The Peace Machine

by Bob Shaw

  Hutchman got out of bed and, in spite of himself, went to the door of the second bedroom and peered in. Vicky was asleep there in the tentlike ambience caused by drawn blinds. He closed the door, went to the bathroom, and washed hastily. There had been no reason to suppose that Vicky would stay out all night but a stubbon and unrealistic part of him felt reassured to find her at home. He dressed in sweater and slacks, and carried all his envelopes out to his car in a suitcase. Before leaving he looked into David’s room and stared for a long troubled moment at the small figure in its extravagant posture of sleep.

  The mid-morning traffic was relatively light as he drove west, determined to reach Bath before mailing the first envelopes. Any full-scale enquiry into the mailing would start off with a certain amount of ready-made data — the collection times stamped on the envelopes, and the last thing he wanted was to blaze a circular route which started at Crymchurch. He drove quickly, with maximum concentration, and was barely aware of the radio until an hourly newscast mentioned the row which had blown up between the newly formed Damascus Relief Organization and a group of traditional bodies such as Oxfam and UNICEF. A Mr. Ryan Rhodes, chairman of DRO, had made a public allegation that postal contributions to his organization had been diverted to other funds with the connivance of the authorities. Hutchman had his doubts about the claim — Rhodes probably was suffering from an attack of charity organizer’s cholic — but it occurred to him that, for his own project, he was relying to an inordinate extent on Her Majesty’s mails. As a middle-class Englishman he had an inherent faith in institutions like the post office, yet as an intelligent citizen of the late l980s he understood that no government, not even that of Elizabeth II, obeyed any code of rules.

  His forehead pricked coldly. In his case was a sheaf of envelopes addressed to selected Russian statesmen, physicists, and editors of scientific journals — but supposing there was a system in Britain whereby all mail bound for Russia was checked? There were ways to read a letter without opening the envelope. Hutchman eased his foot off the accelerator as he struggled to work out the implications of the new idea. If such a system really were in operation one effect would be that the great manhunt would get under way several days earlier than he had allowed for. This in itself would not necessarily be disastrous, but a much more serious consequence could be that no Russian envelopes would reach their intended destinations. The whole essence of his scheme was that all nuclear powers should be informed of the November 10 deadline. If it were used unilaterally Hutchman’s antiweapon would automatically become a weapon. Even as it was, by choosing a deadline so close in the future, he had already handicapped the greater powers who would have to work all out to break up their stocks of warheads in time.

  As he coasted uncertainly along the road Hutchman was surprised to find the image of a woman’s face hovering behind his eyes. It was a smooth, dusky face with a pouting lower lip accented by chalky-pink lipstick. An intelligent amoral face. That of… Andrea Knight! With the identification came a rush of other information about the woman — she was a biologist with whom Hutchman had been briefly acquainted at university. Lately he had glimpsed her several times in the refectory at the Jeavons Institute, during his rare coffee breaks from work on the machine and — a hard knot of excitement formed in his stomach — he had read something about her in the J.I. Newsletter. She was going to Moscow to take part in a DNA seminar!

  Hutchman fought to recall the exact date of her departure, but all he could be certain of was that it was imminent. Perhaps it had already passed, but if she — as a member of an accredited scientific mission — could be persuaded to take an envelope with her there was no doubt that it would get safely through the customs and security barriers. And if he gave her one of the envelopes intended for a journal it should be fairly easy to work out a reasonable story to satisfy her curiosity. If she had already left he would have to think of something else, but it seemed worth his while to find out what the situation was.

  The next town ahead was Aldershot. Hutchman accelerated again and within a few minutes was speeding past the neat rows of army housing which spread out for miles on both sides of the road. He stopped at a telephone kiosk near the town and looked up the number of Roger Dufay, the Westfield press officer, who was also a free-lance science journalist and a regular contributor to the J.I. Newsletter. The phone rang a longish time but finally was answered by Dufay.

