I've actually not heard this one before. | think time passing in books 
is like... a little path, where | can retread the same steps and words 
infinitely without a moment going by, and | likes it slow. | guess it's 
like floating down a little lazy river, seeing a story unfold on the 
banks. Once you've floated the whole way down, you can turn 
around and see the whole thing again. 


Do some stories take longer than others? 


Well, I'm usually in the story. When time passes there, it's like a 
pocket. Things are normal for what | see, or at least | think it's 
normal, then for the bits | ain't around in | just float through and 
watch, sometimes chatting, but | prefer to be the patient observer. 
Y'know? 


| think | do. Is there anything else you can tell me? 


Beats me, doc. | wouldn't even know where to ask. All the clocks | 
ever see are in storytime. 


| understand, thanks for talking to me 


Anytime... heh. 


Excerpt from research document by Stanley J. Gillespie. 


Time is a subject near and dear to my heart. My 
colleagues can attest to my love of the subject, from the 
instruments we use to measure it, to the theories that we 
spin about it. For a long time, | wanted to do my own 
study, not on time, but on the perception of time. How 
the people who are different see time in their own unique 
ways. Some, like that poor girl, can see their own 
reflections, and the reflections of others in front of her. 
Some might have called her a prophet, in times past, but 
today we'd just say she's another unfortunate person 
who can see too much, and they see something 
disgusting. 


Some of them, like Robert, don't have to care about time. 
They're effectively immortal, so the passing of the clock 
doesn't pose much of a threat. They sit, as days lapse 
into weeks, and into years. They set like concrete, 
binding in with the clock until it stops flat for them, 
unchanging. They're still, awaiting the eternity of 
lonesome night that inevitably awaits them. The one 
thing Robert liked to look at, was his window. | like to 
think it was his way of still seeing change, and growth, a 
special window from his private hell. But | know in the 
end, he doesn't care. 


| don't think any of them like it, to have their lives shaped 
this way. That the clock should deny them respite, or any 
kind of honor. It can leave someone more than slightly 
bitter, to have every opportunity for a semblance of 
normality. Instead, they watch as they die, and their 
friends die. The enemies die too, but there's nobody to 
celebrate with, because you outlived them all. | don't 
blame Chester for hitting me... what else could he do? 


And finally, we come to the few that don't abide by the 
rules. They don't exist as bodies, but as concepts, with 


time only applying to them in certain contexts. They 
neither recognize its rules, nor abide by its 
consequences. They quite literally have all the time in 
the world, because they will persist with or without 
another day going by. Fred can exist forever, in his 
books, seeing the same times day in and day out. He 
can speed through them quickly, or slow down to watch 
the same scenes unfold over and over. To him, time is a 
plaything. 


In the end, we can know that time is just a matter of how 
we see life. It can be a short series of deadlines, with a 
big X at the end, or it can be a circular pattern, and some 
of us can recognize these patterns more than others. But 
in the end, we don't need to worry about it. As the poet 
Henry Dobson put it: 


Time goes, you say? Ah no! 
Alas, Time stays, we go. 


Automata Et Cetera 


The clockworks on display in the temple were the culmination of 
many years of hard work by the craftsman. Years of hard, diligent 
work, many prayers to the god of the forge, innumerable cuts and 
scratches that had almost made his hands worthless and numb, his 
fingerprints long since worn off. 


And it hadn't been worth it. 


These clockwork creatures and men were... imperfect. The sparrow 
could only sit on a branch, it could not take flight. The automated 
man could only stare blankly at passersby, making them unsettled. 
Even the clockwork Heracles he had made, depicted strangling the 
great lion, was unimpressive; it could only repeat its actions until the 
spring wound down. It was not enough. 


And he feared it never would be. 


The automata were taken down from the temple the next day; the 
craftsman would have them disassembled and their parts melted 
down for new works. Better works. More lifelike works. 


The craftsman resolved that divine favor would be the only way to 
improve his works. Therefore, he resolved to go on a pilgrimage to 
Limnos, and visit the site most sacred to the god of metal, where he 
had been cast down from the godly kingdom, and crippled by his 
spiteful mother. The trip would be long, hard, and expensive, but he 
had many drachmae and much time. 


The temple was magnificent. It stood on the very spot where the 
crippled god had fallen, glistening in the sun. It was entirely metal, 
but what metal, the craftsman did not know; it looked akin to bronze, 
but when he knocked on it, the density seemed wrong. The top of 
the temple had a facade depicting the fall of Hephaistos, his 


lecherous wife Aphrodite, and his second wife, the graceful Kharis. It 
depicted Ares and Aphrodite being discovered in bed by the gods, 
the treacherous Hera being trapped on a throne of Hephaistos' own 
design... surprisingly enough, this facade was uncolored; perhaps 
they were renovating it? 


