The Peace Machine

PROLOGUE

My finger rests lightly on the black button.

The street beyond this window looks quiet, but I am not deceived — for my death lies out there, waiting. I had thought myself prepared to face it, yet now a strange timidity grips me. Having surrendered all claim to life, I am still reluctant to die. The only parallel to this mood in my experience is that of a man whose marriage is failing (of such things I can sneak with some authority) but who lacks the nerve or energy for adultery. He eyes another woman squarely, with all the boldness he can muster, and inwardly he begs her to take the first step — for, in spite of his yearnings, he cannot. In this way then, I confront the sergeant whose arrest is so strict; in this way I hesitate on the threshold of one of death’s ten thousand doors.

My finger rests lightly on the black button.

The sky, too, looks peaceful, but I wonder. Up there in that vault of wind-scoured pewter an aircraft may be preparing to unburden itself of a man-made sun; at this exact second a missile may be penetrating the upper atmosphere amid a cloud of decoys and slow-tumbling rocket casings. That way, the whole town would go with me, but my conscience can sustain the weight of seventy thousand deaths as long as there is time to carry out the vow before the fireball comes billowing and spreading.

As long as I press the black buttons.

My left arm hangs limp, and blood trickles warmly downward across the palm of that hand, tempting me to close the fingers, to try holding on to life. I can find no bullet hole in the material of my sleeve — the fibres appear to have closed over it as do a bird’s feathers — which seems strange, but what do I know of such things?

How did I, Lucas Hutchman, an undistinguished mathematician, come to be in this situation?

It should be instructive to consider the events of the past few weeks, but I’m tired and must be careful not to relax too much.

I must be prepared to press the black button…