  “Hello, Roger!” Hutchman tried to sound hearty and unconcerned. “Sorry to trouble you at home, but I can’t think of anybody else who could answer this one.”

  “That’s all right, old boy.” Dufay was friendly but cautious. “What’s your problem?”

  “I’m trying to contact a friend of mine who’s going off to Moscow for the DNA seminar, and I wonder if I’m too late.”

  “Mmm. I’m not sure. Who is it you want?”

  Hutchman hesitated. He could invent a name but Dufay was one of those frighteningly knowledgeable men who could be capable of reciting the names of the entire British party. “Ah . Andrea Knight.”

  “Oho! You’re a crafty devil, Hutch. It’s like that, is it?”

  “No, Roger.” Not you, too, Hutchman thought wearily. “Besides, do you think I’d admit anything to you?”

  “No need to, old boy. They don’t call our little Andrea the Jeavons bicycle for nothing. You crafty devil.”

  “Listen, Roger, have you got a note of when the British party leaves? I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “I’ll bet you are. Hold on a moment.” There was a pause during which Hutchman bent his knees to bring his face level with the kiosk’s mirror. His cheeks looked thinner, the line of his jaw standing out clearly, and he had forgotten to shave — for the first time in years. “Hello, Hutch. They’re flying out from Gatwick tomorrow afternoon. So if you want to get in before the commissars you’d better pop round to her place tonight and…”

  “Thanks, Roger.” Hutchman set the phone down and went in search of the Aldershot general post office. Arriving at it he looked through all the directories covering the Camburn and Crymchurch areas and found the entry he wanted: “Knight, Andrea, 11 Moore’s Road, Camburn… Camburn 3436.” He copied it onto a piece of paper and, suddenly apprehensive, dialed the number.

  “Andrea Knight here.” She had answered so quickly, even before the phone began to ring properly, that Hutchman was startled.

  “Hello, Miss Knight.” He sought the right words. “I don’t know if you would remember me. This is Lucas Hutchman. We were at…”

  “Lucas Hutchman!” Her voice was surprised, but with undertones of pleasure. “Of course I remember… I’ve seen you lately at Jeavons, but you didn’t speak to me.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you would know who I was.”

  “Well, your not even saying hello to me wouldn’t help my memory, would it?”

  “I guess not.” Hutchman felt his face grow warm and he realized with mild astonishment that he and this virtual stranger were, within seconds, making contact on a sexual level. “I always seem to miss my chances.”

  “Really? Then why have you rung me? Or shouldn’t I be so bold?”

  “I was wondering…” Hutchman swallowed. “I know this is very presumptuous, but I was wondering if you would do me a small favor.”

  “I hope I can, but I should warn you that I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow and won’t be back for three weeks.”

  “It’s in connection with your Moscow trip that I’m ringing. I have an article on microwave radiation that I want to get to the editor of Soviet Science rather quickly. I could send it through the ordinary mail, but it’s quite a fearsome-looking thing — you know how maths papers are — and there’s so much censorship and red tape that it might take months before it got through, so I wondered…” Hutchman paused to regain his breath.

  “Do you want me to deliver it by hand? A sort of transSiberian Pony Express?” Andrea laughed easily, and Hutchman felt he had cleared a hurdle.

  “No need for
anything like that,” he assured her gratefully. “It’ll be in an addressed envelope. If you could simply shove it in a postbox or whatever they have over there.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that for you, Lucas, but there’s a problem.”

  “A problem?” Hutchman tried not to sound too concerned.

  “Yes. I haven’t got the envelope to deliver. How do I get it?”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult. May I bring it round to you today?”

  “Well, I’m still in the throes of packing, but I’ll be free this evening if that’s convenient.”

  Hutchman’s heart began to pound steadily. “Yes, that’s fine. Where shall I… ?”

  “Where do you usually meet women?”

  “I…” He checked himself from saying that he did not usually meet women. You asked for this, Vicky. “How about the Camburn Arms? Perhaps we could have a meal?”