The inside was even more spectacular. Unlike most temples that 
were open to the air, this was enclosed, with a door that opened as 
if the gods themselves pushed it aside; he knew it was a simple 
trick, but he admired it nonetheless. There was a sacred forge in the 
center attended to by priests and smiths, who were creating mostly 
ceremonial pieces, such as ceremonial swords, jewelery, shields... 
and cogs. Automata were, by in large, inspired by Talon, the great 
bronze man that Hephaistos created to protect Europa on Crete; 
creating them was still a relatively uncommon practice, due to their 
complexity and relative lack of use beyond entertainment. 


The craftsman approached one of the priests, when suddenly, a bird 
flew over his head, causing him to duck down. Cursing, he looked 
around, and saw the the bird was, to his surprise, an automaton, 
capable of flight. He inspected the small sparrow, which tweeted at 
him in response. He reached out to touch it... 


"| would suggest that you do not do that, pilgrim." The craftsman 
turned to face a priest of Hephaistos, clad in a red tunic. "The 
Broken one does not favor those who tamper with his creations." 


The craftsman knelt before the priest solemnly. "Forgive me. This is 
my first pilgrimage to this temple. | come to pray to Hephaistos for 
greater skill in the creation of automata and clockworks."” He pointed 
to the bird. "Tell me, which one of your craftsmen created this? It is 
spectacular, | must learn his technique." 


"That piece was untouched by human hands," replied the priest, 
smiling. "The Broken one himself created that piece, and several 
others in the temple. The Broken one is such a great craftsman, he 
can create complex pieces with only a single touch." He produced a 
pair of gloves, handing them to the craftsmen. "If you truly wish to 
inspect that piece, wear these, lest you be smote by the Broken 
one's touch." 


The craftsman couldn't help but think that 'the Broken one' was an 
odd euphemism for Hephaistos, but he supposed it was apt; after 
all, Hephaistos was broken at birth, and broken again when he was 
cast down from the heavens. Regardless, he put on the gloves, and 
inspected the bird, which perched on his finger; the detail was 
remarkable. Every feather was visible, and they were not engraved, 
but actually individual metal plates. The eyes were small, unknown 
gems, the beak crafted of steel... and it was all incredibly light. He 
would have expected a piece this intricate to be so heavy, he could 
not hold it, let alone have it be able to fly. With a broad smile, he 
released the bird, and knelt before the priest again. "| beseech thee, 
tell me the secrets of Hephaistos." 


"All in due time, friend. All in due time." 


And so it was that the craftsman began to study at the temple, living 
among the priests, smiths, and craftsmen at the temple. He quickly 
began to notice several strange things about the people there. 
Firstly, several men, Sicilian by their look, spoke and wrote in a 
language unfamiliar to him. He also noticed that several of the walls 
of the temple, which had been crafted of an unknown metal, had 
been engraved with obscure, possibly pagan, symbols; had the 
temple been vandalized? 


Illness was also startlingly common among those in the temple; 
several men were whisked away to the infirmary due to coughing 
and sudden bursts of pain; these men were never seen again by the 
craftsmen, and when he asked the priest, he was told that they had 
been taken to do work for Hephaistos elsewhere, and that they were 
quite alive. 


Most disturbingly of all were the humanoid automata he had been 
seeing; they seemed to change position whenever he left the room. 
Granted, automata were meant to move their arms, head, legs, 
mouth, and perhaps even their eyes... but he had never heard of 
walking automata. Then again, he had also never heard of metal 
birds capable of flight. 


Nonetheless, he continued his work on automata, his skill growing 
each day. He attended prayer and meditation daily, and always 


found it curious that, despite being a temple of Hephaistos, the only 
fire in it was that from the forge; no sacred fire was used for 
sacrifices. He simply thought that this temple was part of a cult 
dedicated to the smith aspect of Hephaistos, and thought nothing of 
it. 


One night, after working at the temple for 11 months, the priest he 
had met almost a year ago came into the craftsman's chamber. "You 
have been here for long enough, | think. It is time." 


The craftsman looked up from his blueprint, which was that of a 
sparrow that he theorized would be capable of flight. "...time for 
what, oh priest?" 


"Time for you to see the true secrets of the Broken one." He 
extended a gloved hand to the craftsman. "Come." The craftsman 
stood from his desk, and followed the priest out, to the main room of 
the temple. There, the priest depressed a metal panel on the floor 
with his foot, which made an unusually loud thump noise as it did so. 
The floor slid away to reveal a staircase leading downward. "Here, 
you shall see the true temple." He took up a torch, and traveled 
down into the bowels of the temple, the craftsman following. 


