“They’ll never be operational,” a voice said in his ear. It was that of Boyd Crangle, assistant chief of preliminary design, who had come into the room unnoticed by Hutchman. Crangle had been opposed to the Jack-and-Jill project from its inception.

“Think not?”

“Not a chance,” Crangle said with crisp confidence. “All the aluminium we use in this country’s aerospace industry — it ends up being melted down and made into garbage cans because our aircraft and missiles are obsolescent before they get into the air. That’s what you and I help to produce, Hutch. Garbage cans. It would be much better, more honest, and probably more profitable if we cut out the intermediate stage and went into full-scale manufacture of garbage cans.”

“Or ploughshares.”

“Or what?”

“The things we ought to beat our swords into.”

“Very profound, Hutch.” Crangle sighed heavily. “It’s almost lunchtime — let’s go out to the Duke and have a pint.”

“No thanks, Boyd. I’m going home for lunch, taking half a day off.” Hutchman was mildly surprised by his own words, but realized he really did need to get away for a few hours on his own and face the fact that the equations he had written on a single scrap of paper could make him the most important man in the world. There were decisions to be made.

The drive to Crymchurch took less than half an hour on clear, almost-empty roads which looked slightly unfamiliar through being seen at an unfamiliar time of day. It was a fresh October afternoon and the air which lapped at the open windows of the car was cool. Turning into the avenue where he lived, Hutchman was suddenly struck by the fact that autumn had arrived — the sidewalks were covered with leaves, gold and copper coins strewn by extravagant beeches. September gets away every year, he thought. The favourite month always runs through my fingers before I realize it’s begun.

He parked outside the long, low house which had been a wedding present from Vicky’s father.