  “I’ll look forward to that, Lucas. Eight o’clock?”

  “See you at eight o’clock.” He set the phone down and stepped out of the confines of the kiosk into the noonday bustle feeling bewildered, as if he had swallowed several strong gins on an empty stomach. He gazed blankly at the unfamiliar scene for a second before realizing that he was in Aldershot at the beginning of a grand tour of the southern counties. That plan would have to be modified for a start. As he walked back to the car Hutchman decided that posting the first envelopes in a single batch in one town could be less informative to an investigator than an elaborate itinerary. There was something faintly disturbing about the fact that his modified plan for the journey, which had not been considered until a moment ago, seemed better than one he had thought about for days; but there was no denying that it would be wise to ensure a smooth trip for at least one envelope to Moscow.

  On the west side of Aldershot he swung south from the Bath road and made the shorter trip to Salisbury where he mailed a sheaf of envelopes. It was not until he was almost back in Crymchurch again that he appreciated the significance of having consigned the antibomb specification to Her Majesty’s mails. Until that moment he had retained the option of backing out and returning to sane, normal life.

  The first irrevocable step had been taken.

  CHAPTER 7

  Andrea Knight came slowly into the bar, her black hair caught inside the collar of her suede coat, a sling-type handbag almost trailing on the floor. Hutchman, who had arrived a little early, watched as she walked the length of the room. He asked himself what it was about her which caused the male drinkers to fall silent as she passed by. Did the slinky-slovenly gait, that chalky and pouting lower lip, suggest something to their minds? The archetypal woman of the streets, composite of Dietrich and Signoret and Hayworth? He gave up the attempted analysis as she reached his table, sat down, and shrugged off her coat without speaking.

  “Good to see you.” He spoke quickly. “Glad you could come.”

  “Hello, Lucas. My God, this takes me back more years than I care to remember.”

  “I guess it does,” he said, wondering what she was talking about.

  “Yes. Did you know the Pack Horse has been demolished to make room for a motorway?”

  “No.” Hutchman felt a growing unease.

  “Of course, we only had one drink there.” She smiled reproachfully.

  Hutchman smiled back at her as the ground seemed to shift below his feet. The Pack Horse was a pub he had used when at university and he had vague memories of having taken girls there — around the time he met Vicky — but surely Andrea had not been one of them. And yet she must have been. It dawned on him that his years with Vicky had conditioned his very thought processes. (A full year of marital hell-heaven had passed before he had learned always to put his briefcase beside him on the front seat of the car when going home from the office. Vicky, watching like a sniper from the kitchen window, assumed if she saw him remove the case from the rear seat that he had had a passenger. And on the days when he had given a lift but forgot to mention it she spun the delicate but ever tightening webworks of questions, culminating in ghastly midnight confrontations.) He had learned to blot out other women from his memory. A new thought: Could it be that the monogamous, slightly undersexed person I always imagined myself to be is not the real Lucas Hutchman? Am I a creation of Vicky’s? And, in this revenge kick that I’m on, how big a part is played by coincidence and how big a part by subconscious motivation? I saw Andrea at the Jeavons while I was working on the machine. I read about her in the Newsletter and they say the subconscious never forgets details. Details such as the dates of her Moscow trip. Dear Jesus, could it be, could it really be, that the deadline for the operation of my sacred megalife machine was timed to bring me to this table to meet this woman?

  “…quite thirsty after the walk,” Andrea was saying. “My car’s in for repairs.”

  “Forgive me.” He signaled to the waiter. “What would you like to drink?”

  She asked for a Pernod and sipped it appreciatively. “A girl with my socialist convictions has no right to order such an expensive drink, but I think I’ve got a capitalist stomach.”

  “That reminds me.” He took the envelope from his inside pocket and handed it to her. “It’s addressed, but you’ll need to put a stamp on it for me over there. Do you mind?”

