He reached up and moved the hands of the clock to almost one o’clock. Then he reached down, gripped the pendulum, and set it swinging.

  The world continued to exist.

  “You see? The universe doesn’t stop even for my clock,” Jeremy went on. He folded his hands, and sat down. “Watch,” he said calmly.

  The clock ticked gently. Then something rattled in the machinery around it, and the big green tubes of acid began to sizzle.

  “Well, nothing seems to have happened,” said Dr. Hopkins. “That’s a blessing.”

  Sparks crackled around the lightning rod positioned above the clock.

  “This is just making a path for the lightning,” said Jeremy happily. “We sent a little lightning up, and a lot more comes back—”

  Things were moving inside the clock. There was a sound best represented as fizzle, and greenish-blue light filled the case.

  “Ah, the cascade has initialized,” said Jeremy. “As a little exercise, the, ah, more traditional pendulum clock has been slaved to the Big Clock, you’ll see, so that every second it will be readjusted to the correct time.” He smiled, and one cheek twitched. “Some day all clocks will be like this,” he said, and added, “while I normally hate such an imprecise term as ‘any second now,’ nevertheless, I—”

  Tick

  There was a fight going on in the square. In the strange colors involved in the time-slicing state known as Zimmerman’s Valley, it was picked out in shades of light blue.

  By the look of it, a couple of watchmen were trying to take on a gang. One man was airborne, and hung there without support. Another had fired a crossbow directly at one of the watchmen; the arrow was nailed unmoving in the air.

  Lobsang examined it curiously.

  “You’re going to touch it, aren’t you,” said a voice behind Lobsang. “You’re just going to reach out and touch it, despite everything I’ve told you. Pay attention to the damn sky!”

  Lu-Tze was smoking nervously. When it got a few inches away from his body, the smoke went rigid in the air.

  “Are you sure you can’t feel where it is?” he snapped.

  “It’s all around us, Sweeper. We’re so close, it . . .it’s like trying to see the woods when you’re standing under the trees!”

  “Well, this is the Street of Cunning Artificers and that’s the Guild of Clockmakers over there,” said Lu-Tze. “I don’t dare go inside if it’s this close, not until we’re certain.”

  “Could it be the wizards at the University?”

  “Wizards aren’t mad enough to try it!”

  “You’re going to try and race the lightning?”

  “It’s doable, if we start from here in the valley. Lightning ain’t as quick as people think.”

  “Are we waiting to see a little pointy bit of lightning coming out of a cloud?”

  “Hah! Kids today, where do they get their education? The first stroke is from the ground to the air, lad. That makes a nice hole in the air for the main lightning to come down. Look for the glow. We’ve got to be giving the road plenty of sandal by the time it reaches the clouds. You holding up okay?”

  “I could go on like this all day,” said Lobsang.

  “Don’t try it.” Lu-Tze scanned the sky again. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s just a storm. Sooner or later you get—”

  He stopped. One look at Lobsang’s face was enough.

  “O-kay,” said the sweeper slowly. “Just give me a direction. Just point if you can’t speak.”

  Lobsang dropped to his knees, hands rising to his head.

  “I don’t know . . .don’t know . . .”

  Silvery light rose over the city, a few streets away. Lu-Tze grabbed the boy’s elbow.

  “Come on, lad. On your feet. Faster than lightning, eh? Okay?”

  “Yeah . . .yeah, okay . . .”

  “You can do it, right?”

  Lobsang blinked. He could see the glass house again, stretching away as a pale outline overlaid onto the city.

  “Clock,” he said thickly.

  “Run, boy, run!” shouted Lu-Tze. “And don’t stop for anything.”

  Lobsang plunged forward and found it hard. Time moved aside for him, sluggishly at first, as his legs pumped; with every step he pushed himself faster and faster, the landscape changing colors again as the world slowed even further.

  There was another stitch in time, the sweeper had said. Another valley, even closer to the null point. Insofar as he could think at all, Lobsang hoped he reached it soon. His body felt as though it would fly apart; he could feel his bones creaking.