As they descended further down, the craftsman heard a chanting, in 
an unknown tongue. It made him feel uneasy, the hairs on his skin 
standing on end, as if affected by some unseen breeze from the 
underworld. The chanting grew louder as he descended deeper... 
and deeper... and deeper... 


Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of walking, the craftsman 
emerged in a large room, made of the same material as the temple 
above, and inscribed with the same symbols. Several members of 
this cult were bowing in reverence to a figure on a throne at the 
other end of the room, chanting in the same unknown language. The 
man was... nota man at all, but some form of automaton. Around 
his neck, he wore a metal pendant with several strange symbols 
engraved into it. The automaton stood, and pointed at the craftsman, 
beckoning him closer. 


Nervously, the craftsman approached, the crowd parting for him. 


The automaton beckoned more sharply, his eyes taking on a bored 
look... it was then that the craftsman realized that the eyes were too 
perfect to belong to an automaton. 


They were human. With a sudden look of fear in his eyes, he turned 
and stared at the priest. "By Styx, man, what madness is this?" 


The priest laughed. "Madness? This is the touch of the Broken one. 
The one you believed was Hephaistos. The Broken One's touch 
reveals the true form of man and animal, for the whole world is a 
machine... and we are simply cogs, levers, and screws in it to serve 
his purpose." 


"...you turn people into machines? But... that..." 


"You've always aspired to create great work, oh craftsman." The 
automaton stepped off the throne behind him, approaching slowly, 
with carefully timed steps. "Now, you shall become part of the 
greatest work in the history of mankind." The automaton drew a 
knife and cut open the craftsman's palm, and leaned in, kissing the 
blood. The priest smiled. "It is done." 


"...what is done? What have you done?" A great fear stirred in his 
heart, but his pulse refused to quicken. Instead of his beating heart, 
he heard a tick... tick... tick... tick... tick... 


The craftsman felt as cold as the metal around him. 


Out of Time 


William E. Boeing found himself on a couch in his study, where 
moments before he had been a happy child near a seashore. He got 
up infirmly and slowly started making his way from the first floor 
where his study was, to the ground floor of the main mansion of the 
estate he was currently at. Halfway down the broad red-carpeted 
stairway he ran into a servant, like he knew he would. He spoke up, 
knowing exactly what his words were going to sound like. 

"Twenty eight acres of maple and oak ? | think we can do 
business," he said. 

"| can see it's a thoroughbred, but that's a king's ransom you're 
asking," he said. 

"In this connection the first logical opening will be the development 
of a commercial flying boat.," he said. 

He also screamed at the top of his lungs while clawing at a jammed 
door, as he was about to be burned alive while stuck in the wreck of 
a car. 


But just like every other sentient being William E. Boeing actually 
only ever said one — same — thing. That same thing just sounded 
different each time it was spoken out loud, in accordance with the 
where-and-when it was being uttered. This is what it sounded like 


when William E. Boeing said the thing to the servant: "What year is 
it?" 


The servant gathered a worried look about him. "It's the same year 
as when you asked me this morning, sir," the servant said, and 
repeated the answer he had given William E. Boeing earlier on that 
day. 


William E. Boeing hemmed his throat and nodded as a gesture of 
appreciation, ignoring the servant's obvious discomfort about his 
employer's apparent forgetfulness. William E. Boeing turned around 
and went back upstairs to his study. He knew which year it was. He 
knew he was going to go downstairs and meet the servant half way 


down. He knew the thing he was going to say was going to sound 
like "What year is it?" 


"Time," it was sometimes said, "is what prevents everything from 
happening all at once." In that sense William E. Boeing was outside 
of time. From where William E. Boeing was standing everything was 
always happening all at once. Moreover, existence was simply doing 
the very same thing over and over within a different set of 
parameters, and what was generally referred to as "free will" was 
nothing more to him than an ability to be surprised by an inevitable 
outcome of a fixed sequence of actions. 


William E. Boeing sat down in the broad Naugahyde chair in his 
study, closed his eyes and massaged his temples. 


When he opened his eyes, he was sitting in a comfortable business 
class seat, cruising at 780 kilometers an hour at an altitude of almost 
eleven kilometers. There was no one in the passenger compartment 
except for William E. Boeing. He was afraid. Not because he didn't 
know what was coming; he knew exactly what was going to happen. 
He was afraid because, given the situation, it was the only thing left 
to do.