The lock clicked loudly on the front door. He ran to it eagerly, yet half-afraid of what he might do to Vicky with the clublike objects his fists had become, and found David peering at him with the eyes of a tarsier.

“Sorry, son. I got locked out.” Hutchman lifted the pyjamaclad child and carried him into the house, closing the door with his heel. He put David into bed then went into the main bedroom where Vicky was lying perfectly still, pretending to be asleep. The thought of being able to lay his cold, weary body down beside her, and of not having to stay outside in the ancient England of runes and robbers which seemed to recreate itself in the darkness, drained away his anger. He undressed quickly, got in between the sheets, and slid his arm around the familiar torso. On the instant, Vicky was out of bed and standing at the far side of the room, her naked body voluptuously shaded by the moonlight.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice fractured, like ice.

He sat up. “Vicky, what’s the matter?”

“Just don’t try to touch me. I’ll sleep in the other room.”

“Why are you behaving like this?” Hutchman spoke carefully, aware of how much was in the balance. He knew perfectly well what the uncomfortable little tableaux was all about — memories of previous walks through this section of the Marriage Exhibition came shimmering. How dare you suggest there’s anything wrong with my mind! Is a woman insane if she doesn’t want a filthy disease brought into the house, to her and her child? The trouble was he could not say he knew what was in her mind because — Vicky fought like a retiarius, always spreading her net in the same way while poising the trident — she would turn it into an admission of guilt.

“You will not sleep in the other room,” he said firmly.

“I’m not sleeping in that bed. Not now.”

Not now that it could be contaminated with his filthy disease, Hutchman interpreted, seeing the net swirl toward him again. He evaded it by saying nothing. Instead he got out of bed and moved toward her. Vicky vanished through the bedroom door, and it took him a second to realize she had turned right toward the front door. He followed her into the short corridor as the main door opened to admit a gust of night air which probed insouciantly around his unprotected body. Vicky was outside, standing in the center of the lawn.

“Don’t touch me,” she shouted. “I’d rather stay out here all night.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Hutchman said aloud, but not addressing anyone. “What am I going to do?” Vicky could run well, so there was little hope of his catching her even if he decided to give chase and risk attracting the attention of outsiders. He turned back into the house, leaving the door open, and walked slowly into the second bedroom. Sometime later he heard the front door closing and there came a momentary hope, dismaying in its intensity, that Vicky would come to him with dew-cold breasts and thighs, seeking warmth. But she went into the other room, leaving him huddled in his bitterness.

Attempting an explanation would have been disastrous whether it was believed or rejected. Either way, Vicky would talk — to her parents, to her friends and neighbours, to his colleagues — and that would be dangerous, because people would remember the things she said. The short-term goal of completing the machine was filling his mind, but beyond it the first outlines of a plan were taking shape. Vague though it was, one element was apparent — the frightful danger to himself, his wife, and even David. The machine had to be built in secret, yet before it would serve its purpose the secret would have to be broken thoroughly and systematically in a process which Hutchman could initiate but would find difficult to control. And Vicky, whom he had never been able to control, had to be kept in utter ignorance, even while stress patterns rippled through the structure of their marriage, building up in holographic concentrations around critical points such as the second milestone.

A gas centrifuge, in perfect condition but at a price he could afford, had become available in Manchester. Hutchman drove up and collected it with the intention of being back in Crymchurch by late evening, but the Midlands were submerged in fog. He got no further south than Derby before news of a multiple crash with fatalities at Belper prompted him to seek out a motel. It was almost midnight when he called Vicky to let her know he would not be home. The phone rang blurrily, as though the moisture-laden air was slowly drowning all things electronic and mechanical, and there was no reply. Hutchman was not particularly surprised. Vicky would have a fair idea of who was ringing, and why, so by not answering she was putting him at a disadvantage.

He set the phone down and stretched himself fully clothed on the chalet’s neat bed. That morning he had told Vicky the simple truth about his visit to Manchester, knowing her mind would shy away from the technicalities involved, and had asked her to come with him. She had said that he knew she would not keep David away from school for the day, and her tone implied that he would not have offered to take her with him otherwise. One up to Vicky. The damned machine, he thought. It’s costing me too much. Who do I think I am, anyway? Sixteen days had elapsed since the bomb had exploded on Damascus and as yet nobody had accepted the blame or, to put it another way, been able to do enough violence to the framework of political morality to make the action seem creditable, or even expedient. The Middle Eastern situation appeared paradoxically more stable than at any time since Syria’s abrupt withdrawal from the Arab Union — and Hutchman was faced with the fact that his machine would not bring any indomitable seven-year-olds back to life. It was a thought which, in the throbbing emptiness of the alien room, seemed worthy of consideration.

He reached Crymchurch in mid-morning and found the house locked up and empty. Milk bottles were on the doorstep and several items of mail were lying on the hall floor. He knew at once that Vicky and David had left sometime during the previous day. Suppressing a surge of self-pity which closed up his throat, he picked up the telephone, and began to ring Vicky’s parents, then changed his mind. She had run emotionally naked to her parents and, as on the night she had fled out onto the lawn, the best way to bring her back was to leave the door open and wait.

Three days went by before Vicky returned on a rainy Saturday morning, looking contrite and a little shamefaced, accompanied by her parents. Her father, Alderman James Morris, whitehaired and strawberry-nosed, spoke long and seriously to Hutchman about things like the cost of electricity and the uncertain nature of the money market. He never once mentioned his daughter’s marriage or expressed any views on what might be wrong with it, but the gravity of his tones seemed to convey a message outside their content. Hutchman answered all his remarks with equal seriousness. As soon as Vicky’s parents had left he sought her out in the bedroom. She smiled tearfully and pressed her palms downward against her hips like a little girl hoping for leniency after a prank, an action which spread her tawny shoulders within the oatmeal-coloured satin of her blouse.

“Where’s David?” he demanded.

“He was still in bed when I left. Dad’s taking him to the planetarium this afternoon and bringing him over later.”

“Oh!” Hutchman could feel sexuality pulsing in the quiet air. It was almost three weeks since they had made love and now, suddenly, glandular pressures were causing real pain.

“It was all a holiday for him, Lucas.”

“And for you?”

“I…” She came to him open-mouthed and hungry, and during the following hours she handled him with special tenderness until all the pain had left his body. Hutchman lay listening to the rain on the bedroom windows, the sane sound of rain, and wondered guiltily how Vicky would react when she learned that this time the pattern was going to be different. In the saw-tooth graph of their relationship a reconciliation scene was always followed by an idyllic period of harmony — but there had never been The Peace Machine to consider.