  The glow ahead was halfway to the iron-heavy clouds now, but he’d reached a crossroads and he could see it rising from a house halfway down the street.

  He turned to look for the sweeper, and saw the man yards behind him, mouth open, a statue falling forward.

  Lobsang turned, concentrated, let time speed up.

  He reached Lu-Tze and caught him before he hit the ground. There was blood coming from the old man’s ears.

  “I can’t do it, lad,” the sweeper mumbled. “Get on! Get on!”

  “I can do it! It’s like running downhill!”

  “Not for me it ain’t!”

  “I can’t just leave you here like this!”

  “Save us from heroes! Get that bloody clock!”

  Lobsang hesitated. The downstroke was already emerging from the clouds, a drifting, glowing spike.

  He ran. The lightning was falling toward a shop, a few buildings away. He could see a big clock hanging over its window.

  He pushed against the flow of time ever further, and it yielded. But the lightning had reached the iron pole atop the building.

  The window was closer than the door. He lowered his head and jumped through it, the glass shattering around him and then freezing in midair, clocks pinwheeling off the display and stopping as if caught in invisible amber.

  There was another door ahead of him. He grabbed the knob and pulled, feeling the terrible resistance of a slab of wood urged to move at an appreciable fraction of the speed of light.

  It was barely open a few inches when he saw, beyond, the slow ooze of lightning down the rod and into the heart of the big clock.

  The clock struck one.

  Time stopped.

  Ti—

  Mr. Soak, the dairyman, was washing bottles at the sink when the air dimmed and the water solidified.

  He stared at it for a moment and then, with the manner of a man trying an experiment, held the bottle over the stone floor and let it go.

  It remained hanging in the air.

  “Damn it,” he said. “Another idiot with a clock, eh?”

  What he did then was not usual dairy practice. He walked into the center of the room and made a few passes in the air with his hands.

  The air brightened. The water splashed. The bottle smashed—although, when Ronnie turned around and waved a hand at it, the glass slivers ran together again.

  Then Ronnie Soak sighed and went into the cream settling room. Large wide bowls stretched away into the distance and, if Ronnie had ever allowed another to notice this, the distance contained far more distance than is usually found in a normal building.

  “Show me,” he said.

  The surface of the nearest bowl of milk became a mirror, and then began to show pictures . . .

  Ronnie went back into the dairy, took his peaked cap off its hook by the door, and crossed the courtyard to the stable. The sky overhead was a sullen, unmoving gray as he emerged leading his horse.

  It was black, glistening with health, and there was this about it that was odd: it shone as though it was illuminated by a red light. Redness spangled off its shoulders and flanks, even under the grayness.

  And even when it was harnessed to the cart it didn’t look like any kind of horse that should be hitched to any kind of wagon, but people never noticed this and, again, Ronnie took care to make sure that they didn’t.

  The cart gleamed with white paint, picked out here and there with a fresh green. The wording on the side declared proudly:

  RONALD SOAK, HYGENIC DAIRYMAN.

  ESTABLISHED

  Perhaps it was odd that people never said, “Established when, exactly?” and, if they ever had, the answer would have had to be quite complicated.

  Ronnie opened the gates to the yard and, milk crates rattling, set out into the timeless moment. It was terrible, he thought, the way things conspired against the small businessman.

  Lobsang Ludd awoke to a little clicking, spinning sound.

  He was in darkness, but it yielded reluctantly to his hand. It felt like velvet, and it was. He’d rolled under one of the display cabinets.

  There was a vibration in the small of his back. He reached around gingerly, and realized that the portable Procrastinator was revolving in its cage.

  So . . .

  How did it go, now? He was living on borrowed time. He’d got maybe an hour, perhaps a lot less. But he could slice it, so . . .

  . . .no. Something told him that trying that would be a really terminal idea with time stored in a device made by Qu. The mere thought made him feel that his skin was inches from a universe full of razor blades.

