‘Spindle Operatives to Go Slow,’ he would announce; ‘never knew ’em do anything else. Earl Leaves Estate to Actress—“My Dear Friend.” Well, I expect she ’ad to work ’ard enuff for it. ’Ere’s a good wun. Swans Served in Restaurant. Chef Denies Knowledge. T’menu must a been in French.’ And so he would ramble on. But the talk was never personal. This suited Charles. He had always resisted the idea of collaboration, for he had not dared to hope for a partner who would be without the simple, heavy curiosity of the provincial working class; he had imagined himself being pumped, and dreaded having his dead past raked up as a spy in an enemy country dreads interrogation. For the rest of his life he was to travel without a passport, and it was important not to be held for questioning.

Ern, however, was perfect. Not once, in the months during which they worked harmoniously together, did he ask how Charles came to be earning his living by cleaning windows. Nor did he volunteer any reason why he himself came to be out of a job, or say what had brought about his decision that evening in Harry’s. He seemed to regard it as the most natural thing in the world that they should do this work and do it together. And since the episode of the bald-headed man, Charles was in no mood to disturb what seemed to him an excellent arrangement. Nothing like that had happened since; a cautious investigation had indicated that the bald man was neither a window-cleaner himself nor likely to have been incited to his action by one. He was just a rough, well-known locally, who had never had a job for long and seldom stayed out of gaol for twelve months together. His attack on Charles had probably been either inspired by a fit of semi-insane jealousy or part of some roundabout scheme for extorting money out of him. He did not represent a permanent menace, particularly as for the next four months he could be seen every Tuesday and Friday attending the Out-Patients’ Department of the local hospital with a dirty bandage over his right hand.

And so, while admitting to himself that Ern was a mystery, Charles valued the bond of non-inquisitiveness between them. And it comforted him, too, to know that if Ern should ever start asking questions, he could ask a few embarrassing ones in his turn. What was a capable, confident artisan in early middle life doing in a back-water like Stotwell, scratching a living at window-­cleaning? And why, after each day’s work, did he go straight back to his dingy lodgings, never (after the first time) inviting Charles there, and never emerging till it was time to work again? Was it for pure love of the life of a robot?