  “I don’t mind.” She dropped the white rectangle into her handbag without looking at it. Her careless acceptance of the envelope pleased him, but he became worried in case she should be too casual and forget to bring it with her.

  “It isn’t really vital, but it is rather important to me, personally, to have the article delivered soon,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Lucas.” She placed her hand on his reassuringly. “I’ll look after it for you.”

  Her fingers were cold and he instinctively covered them with his free hand. She smiled again, looking directly into his eyes, and something threw a biological switch in his loins, producing a small but distinct thrill as if she had touched him there. Time itself seemed to distort from that moment — individual minutes were fantastically drawn out, but the hours flicked by. They had several drinks, a meal in the adjacent dining room, more drinks, then he drove her to her flat which was the top one in a four-storey building. As soon as the car had crunched to a halt in the graveled drive she swung out of it and walked to the door, searching in her handbag for a key. At the steps to the door she turned and looked back at him.

  “Come on, Lucas,” she said impatiently. “It’s cold out here.”

  He got out of the car and went with her into the small lobby. The elevator door was open and they walked into the aluminium box hand in hand. They kissed during the ride up and her mouth was as soft as he had thought it would be, and her thighs — closed around one of his — were as responsive as he had hoped they would be. Hutchman’s legs felt slightly shaky as he followed Andrea into her apartment which was pleasantly but sparsely furnished. It smelt faintly of apples. Just inside the door she dropped her coat on he floor and they kissed again. Her body was fuller than Vicky’s and her breasts, when he cupped them in his hands, felt heavier than Vicky’s. The automatic and unwanted comparison produced a painful churning sensation behind his eyes. He put Vicky out of his mind and drank from Andrea’s mouth.

  “Do you want me, Lucas?” Her breath was warm on the roof of his mouth. “Do you really want me?”

  “I really want you.”

  “All right then. You wait here.” She walked into a bedroom and he waited without moving till she reappeared. She was wearing nothing but a black peep-hole brassiere, her nipples angled upward through the apertures on extruded blobs of milky flesh. Breathing noisily, Hutchman removed his own clothes, closed with Andrea, and bore her down onto a flame-coloured rug. Now, he thought, right now, my darling Vicky.

  An indeterminate time went by before he made the shocking discovery that he could feel… precisely nothing. It was as if the whole region of his genitals was flooded with a deadening drug, destroying all sensation. Baffled and afraid,
he waged a battle between his body and Andrea’s, surging and grasping and crushing…

  “Give it up, Lucas.” Andrea’s voice reached him across interstellar distances. “It isn’t your fault.”

  “But I don’t understand,” he said numbly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Sexual hypesthesia,” she replied, not unkindly. “Kraft-Ebbing devotes a whole chapter to it.”

  He shook his head. “But I’m always all right with…”

  “With your wife?”

  “Oh, Christ!” Hutchman pressed his hands to his temples as the pain in his head became intolerable. What have you done to me, Vicky?

  Andrea stood up, walked to the door where her suede coat was lying, and put it on. “I’ve had a very pleasant evening, Lucas, but I have an awful lot to do tomorrow and I must get to bed. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” he mumbled with senseless formality. As he struggled into his clothes he tried to think of something intelligent and unconcerned to say, and finally came out with, “I hope you have good flying weather tomorrow.”

  Her face betrayed no emotion. “I hope so too.”

  “Good night, Lucas.” She closed the door quietly. The elevator was still at the landing and he rode down in it, staring at his reflection in the scratched aluminium.

  Incredibly, after all that had happened, it was only a little after midnight when he got home, and Vicky was still up. The comfortable old skirt and cardigan she was wearing suggested to him that she had not been out and that no stranger had been in the house during his absence. She was watching the late movie on television and as usual the colour control was turned down too far, producing a faded picture. He adjusted the colour and sat down tiredly without speaking.

  “Where have you been this evening, Lucas?”

  “Out drinking.”