  So . . .one hour, perhaps a lot less. But you could rewind a spinner, right?

  No. The handle was at the back. You could rewind someone else’s spinner. Thank you, Qu, and your experimental models.

  Could you take it off, then? No. The harness was part of it. Without it, different parts of your body would be traveling at different speeds. The effect would probably be rather like freezing a human body solid, and then pushing it down a flight of stone stairs.

  Open the box with the crowbar that you will find inside . . .

  There was a green-blue glow through the crack in the door. He took a step toward it, and heard the spinner suddenly pick up speed. That meant it was shedding more time, and that was bad when you had an hour, perhaps a lot less.

  He took a step away from the door and the Procrastinator settled back into its routine clicking.

  So . . .

  Lu-Tze was out in the street and he had a spinner and that should have cut in automatically, too. In this timeless world, he was going to be the only person who could turn a handle.

  The glass that he had broken in his leap through the window had opened around the hole like a great sparkling flower. He reached out to touch a piece. It moved as though alive, cut his finger, and then dropped toward the ground, stopping only when it fell out of the field around his body.

  Don’t touch people, Lu-Tze had said. Don’t touch arrows. Don’t touch things that were moving, that was the rule. But the glass—

  —but the glass, in normal time, had been flying through the air. It’d still have that energy, wouldn’t it?

  He eased himself carefully around the glass, and opened the front door of the shop. The wood moved very slowly, fighting against the enormous speed.

  Lu-Tze was not in the street. But there was something new, hovering in the air just a few inches above the ground right where the old man had been. It had not been there before.

  Someone with their own portable time had been here, and had dropped this, and had moved on before it reached the ground.

  It was a small glass jar, colored blue by temporal effects. Now . . .how much energy could it have? Lobsang cupped his hand and gingerly brought it underneath and up, and there was a tingle and a sudden feeling of weight as the spinner’s field claimed it.

  Now its true colors came back. The jar was a milky pink or, rather, clear glass that looked pink because of the contents. The paper lid was covered with badly printed pictures of unbelievably flawless strawberries, surrounding some ornate lettering which read: RONALD SOAK, HYGENIC DAIRYMAN. STRAWBERRY YOGURT “FRESH AS THE MORNING DEW.”

  Soak? He knew the name! The man had delivered milk to the Guild! Good fresh milk, too, not the watery, green-tinted stuff the other dairies supplied. Very reliable, everyone said. But, reliable or not, he was just a milkman . . .all right, just a very good milkman . . .and if time had stopped, then why—

  Lobsang looked around desperately. The people and carts that thronged the street were still there. No one had moved. No one could move.

  But something was running along the gutter. It looked like a rat in a black robe, running along on its hind legs. It looked up at Lobsang, and he saw that it had a skull rather than a head. As skulls went, it was quite a cheerful one.

  The word SQUEAK manifested itself inside his brain without bothering to go via his ears. Then the rat hopped onto the pavement and scampered down an alley.

  Lobsang followed it.

  A moment later someone behind him grabbed him by the neck. He went to break the lock, and realized how much he’d relied on slicing when he was fought. Besides, the person behind him had a very strong grip indeed.

  “I just want to make sure you don’t do anything silly,” it said. It was a female voice. “What is this thing on your back?”

  “Who are—”

  “The protocol in these matters,” said the voice, “is that the person with the killer neckgrip asks the questions.”

  “Er, it’s a Procrastinor. Er, it stores time. Who—”

  “Oh dear, there you go again. What is your name?”

  “Lobsang. Lobsang Ludd. Look, could you wind me up, please? It’s urgent.”

  “Certainly. Lobsang Ludd, you are thoughtless and impulsive and deserve to die a stupid and pointless death.”

  “What?”

  “And you are also rather slow on the uptake. You are referring to this handle?”

  “Yes. I’m running out of time. Now can I ask who you are?”

  “Miss Susan. Hold still.”

