Thief of Time

it always would be big and wet. Oh, maybe fishermen would start to dredge up strange whiskery fish that they’d only ever seen before as fossils, but who cared what happened to a bunch of codfish?
    The sound changed.
    “What are you doing?” he shouted.
    “I’ve found space on number four hundred twenty-two! It can take another forty years! No sense in wasting time! I’m pulling it back now !”
    There was another change of tone.
    “Got it! I’m sure I’ve got it!”
    Some of the bigger cylinders were already slowing to a halt. Lobsang was moving pegs around the board now faster than the bewildered Lu-Tze could follow. And, overhead, the shutters were slamming back, one after another, showing age-blackened wood instead of color.
    No one could be that accurate, could they?
    “You’re down to months now, lad, months!” he shouted. “Keep it up! No…blimey, you’re down to days… days! Keep an eye on me!”
    The sweeper ran toward the end of the hall, to where the Procrastinators were smaller. Time was fine-tuned here, on cylinders of chalk and wood and other short-lived materials. To his amazement, some of them were already slowing.
    He raced down an aisle of oak columns a few feet high. But even the Procrastinators that could wind time in hours and minutes were falling silent.
    There was a squeaking noise.
    Beside him, one final little chalk cylinder at the end of a row rattled around on its bearing like a spinning top.
    Lu-Tze crept toward it, staring at it intently, one hand raised. The squeaking was the only sound now, apart from the occasional clink of cooling bearings.
    “Nearly there,” he called out. “Slowing down now…wait for it, wait…for…it…”
    The chalk Procrastinator, no bigger than a reel of cotton, slowed, spun…stopped.
    On the racks, the last two shutters closed.
    Lu-Tze’s hand fell.
    “ Now! Kill the board! No one touch nothing !”
    For a moment there was dead silence in the hall. The monks watched, holding their breath.
    This was a timeless moment of perfect balance.
    Tick
    And in that timeless moment the ghost of Mr. Shoblang, to whom the scene was hazy and fuzzy as a thought seen through gauze, said: “This is just impossible ! Did you see that?”
    S EE WHAT? said a dark figure behind him. Shoblang turned.
    “Oh,” he said, and added with sudden certainty, “you’re Death, right?”
    Y ES. I AM SORRY THAT I AM LATE.
    The spirit formerly known as Shoblang looked down at the pile of dust that represented his worldly habitation for the previous six hundred years.
    “So am I,” he said. He nudged Death in the ribs.
    E XCUSE ME?
    “I said ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ Badabingbadaboom.”
    I BEG YOUR PARDON?
    “Er…you know…sorry I’m late. Like…dead?”
    Death nodded. O H, I SEE. I T WAS THE BADABINGBADABOOM I DID NOT UNDERSTAND.
    “Er…that was to show it was a joke,” said Shoblang.
    A H, YES. I CAN SEE HOW THAT WOULD BE NECESSARY. I N FACT, M R. S HOBLANG, WHILE YOU ARE LATE, YOU ARE ALSO EARLY. B ADABING-BADABOOM.
    “Pardon?”
    Y OU HAVE DIED BEFORE YOUR TIME.
    “Well, yes, I should think so!”
    D O YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHY? I T’S VERY UNUSUAL.
    “All I know is that spinners went wild and I must’ve copped a load when one of ’em went overspeed,” said Shoblang. “But, hey, what about that kid, eh? Look at the way he’s making the buggers dance! I wish I’d had him training under me! What am I saying? He could give me a few tips!”
    Death looked around.
    T O WHOM DO YOU REFER?
    “That boy up on the podium, see him?”
    N O, I ’M AFRAID I SEE NO ONE THERE.
    “What? Look, he’s right there ! Plain as the nose on your fa—well, obviously not on your face…”
    I SEE THE COLORED PEGS MOVING…
    “Well, who do you think is moving them? I mean, you are Death, right? I thought you could see everyone!”
    Death stared at the dancing bobbins.
    E VERYONE…THAT I SHOULD SEE , he said. He continued to stare.
    “Ahem,” said Shoblang.
    O H, YES. W HERE WERE WE?
    “Look, if I’m, er, too early, then can’t you—”
    E VERYTHING THAT HAPPENS, STAYS HAPPENED.
    “What kind of philosophy is that?”
    T HE ONLY ONE THAT WORKS. Death took out an hourglass and consulted it. I SEE THAT BECAUSE OF THIS PROBLEM YOU ARE NOT DUE TO REINCARNATE FOR SEVENTY-NINE YEARS. D O YOU HAVE ANYWHERE TO STAY?
    “Stay? I’m dead. It’s not like locking yourself out of your own house!” said Shoblang, who was beginning to fade.
    P ERHAPS YOU COULD BE