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58 A Face to Meet the Faces Robert Oppenheimer Near Los Alamos, October 1945 John Canaday We lost the moon among mountains, urging our horses forward, watching ribbons of steam rise from their flanks as they climbed in the midnight cold. We had left the trail. Crisis’ steel shoes sang on the sandstone outcrops. High slopes barred the sky. The moon was waiting down by the river where the boatman slept in an old alder shack between two palms. We pulled ourselves across the wrinkled water. Slick, moon-silvered planks echoed when our horses stamped. The wet ropes chafed our hands. On the far bank, soaptrees bloomed—pale, odorless. We called farewell to the sleeping boatman. The salty breath of desert tamarisks replied as the moon set behind Los Alamos. Their dry leaves flickered like candles and went out. ...

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