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Communists, predictably, fussed about the tests. At the arms-control talks in Geneva. Soviet Delegate Zorin charged the U.S. with "hypocrisy, an aggressive act against peace, pushing the world closer to an abyss of atomic war." There were no immediate demonstrations in Moscow or in Communist China, although the Chicoms sounded angriest of all. Peking newspaper Ta Rung Pao charged that the tests showed that President Kennedy is "more vicious, more cunning and more adventurist than his predecessor."
Across the U.S., most ban-the-bomb groups seemed simply dispirited. Thirty motorists in Boston turned on their headlights, followed a black station wagon filled with flowers through downtown Boston in a mock funeral staged by two women's peace groups. About 20 pickets huddled at Chicago's Congress and Michigan Avenues under a banner proclaiming: "Nuclear Tests Threaten Mankind." Admitted their leader: "It's awfully hard to keep up a sustained campaign." In Washington, Nobel Chemist Linus Pauling was among marchers outside the White House.
Along the Road. Behind the comparatively mild reaction to the tests lie the lessons of experience. The tortuous route from the first U.S. atomic blast at Alamogordo, N. Mex., to the latest at Christmas Island stretches over nearly 17 years; it includes nearly 200 atomic explosions, about 100 megatons of nuclear energy set free in the atmosphere, 353 fruitless diplomatic test-ban meetings. The men who traveled that road were filled with doubts about their eventual destination, and at every crossroads they argued bitterly over which turn to take. Much of the history of atomic testing has been forgotten, but once recounted, its meaning is clear.
Judged against the proven nuclear capability of the U.S.S.R., the doubters, those who preferred to stand still or even retreat, were always shown to be wrong. If their advice had been heeded, Khrushchev would now be the world's military master.