  He heard, behind him, the incredibly welcome sound of the Procrastinator’s clockwork being rewound.

  “Miss Susan?” he said.

  “That’s what most people I know call me. Now, I’m going to let you go. I will add that trying anything stupid will be counterproductive. Besides, I’m the only person in the world right now who might be inclined to twiddle your handle again.”

  The pressure was released. Lobsang turned slowly.

  Miss Susan was a slightly built young woman, dressed severely all in black. Her hair stood out around her head like an aura, white-blond with one black streak. But the most striking thing about her was . . .was everything, Lobsang realized, everything from her expression to the way she stood. Some people fade into the background. Miss Susan faded into the foreground. She stood out. Everything she stood in front of became nothing more than background.

  “Finished?” she said. “Seen everything?”

  “Sorry. Have you seen an old man? Dressed a bit like me? With one of these on his back?”

  “No. Now it’s my turn. Have you got rhythm?”

  “What?”

  Susan rolled her eyes. “All right. Do you have music?”

  “Not on me, no!”

  “And you certainly haven’t got a girl,” said Miss Susan. “I saw Old Man Trouble go past a few minutes ago. It’d be a good idea if you don’t bump into him, then.”

  “And is he likely to have taken my friend?”

  “I doubt it. And Old Man Trouble is more an it than a he. Anyway, there’s far worse than him around right now. Even the bogeymen have gone to ground.”

  “Look, time has stopped, right?” said Lobsang.

  “Yes.”

  “So how can you be here talking to me?”

  “I’m not what you might call a creature of time,” said Miss Susan. “I work in it, but I don’t have to live there. There are a few of us about.”

  “Like this Old Man Trouble you mentioned?”

  “Right. And the Hogfather, the Tooth Fairy, the Sandman, people like that.”

  “I thought they were mythical?”

  “So?” Susan glanced out of the mouth of the alley again.

  “And you’re not?”

  “I take it you didn’t stop the clock,” said Miss Susan, looking up and down the street.

  “No. I was . . .too late. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone back to help Lu-Tze.”

  “I’m sorry? You were dashing to prevent the end of the world but you stopped to help some old man? You . . .hero!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that I was a—” And then Lobsang stopped. She hadn’t said “you hero” in the tone of voice of “you star”; it had been the tone in which people say “you idiot.”

  “I see a lot of your sort,” Susan went on. “Heroes have a very strange grasp of elementary maths, you know. If you’d smashed the clock before it struck, everything would have been fine. Now the world has stopped, and we’ve been invaded, and we’re probably all going to die, just because you stopped to help someone. I mean, very worthy and all that, but very, very . . .human . . .”

  She used the word as if she meant it to mean “silly.”

  “You mean you need cool calculating bastards to save the world, do you?” said Lobsang.

  “The cool calculation does help, I must admit,” said Susan. “Now, shall we go and look at this clock?”

  “Why? The damage is done now. If we smash it, it’ll only make things worse. Besides, uh, the spinner started to run wild and I, er, I felt—”

  “Cautious,” said Susan. “Good. Caution is sensible. But there’s something I want to check.”

  Lobsang tried to pull himself together. This strange woman had the air of someone who knew exactly what she was doing—who knew exactly what everyone was doing—and, besides, what alternative did he have? Then he remembered the yogurt pot.

  “Does this mean anything?” he said. “I’m certain it was dropped in the street after time stopped.”

  She took the pot and examined it.

  “Oh,” she said casually. “Ronnie’s been around, has he?”

  “Ronnie?”

  “Oh, we all know Ronnie.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Let’s just say if he found your friend then your friend is going to be okay. Probably okay. More okay than he would be if just about anything else found him, at least. Look, this is not a time when you should be worrying about one person. Cold calculation, right?”

  She stepped out into the street. Lobsang followed. Susan walked as if she owned the street. She scanned every alley and doorway, but not like a potential victim apprehensive of attackers. It seemed to Lobsang that she was disappointed to find nothing dangerous in the shadows.