His next call was as Woolworth’s, where he bought several hundred cheap envelopes of a kind which were on sale all over the country. At the general post office he bought sheets of airmail and inland stamps, and put them into his briefcase. A check on the time showed him it was close to his lunch hour so he went into one of his favorite inns in Crymchurch. Joe’s was a dismal little place which scorned the midday soup-and-coffee trade but supplied hot Irish whiskey exactly the way he liked it. Seated in a dim corner, with the sweet aromatic drink at hand, he took a sheet of paper from his case and began to compose a letter.
He started with the words, “To whom it may concern.” They were dismayingly unoriginal, but Hutchman considered them relevant. He had two more whiskies while finishing the draft letter, then read it over.
“This letter is the most important that you will ever read.
“Its contents are of supreme importance to the security of your country, and to the welfare of the entire human race.
“When you have read it you will be personally responsible for ensuring that the proper steps are taken.
“Your own conscience must decide what those steps are.
“The documents accompanying this letter are:
“a.A mathematical proof that it is possible to build a neutron resonator based on a cestron laser. The radiation will be self-propogating and will have the effect of artificially stimulating neutron flux in all concentrations of fissionable material approaching critical mass. In other words, activation of the device will cause virtually instantaneous detonation of every nuclear bomb on this planet!
“b.A schematic showing one simple form of neutron resonator which can be built in a matter of days.
“Read the following paragraph carefully:
“THIS MACHINE IS ALREADY IN EXISTENCE. IT WILL BE ACTIVATED AT NOON GMT ON 10TH NOVEMBER 1988. YOU MUST NOW ACT ACCORDINGLY!”
To Hutchman’s critical gaze, the letter was reminiscent of one of the injunctions he often received from book clubs, but he was satisfied that it would serve its purpose. All the salesmanship that was required would be carried out on his behalf by the closely written pages of maths. They would present his credentials to every member of the world fraternity of mathematicians who were capable of working on that plane, who would in turn influence others, who would in turn… The letter itself, he realized suddenly, was a form of neutron resonator. One which would produce a chain reaction on the human level.
Arranging a hiding place for the machine had been easier and quicker than he had expected, creating a feeling that everything was moving along with supernatural smoothness. On impulse, Hutchman went to the public telephone in a whitewashed alcove at the rear of the inn, rang Westfield’s, and got through to Muriel. Her voice was blurred and he guessed her mouth was full of the chocolate wafers she invariably ate at lunchtime in the company of other secretaries who gathered in her office to discuss pop singers.
“Sorry to interupt the proceedings at Culture Corner,” he said, “I just wanted to let you know I won’t be back in the office today. Handle anything that crops up, will you?”
“Where will I say you are?” Her voice was clearer now, but resentful.
“Say I’m at the seaside.” He thought of the red-brown beach at Hastings and wished he had not mentioned the seaside. “No, you’d better tell the truth — I’ll be doing some research at the Morrison Library.”
“Doing some research at the Morrison Library,” Muriel repeated in a dull monotone which openly signaled her disbelief. By this time a suitably edited version of his row with Spain would be going the rounds and Muriel, although she disliked Spain, would have seized on it as another example of how Mr. Hutchman had changed for the worse. It occurred to him that he had better be more careful with Muriel.
“That’s it,” he said. “See you in the morning.”
She hung up without replying. He hurried back to his car and drove through the afternoon grayness to the Jeavons Institute. The stone building was vaporing introspectively in the rain and nobody appeared to notice as he parked in the inner quadrangle. It took him twenty minutes to separate the machine into its major components and transfer them with their shielding to the car. By the time he had finished his shoulders and arms, toughened as they were by regular archery practice, were aching. He drove out through the archway, still without having encountered a soul, and headed south for Hastings.
The drive took rather more than his estimated ninety minutes, and he spent another ten locating the house he had rented at 31 Channing Waye. It turned out to be a reasonably well-preserved “two-up-and-two-down” in a short row of identical dwellings. The sea was visible at one end of the steeply sloping street. Hutchman felt strangely self-conscious as he put a key into the lock and opened the door of the alien little house he had just acquired. It was legally his, yet he felt guilty of trespass. He walked along the short hall and glanced into the downstairs rooms, noting the sparse furniture which was just sufficient to satisfy the rent-control regulations concerning the letting of houses. The house was cold, lifeless. Filled with an oddly sexual excitement, he went upstairs and found the rear bedroom to be completely empty except for a single bentwood chair painted gooseberry green. The narrow window looked out at a blank wall which ricocheted his thoughts back like bullets.
I may die in this room! The idea leaped into his mind unbidden, bringing with it a depression which countered the shame-tinged arousal the atmosphere of shabby secrecy had inspired in him. He clattered down the stairs and began carrying the machine into the house. The shielding seemed even heavier than before but the distances were short and within ten minutes he had the entire set of components laid out on the floor of the bedroom. He considered beginning the assembly, then decided in favor of an early start back to Crymchurch. At this stage he had to give priority to letting the world know the machine existed.
“David’s asleep, and I’m going out for a couple of hours,” Vicky said from the doorway of his study. She was wearing a rustcoloured tweed suit he could not remember seeing before and her face beneath the carefully applied make-up was taut. A deep sadness gripped Hutchman and he knew that, in spite of everything, he had been hoping she would be satisfied with the blow she had already dealt him.
“Where are you going?”
“I may go and visit mother.”
“You may go and visit your mother.” He laughed drily. “All right, Vicky — I get the message.”
“That is… if you aren’t planning to go out,” she said casually, ignoring the implication of his remark. “I’ll stay in and mind David if you’re going out.”
Hutchman glanced at the stacks of white paper he had put through the copier. “No. I’m not going out.”
“That’s all right then.” Vicky gave him a speculative look and he guessed she was wondering how he had managed to grow strong. On best form, he should have been on his knees to her, weeping and pleading, groveling. And he would have done it — that much he had to admit — except that she had made the mistake of overkilling him. One adultery or a dozen, one megaton or a hundred. Hutchman could not plead for his life, because he was already dead.