Hold That Monster

After a month of whirling the May-Johnson atomic-power bill like a lariat, the Congress shakily decided not to use a cattle rope on a rogue elephant. As the House Military Affairs Committee reported the bill out last week, it was a foregone conclusion that it would not pass in its present form. At the same time the Congress--which had been squinting at atomic power almost as confidently as at those Lilliputian mavericks, the budget and the tariff--suddenly admitted to itself that it did not know what to try next. The monster seemed to be getting bigger, more red-eyed and more terrifying with every passing day.

The impulse to drop the May-Johnson bill's loop over the beast's head, tie him to the corral fence and scramble for cover had been tempting. The nation was aching for an excuse to quit worrying about being blown up en masse. Both the President and the Army demanded immediate passage. So did an impressive knot of scientists--OSRD's Dr. Vannevar Bush, Harvard's President, Dr. James Bryant Conant and the Manhattan Project's Major General Leslie R. Groves.

But Congress could not help asking itself a bloodcurdling question: what happened if the beast got loose? As the Military Affairs Committee argued and amended, Congress began to realize how little it knew about its quarry. It also began to suspect that the President and the Army and the scientists knew little more.

The May-Johnson bill was not supposed to be concerned with international control of atomic power. But its provision for iron secrecy, its original harsh penalties were patently part of an optimistic plan to keep foreign nations . (everyone knew that meant Russia) from making atom bombs. Scientist after scientist turned up to swear that there was no real secret to be kept, to point out that the May-Johnson bill would only throttle scientific research and start a world arms race. Amid all the confusion new bills were .written--last week a Ball bill, a McMahon bill, a Kilgore-Magnuson bill and two joint resolutions were also pending before the Senate.

By then Congress was suddenly and humbly intent on learning about atomic power, was sweating at the very thought of legislating about it. The Committee on Atomic Energy of the Senate started an A-B-C course in nuclear physics, planned to tour the Oak Ridge project in Tennessee. In the House, 60 Congressmen hurried to hear lectures by atomic scientists half their age, listened in absolute stillness. At week's end it was evident that there would be no legislation on atomic power for a while--perhaps months. Congress was starting all over again.

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