Christopher Priest: The Space Machine

On this evening, though, I thought I detected a different fragrance as I climbed the stairs. It was drier, less sickly, more redolent of herbs than Mrs Anson’s perfumes… but then I could smell it no more, and I went on into my room and closed the door.

I lit the two oil-lamps in my room, then tidied my appearance in front of the mirror. I knew I had alcohol on my breath, so I brushed my teeth, then sucked a peppermint lozenge. I shaved, combed my hair and moustache, and put on a clean shirt.

When this was done I placed an easy chair beside the door, and moved a table towards it. On this I placed one of the lamps, and blew out the other. As an afterthought I took one of Mrs Anson’s bath-towels, and folded it over the arm of the chair. Then I was ready.

I sat down, and opened a novel.

More than an hour passed, during which although I sat with the book on my knee, I read not one word. I could hear the gentle murmur of conversation drifting up from the downstairs rooms, but all else was still.

At last I heard a light tread on the stairs, and at once I was ready. I put aside the book, and draped the bath-towel over my arm. I waited until the footsteps had passed my door, and then I let myself out.

In the dim light of the corridor I saw a female figure, and as she heard me she turned. It was a chambermaid, carrying a hot water bottle in a dark-red cover.

“Good evening, sir,” she said, making a small sullen curtsey in my direction, then continued on her way.

I went across the corridor into the bath-room, closed the door, counted to one hundred slowly, and then returned to my room.

Once more I waited, this time in considerably greater agitation than before.

Within a few minutes I heard another tread on the stairs, this time rather heavier. Again I waited until the footsteps had passed before emerging. It was Hughes, on his way to his room. We nodded to each other as I opened the door of the bath-room.

When I returned to my own room I was growing angry with myself for having to resort to such elaborate preparations and minor deceptions. But I was determined to go through with this in the way I had planned.

On the third occasion I heard footsteps I recognized Dykes’s tread, as he bounded up taking two steps at a time… I was thankful not to have to go through the charade with the bath-towel.

Another half-hour passed and I was beginning to despair, wondering if I had miscalculated. After all, Miss Fitzgibbon might well be staying in Mrs Anson’s private quarters; I had no reason to suppose that she would have been allocated a room on this floor. At length, though, I was in luck. I heard a soft tread on the staircase, and this time when I looked down the corridor I saw the retreating back of a tall young woman. I tossed the towel back into my room, snatched up my samples-case, closed the door quietly and followed her.

If she was aware that I was behind her, she showed no sign of it. She walked to the very end of the corridor, to where a small staircase led upwards. She turned, and climbed the steps.

I hastened to the end of the corridor, and as I reached the bottom of the steps I saw that she was on the point of inserting a key into the door. She looked down at me.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Turnbull, Edward Turnbull.”

As she regarded me I felt immensely foolish, peering up at her from the bottom of the steps. She said nothing, but nodded slightly at me.

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Fitzgibbon?” I went on. “Miss A. Fitzgibbon?”

“That is I,” she said, in a pleasant, well modulated voice.

“Miss Fitzgibbon, I know you will think this an extraordinary request, but I have something here I think will be of interest to you. I wondered if I might show it to you?”

For a moment she said nothing, but continued to stare down at me. Then she said: “What is it, Mr Turnbull?”

I glanced along the corridor, fearing that at any moment another of the guests would appear.

I said: “Miss Fitzgibbon, may I come up to you?”

“No, you may not. I shall come down.”

She had a large leather hand-bag, and she placed this on the tiny landing beside her door. Then, raising her skirt slightly, she came slowly down the steps towards me.

When she stood before me in the corridor, I said: “I will not detain you for more than a few moments. It was most fortunate that you should be staying in this hotel.”

While I spoke I had crouched down on the floor, and was fumbling with the catch of my samples-case. The lid came open, and I took out one of the Visibility Protection Masks. I stood up,’ holding it in my hand, and noticed that Miss Fitzgibbon was regarding me curiously. There was something about her forthright gaze that was most disconcerting.

She said: “What do you have there, Mr Turnbull?”

“I call it the Visibility Protection Mask,” I said. She made no reply, so I went on in some confusion: “You see, it is suited for passengers as well as the driver, and can be removed at a moment’s notice.”

At this, the young lady stepped back from me, and seemed to be about to ascend the steps once more.

“Please wait!” I said… “I am not explaining very well.”

“Indeed you are not. What is it you have in your hand, and why should it be of such interest to me that you accost me in an hotel corridor?”

Her expression was so cold and formal I did not know how to phrase my words. “Miss Fitzgibbon, I understand that you are in the employ of Sir William Reynolds?”

She nodded to confirm this, so at once I stuttered out an account of how I felt sure he would be interested in my Mask.

“But you have still not told me what it is.”

“It keeps grit out of one’s eyes when motoring,” I said, and on a sudden impulse I raised the Mask to my eyes’, and held it in place with my hands. At this the young lady laughed abruptly, but I felt that it was not an unkind laughter.

“They are motoring goggles!” she said. “Why .did you not say?”

“You have seen them before?” I said in surprise.

“They are common in America.”

“Then Sir William already possesses some?” I said.

“No … but he probably feels he does not need them.”

I crouched down again, hunting through my samples-case.

“There is a ladies’ model,” I said, searching anxiously through the various products that I kept in my case. At last I found the smaller variety that Mr Westerman’s factory had produced, and stood up, holding it out to her. In my haste I inadvertently knocked my case, and a pile of photograph albums, wallets and writing-cases spilled on the floor. “You may try this on, Miss Fitzgibbon. It’s made of the best kid.”

As I looked again at the young lady, I thought for a moment that her laughter was continuing, but she held her face perfectly seriously.

“I’m not sure that I need—”

“I assure you that it is comfortable to wear.”

My earnestness at last won through, for she took the leather goggles from me.

“There’s an adjustable strap,” I said. “Please try it on.”

I bent down once more, and thrust my spilled samples back into the case. As I did so, I glanced down the corridor again.

When I stood up, Miss Fitzgibbon had raised the Mask to her forehead, and was trying to connect the strap. The large, flowered hat that she was wearing made this exceptionally difficult. If I had felt foolish at the beginning of this interview, then it was nothing to what I now felt. My impulsive nature and awkwardness of manner had led me to a situation of the most embarrassing kind. Miss Fitzgibbon was clearly trying to humour me, and as she fumbled with the clasp I wished I had the strength to snatch the goggles away from her and run shamefacedly to my room. Instead, I stood lamely before her, watching her efforts with the strap. She was wearing a patient smile.