But his mouth remained frozen in the original contortion. His pain grew more intense, yet the tears refused to come.
Finally, swearing bitterly and feeling cheated, Hutchman got to his feet and walked back to his car through black streets which were battlegrounds for tides of cold air. The familiar smell and feel of the car was momentarily comforting. He filled the tank at a self-service station and made a conscious effort to be more constructive in his thinking — the episode by the river had been distressing and futile. The last of the envelopes, including those bound for destinations in Britain, had been mailed and tomorrow they would be read by people in high places. There could be a short delay while qualified men were verifying the pages of maths, and while physicists were confirming that the cestron laser in the specification could be built, but at some time tomorrow the word was going to go out. The message was going to be simple: Find Lucas Hutchman and, if he has a machine, obliterate both the man and his works.
In the few relatively secure hours that were left to him, Hutchman had to find a good hole and crawl into it. A first consideration was that it would be a mistake to remain in Stockport, which was at the warmest end of the postal spoor he had created. The hunters would be informed that an antibomb machine would not be readily portable and could infer that, if it really existed, it was likely to be hidden somewhere in the south and not too far from Hutchman’s home. They could also reason that, having traced a line toward the north of England, their quarry would be likely to double back, both to put them off the scent and to get closer to the hidden machine. That being the case, Hutchman decided on the strength of this pseudo-data, he would continue northward.
He drove up to Manchester, skirted it on the ring road, and went off on a northwesterly tangent with a vague idea of trying to reach the Cumbrian lake district that night. But other considerations began to weigh on his mind. The lake district was a very long way from Hastings and it was the type of area, especially at this time of year, where the authorities would have little difficulty in controlling the exit points. It would be better to lose himself in a population center and — if he did not want to arrive conspicuously in the dead of night — to pick one fairly near at hand. He pulled off the highway and consulted a road map.
The nearest town of any size was Bolton which, to Hutchman’s mind, was the epitome of the traditionally humdrum life of provincial England. Its name produced no overtones, Freudian or otherwise, associated with Crombie-Carson’s “typical spy fantasy”, which made it a good choice from Hutchman’s point of view. And there was the fact that, to the best of his knowledge, not one person he knew lived there — the hunters would be likely to concentrate on areas where Hutchman was known to have friends to which he might turn for help.
With his decision made, he got onto the Salford-Bolton road and drove with the maximum concentration on his surroundings which was becoming a habit. The easiest course would be to check in at a hotel, but presumably that would almost be the most dangerous. He needed to drop completely out of sight. Reaching Bolton, he cruised slowly until he found himself in one of the twilight areas, common to all cities and towns, where large shabby houses fought a losing battle with decay, receiving minimal aid from owners who rented out single rooms. He parked in a street of nervously rustling elms, took his empty suitcase and walked until he saw a house with a card which said “Bed Breakfast” hanging from the catch of a downstairs window.
The woman who answered the doorbell was in her late forties and heavy-bosomed, wearing a pink see-through blouse which covered a complexity of silk straps. Her blonde hair was elaborately piled up above a large-chinned face. A pale-faced boy of seven or eight, wearing striped pajamas, stood close to her with his arms around her thighs.
“Good evening,” Hutchman said uncertainly. “I’m looking for accommodation, and I saw your sign…”
“Oh, yes?” The woman sounded surprised to hear that she had a sign. The boy eyed Hutchman warily from the folds of her skirt.
“Have you any rooms to let?” Hutchman looked beyond her into the dimly-lit hall, with its brown linoleum and dark stairway ascending into alien upper reaches of the house, and wished he could go home.
“We have a room, but my husband usually attends to the letting and he isn’t here right now.”
“That’s all right,” Hutchman said with relief. “I’ll try elsewhere.”
“I think it should be all right, though. Mr. Atwood will be home shortly.” She stood aside and gestured for him to enter. Hutchman went in. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet and there was a strong smell of floral air freshener.
“How long did you want to stay?” Mrs. Atwood asked.
“Until… .” Hutchman checked himself. “A couple of weeks or so.” He went upstairs to view the room which, predictably, was on the top floor. It was small but clean, and the bed had two mattresses, which suggested it could be comfortable if a trifle high. He inquired and found that he could have full board, consisting of three meals a day, and that Mrs. Atwood would take care of his laundry for a small extra charge. “This looks fine,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I’ll take the room.”
“I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable here.” Mrs. Atwood touched her hair. “All my boys are very comfortable.”
Hutchman smiled. “I’ll bring up my case.”
There was a sound outside on the landing, and the small boy came into the room carrying Hutchman’s case.
“Geoffrey! You shouldn’t have… .” Mrs. Atwood turned to Hutchman. “He isn’t very well, you know. Asthma.”
“It’s empty,” Geoffrey asserted, nonchalantly swinging the case into the bed. “I can carry an empty case all right, Mum.”
“Ah” Hutchman met Mrs. Atwood’s eyes. “It isn’t completely empty, but most of my stuff is down in the car.”
She nodded. “Do you mind paying something in advance?”
“Of course not.” Hutchman separated three five-pound notes from the roll without taking it out of his pocket and handed them to her. As soon as she had gone he locked the door, noting with surprise that the key was bent. It was a slim, uncomplicated affair with a long shaft which in the region of the bend had a bluish tinge as though the metal had been heated and bent on purpose. Shaking his head in bafflement, Hutchman threw his jacket on the bed and walked around the little room, fighting off the homesickness which had begun to grip him again. He opened the room’s only window with difficulty and put his head out. The night air was raw, making him dizzy, producing a sensation curiously similar to that in a dream of flying. His head seemed to be dissociated from his body, hovering high in the darkness close to unfamiliar arrangements of gutters and pipes, slates and sills. All around and below him lighted windows glowed, some with drawn blinds or curtains, others affording glimpses into appalling, meaningless rooms. This physical situation — his head drifting disembodied and unseen, close to the walls of a canyon of nightmare — was no stranger than the matrix of horror his life had become. He knelt that way for a long time, until the cold had eaten into his bones and he was shivering violently, then closed the window and went to bed.