, too."
"I'd be happy if you did." The doors of the bus hissed open. Laurence took the steps with all the energy of a high school graduate, making Oppenheimer feel like the older of the two again.
He looked after the Greyhound as it disappeared in the distance.