He followed Stacey towards the car, no longer bothering to listen to him. Ten yards from it he turned and broke away, ran swiftly across the roadway towards the nearest building.
‘Newman!’ he heard Stacey shout. ‘Come back!’ He reached the pavement, ran between the great concrete pillars carrying the building. He paused for a moment behind an elevator shaft, saw Stacey climbing hurriedly into the car. The engine coughed and roared out, and Conrad sprinted on below the building into a rear alley that led back to the side-street. Behind him he heard the car accelerating, a door slam as it picked up speed.
When he entered the side-street the car came swinging off the plaza thirty yards behind him. Stacey swerved off the roadway, bumped up on to the pavement and gunned the car towards Conrad, throwing on the brakes in savage lurches, blasting the horn in an attempt to frighten him. Conrad sidestepped out of its way, almost falling over the bonnet, hurled himself up a narrow stairway leading to the first floor and raced up the steps to a short landing that ended in tall glass doors. Through them he could see a wide balcony that ringed the building. A fireescape crisscrossed upwards to the roof, giving way on the fifth floor to a cafeteria that spanned the street to the office building opposite.
Below he heard Stacey’s feet running across the pavement. The glass doors were locked. He pulled a fire- extinguisher from its bracket, tossed the heavy cylinder against the centre of the plate. The glass slipped and crashed to the tiled floor in a sudden cascade, splashing down the steps. Conrad stepped through on to the balcony, began to climb the stairway. He had reached the third floor when he saw Stacey below, craning upwards. Hand over hand, Conrad pulled himself up the next two flights, swung over a bolted metal turnstile into the open court of the cafeteria. Tables and chairs lay about on their sides, mixed up with the splintered remains of desks thrown down from the upper floors.
The doors into the covered restaurant were open, a large pool of water lying across the floor. Conrad splashed through it, went over to a window and peered down past an old plastic plant into the street. Stacey seemed to have given up. Conrad crossed the rear of the restaurant, straddled the counter and climbed through a window on to the open terrace running across the street. Beyond the rail he could see into the plaza, the double line of tyre marks curving into the street below.
He had almost crossed to the opposite balcony when a shot roared out into the air. There was a sharp tinkle of falling glass and the sound of the explosion boomed away among the empty canyons.
For a few seconds he panicked. He flinched back from the exposed rail, his ear drums numbed, looking up at the great rectangular masses towering above him on either side, the endless tiers of windows like the faceted eyes of gigantic insects. So Stacey had been armed, almost certainly was a member of the Time Police!
On his hands and knees Conrad scurried along the terrace, slid through the turnstiles and headed for a half- open window on the balcony.
Climbing through, he quickly lost himself in the building.
He finally took up a position in a corner office on the sixth floor, the cafeteria just below him to the right, the stairway up which he had escaped directly opposite.
All afternoon Stacey drove up and down the adjacent streets, sometimes free-wheeling silently with the engine off, at others blazing through at speed. Twice he fired into the air, stopping the car afterwards to call out, his words lost among the echoes rolling from one street to the next. Often he drove along the pavements, swerved about below the buildings as if he expected to flush Conrad from behind one of the banks of escalators.
Finally he appeared to drive off for good, and Conrad turned his attention to the clock in the portico. It had moved on to 6.45, almost exactly the time given by his own watch. Conrad reset this to what he assumed was the correct time, then sat back and waited for whoever had wound it to appear. Around him the thirty or forty other clocks he could see remained stationary at 12.01.
For five minutes he left his vigil, scooped some water off the pool in the cafeteria, suppressed his hunger and shortly after midnight fell asleep in a corner behind the desk.
He woke the next morning to bright sunlight flooding into the office. Standing up, he dusted his clothes, turned around to find a small grey-haired man in a patched tweed suit surveying him with sharp eyes. Slung in the crook of his arm was a large black-barrelled weapon, its hammers menacingly cocked.
The man put down a steel ruler he had evidently tapped against a cabinet, waited for Conrad to collect himself.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in a testy voice. Conrad noticed his pockets were bulging with angular objects that weighed down the sides of his jacket.
‘I… er…’ Conrad searched for something to say. Something about the old man convinced him that this was the clock-winder. Suddenly he decided he had nothing to lose by being frank, and blurted out: ‘I saw the clock working. Down there on the left. I want to help wind them all up again.’
The old man watched him shrewdly. He had an alert bird-like face, twin folds under his chin like a cockerel’s.
‘How do you propose to do that?’ he asked.
Stuck by this one, Conrad said lamely: ‘I’d find a key somewhere.’
The old man frowned. ‘One key? That wouldn’t do much good.’ He seemed to be relaxing slowly, shook his pockets with a dull chink.
For a few moments neither of them said anything. Then Conrad had an inspiration, bared his wrist. ‘I have a watch,’ he said. ‘It’s 7.45.’
‘Let me see.’ The old man stepped forward, briskly took Conrad’s wrist, examined the yellow dial. ‘Movado Supermatic,’ he said to himself. ‘CTC issue.’ He stepped back, lowering the shotgun, seemed to be summing Conrad up. ‘Good,’ he remarked at last. ‘Let’s see. You probably need some breakfast.’
They made their way out of the building, began to walk quickly down the street.
‘People sometimes come here,’ the old man said. ‘Sightseers and police. I watched your escape yesterday, you were lucky not to be killed.’ They swerved left and right across the empty streets, the old man darting between the stairways and buttresses. As he walked he held his hands stiffly to his sides, preventing his pockets from swinging. Glancing into them, Conrad saw that they were full of keys, large and rusty, of every design and combination.
‘I presume that was your father’s watch,’ the old man remarked.
‘Grandfather’s,’ Conrad corrected. He remembered Stacey’s lecture, and added: ‘He was killed in the plaza.’
The old man frowned sympathetically, for a moment held Conrad’s arm.
They stopped below a building, indistinguishable from the others nearby, at one time a bank. The old man looked carefully around him, eyeing the high cliff walls on all sides, then led the way up a stationary escalator.
His quarters were on the second floor, beyond a maze of steel grilles and strongdoors, a stove and a hammock slung in the centre of a large workshop. Lying about on thirty or forty desks in what had once been a typing pool, was an enormous collection of clocks, all being simultaneously repaired. Tall cabinets surrounded them, loaded with thousands of spare parts in neatly labelled correspondence trays escapements, ratchets, cogwheels, barely recognizable through the rust.
The old man led Conrad over to a wall chart, pointed to the total listed against a column of dates. ‘Look at this. There are now 278 running continuously. Believe me, I’m glad you’ve come. It takes me half my time to keep them wound.’
He made breakfast for Conrad, told him something about himself. His name was Marshall. Once he had worked in Central Time Control as a programmer, had survived the revolt and the Time Police, ten years later returned to the city. At the beginning of each month he cycled out to one of the perimeter towns to cash his pension and collect supplies. The rest of the time he spent winding the steadily increasing number of functioning clocks and searching for others he could dismantle and repair.
‘All these years in the rain hasn’t done them any good,’ he explained, and there’s nothing I can do with the electrical ones.’
Conrad wandered off among the desks, gingerly feeling the dismembered timepieces that lay around like the nerve cells of some vast unimaginable robot. He felt exhilarated and yet at the same time curiously calm, like a man who has staked his whole life on the turn of a wheel and is waiting for it to spin.
‘How can you make sure that they all tell the same time?’ he asked Marshall, wondering why the question seemed so important.
Marshall gestured irritably. ‘I can’t, but what does it matter? There is no such thing as a perfectly accurate
