Bob Shaw: The Peace Machine

“Yes — or full-time. Whatever you want.” Hutchman wondered if he sounded too anxious. “You do need drivers, don’t you?”

“We don’t pay a wage, you know. You get a third of your take, plus tips. A good man does well out of tips, but a beginner…”

“That sounds fine. I could start right way.”

“Just a minute,” Oliver said sternly. “Do you know the town?”

“Yes.” Hutchman’s heart sank. How could he have forgotten one of the basic requirements?

“How would you get to Crompton Avenue?”

“Ah…” Hutchman tried to remember the name of the main road he had driven along with Atwood, the only one he knew. “Straight out to Breightmet.”

Oliver nodded with some reluctance. “How would you get to Bridgeworth Close?”

“That’s a tricky one.” Hutchman forced a smile. “It might take me some time to get to know all the streets.”

“How would you get to Mason Street?” Oliver’s womanly lips were pursed in disapproval.

“Is that out toward Salford? Look, I told you…”

“I’m sorry, son. You just haven’t a good enough memory for this kind of work.”

Hutchman gazed at him in helpless anger, then turned away. Outside, he stared resentfully at the unfamiliar configurations of buildings. He had been rejected. His brain held information which was going to change the entire course of history, but a prissy old fool had looked down on him because he wasn’t familiar with a haphazard pattern of streets in an undistinguished… Pattern! That’s all it was. A man did not have to grow up in a town to get to know its layout if he had the right sort of mental disciplines.

Glancing at his watch, Hutchman found it was only a little after 5:30. He hurried to the nearest main thoroughfare, located a large stationery store, and bought two street maps of Bolton and a white correcting pencil. While he was paying for them he asked the sales assistant where he could find a copying service still open. The girl directed him to a place two blocks further along the same street. He thanked her, went outside, and shouldered his way through the crowds, reaching the office-equipment supplier, who did copying, just as an unseen clock was chiming the hour. A dapper young man with wispy fair hair was locking the door. He shook his head when Hutchman tried the handle. Hutchman took two five-pound notes from his pocket and pushed them through the low-level letter slot. The young man picked them up cautiously, studied Hutchman through the glass for a second, then opened the door a little.

“We close at six, you know.” He held the notes out tentatively.

“Those are yours,” Hutchman told him.

“What for?”

“Overtime payment. I have an urgent copying job which must be done right now. I’ll pay for it separately, but that tenner’s for you — if you’ll do the work.”

“Oh! Oh, well then. You’d better come in.” The youth gave a baffled laugh and opened the door wide. “Christmas is early this year, I must say.”

Hutchman unfolded one of his street maps. “Can you handle a sheet this size?”

“With ease.” The youth activated a gray machine and watched with perplexity as Hutchman took out the typist’s correcting pencil and, working at careless speed, obliterated all the street names. When he had finished he handed the map over. “Do me… mmm… a dozen copies of that.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man stared solemnly at Hutchman as he worked.

“I’m in advertising,” Hutchman said. “This is for a marketresearch project.”

Ten minutes later he was back out on the street with a warm roll of sheets under his arm. He now had all the equipment needed to carry out the type of memory blitz he had perfected in his university days, but there was still the problem of finding a quiet and secure place in which to work. The soothing effect of constructive activity abated slightly as it came to him that he was going to a great deal of trouble to get out of Bolton without having checked that it was really necessary. He saw a small newsagent’s shop on the opposite side of the street and crossed over to it. While still in the middle of the roadway he read the billboard which was leaning against a window sill.

It said: “POLICE CORDON SEALS OFF BOLTON!”

A number of copies of the evening paper were clipped to a wire rack in the doorway. He approached the shop and saw that a large photograph of himself was featured on the front page, with splash headlines which read: “BOLTON SURROUNDED BY POLICE CORDON. Mystery mathematician traced here today.” Hutchman decided not to risk going in and buying a paper — he had learned all he needed, anyway. He was turning away from the shop when a white Porsche drew up beside him and the passenger door was pushed open. The driver was an Oriental-looking girl in a silver dress.

“It’s warmer at my place,” she said, showing no trace of embarrassment over the fact that she sounded exactly the way a prostitute was supposed to sound.

Hutchman, who had been poised to flee, shook his head instinctively then caught the edge of the door. “Perhaps I am a little cold.” He got into the car, which smelled of leather and perfume, and was accelerated smoothly and expensively into the clustered lights of the town center.

He turned sideways to face the girl. “Where are we going?”

“Not far.”

Hutchman nodded contentedly. He was satisfied as long as she did not try to take him out of town, through a roadblock. “Have you any food at your place?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Starving — but I don’t run a soup kitchen.” Her neat face was hard.

Hutchman snorted, took a ten-pound note from his pocket, and dropped it on her lap. “Stop at a take-away and get us some food.”

“I’m a working girl, mister.” She flicked the note back at him. “The rate is exactly the same for companionship.”

“That’s understood — your name isn’t Melina Mercouri. How much for the night?”

“A hundred,” Her voice was defiant.

“A hundred it is.” Hutchman peeled off ten more notes, amazed at the fact that they still held value for other people. “Here’s the hundred, plus the food money. All right?”

For an answer she put her hand on his thigh and slid it into his crotch. He endured her touch without speaking. I could kill you, Vicky . The girl stopped at a snack bar, ran into it, and emerged with an armful of packages which smelt of roast chicken. She drove him to a small apartment block about ten minutes from the town center. Hutchman carried the food while she let herself in, and they went to a first-floor flat. It was simply furnished with white walls, white carpet, and a black ceiling in the main room.

“Food first?” the girl said.

“Food first.” Hutchman spread the packages on the table, opened them, and began to eat while his hostess was making coffee in a clinically bright kitchen. He was tired and nervous — pictures of a human eye rolling in the dust flickered before him — but the heat was helping him to relax. They ate in near silence and the girl cleared the remains into the kitchen. On her way back she slipped out of the silver dress with a single lithe movement, revealing that she was wearing a crimson satin bikini suit which, along with a certain muscularity of thighs, gave her the air of a trapeze artist. Her spice-coloured body was trim and taut and desirable. Hutchman’s groin turned to ice.

“Listen,” he said, lifting his roll of ammonia-smelling sheets. “I have some very urgent business to attend to for my firm, and I won’t be able to relax until it’s out of the way. Why don’t you watch television for a while?”

“I haven’t got television.”

Hutchman realized he had made a mistake in suggesting it — he was bound to be in the news more than ever. “Play music or read a book, then. All right?”