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Page 1.
Chapter 1
 Startled by the opening of a door, Marie Sondergood looked up and as she did so, her black heavy-rimmed glasses slid down her nose.
Eddie, the editorial assistant with the perennial cold, crew-cut, and sweater, hovered in the doorway. "Working late, Miss Sondergood?"
Panicked, Marie threw herself back, making her chair roll a foot or two. "My God," she said, "the clock has stopped."
"That's unthinkable," Eddie said, but he leaned further into the office. Together, they stared across the Raritania City skyline, where evening was beginning to pencil-shade the office towers. They stared at the art deco clock in the Aero Atlantic Building, and sure enough (Marie compared with her rapidly ticking gold wristwatch) the clock face had stopped an hour earlier.
Marie hurriedly rose. "I'm late, I'm late!" she singsonged.
Eddie grinned. "Friday evening, Miss Sondergood. Hot date?"
Marie ignored him. Yes, she was a sucker for good-looking, if mysterious men, and she had dinner and dancing lined up with one such man. Now she would be rushed. "Eddie, here are the rejects for today. You can ship them back to their authors on Monday." She pointed to a pile beside her desk; it had been a productive though unsatisfying day. She was annoyed by a thick manuscript from a Thomas Armaday, which had started out interestingly (with handsome Nordic women calling upon tall warriors to save them) but had degenerated quickly (written in an outlandish, outdated style full of sexism and other isms) into a racist diatribe in which gorgeous Nordic babes were rescued by blond cretins in chain mail who slaughtered Negroes, Arabs, Catholics, and so forth. Retch! "There is one here, Eddie," --she held the Thomas Armaday ms between two fingers, like a dead rat -- "I would appreciate if you would double-wrap this piece of trash and mail it back today if you don't mind."
"Sure, Miss Sondergood," Eddie said, looking puzzled, but accepting the toxic document with a look that said he wished he were wearing gloves.
Marie was a tall, handsome blonde who had once wanted to be a nurse, but could not stand the sight of hypodermic needles or blood. Therefore, she had majored in English and become a publisher's editor. Twice divorced (once from an airline captain who associated sex with slapping, to the point that Marie came to work black and blue in the face, and the second time from an accountant who drank his practice away) Marie had a nurturer's patience and was intrigued by strong, silent men.
Louis Matterhorn was such a man. How had this dinner date come about? Marie wasn't entirely sure. He was a good-looking, if morose man, filled with a strength that attracted her. In the last few days she had begun to notice him on elevators, in corridors of her office building, on the sidewalk, and he had insinuated himself upon her with sly good humor that promised fun. If he did not slap, and did not drink-- Stop it, Marie told herself, it's only a date. We are not choosing a life's mate here. It's only dinner.
But it was dinner in a grand style, four courses, and they started with a breathy red house wine. "To wipe away the long work week," he proposed, offering his glass in a toast.
She laughed and clinked hers against his. "You're right. It's been a beastly week." The full, summery wine drenched her palate and made her instantly giddy.
"You must see a lot of different sorts of manuscripts," he suggested carefully.
"Oh I do." She found there was something hooded in his eyes, and there seemed to be a tension about his solid, robust frame. He wore a crisp white shirt, dark suit, and wide blood-red necktie. There was something odd about the cut of his suit, something disproportionate about the high collar of his shirt. He intrigued her, though something kept her on guard.
"You do select some to be published then," he prodded gently.
"Oh sure," she said. She was pleased at his interest in her work. "I reject most of them," she said. "Today for example. I glanced at the most horrible manuscript. Something by a neo-Nazi. I couldn't believe how bad it was. Sits on your stomach like a heavy and unpleasant meal. This is a wonderful way to make it go away."
Louis signaled the waiter for more wine. They ate in relative silence. Louis seemed somewhat withdrawn. Marie let him play his space. She prided herself on letting a man reveal himself to her. For a moment she thought she had said something wrong. Then she realized his silence probably only meant he was enjoying his meal. She sipped at the wine and grew more relaxed.
"Let's skip dessert," he said.
She nodded. "I'm full. You're right. Let's skip desert."
"Let's go for a walk," he suggested. He slipped several twenties under the salt shaker. "Maybe we could have a cocktail in the Sky Bar at the Aero Atlantic Building," he suggested.
"Great idea," she said. "I love that place. So 1930ish." From the Sky Bar, you could watch helicopters from New York City landing and taking off. She'd moved to Raritania City several years ago with her publishing firm. Lately, R.C. was the place publishers were moving to.
She wrapped her arm in his, and in moments they were out upon the Raritania City sidewalks. He seemed a purposeful, if somewhat quiet man, she thought. He walked rather than strolled, and she wished he would slow down.
A light October rain had slicked the streets. Neon signs glittered here and there through droplets. Cars swished by, and umbrellas tilted over shadowy pedestrians. The air smelled sweet and fresh, just tinged with that smoky haze of city mystery. Streamlined gargoyles stared down from fluted concrete office towers.
Before the Aero Atlantic Building, they paused and looked up. She stopped, and he stopped with her, and she supposed it was telepathy of some kind. "The clock stopped late this afternoon," she said.
"How did you happen to notice?" he asked.
She gave his arm a friendly squeeze. "I see it from my office window. This is a true confession, I'm afraid. I'm a clock watcher."
He said: "Come, let's go in." On the elevator up, he said: "I'd like to show you the clock."
"Okay," she said laughing.
"Yes," he said. "I come from a long line of clock watchers." The mahogany elevator, lit indirectly by streamlined glass seashells, rumbled to a stop a few floors below the Sky Bar. The doors slid apart, and they stepped out into a carpeted hallway. More indirect lighting. She could almost hear distant band music playing.
He took her to a stairwell and pushed a service door open. A fresh night wind blew up, and she involuntarily shuddered, pulling her collar close. The door sighed shut behind them, and Marie gasped at the beautiful and powerful sight before her.
The clock face itself was a milky alabaster composition, its careful geometric panes held in place by plain wrought-iron lace work. Spare Egyptian designs in gold and green traced the edges. Big black Roman numerals exploded outward in frozen rays. The lights of the wet city poured inward, illumining the huge gear wheels and teeth of the shadowy machinery. The place smelled of oil and old wood.
"It's beautiful," she said.
He stood like a monolith, hands in his pockets, face an expressionless smudge. "I thought you would like it."
"I like Raritania City," she gushed. "It's such a great place, compared with Manhattan. It's so, so ... timeless."
Was it a smile that played on his marble features, twinkled the shadows where his eyes were? "It's a city built on promises," he said. "The WPA went into the wilderness and laid out roads and built a modern city."
"How nice," she said.
He took a step closer. "I came forward all these years, thinking the promise would be fulfilled."
She frowned, still humored. "Huh?"
He took another step closer, and she saw rage flickering in his eyes. His pale features were slitted with anger, and she shrank back. "You did not like my novel, Miss Sondergood."
A terrible something welled up in her stomach, and she fought the dullness of wine and food. "I think we'd better go, Louis."
He took another step closer, and his hands were pale wings. "No, my dear. You are tall and lovely in your way, but not the Nordic woman. I wish you had not told me you rejected my novel."
Marie raised her fingers to her mouth and shrank back. He was between her and the door, and coming toward her. "Louis, please..."
He was so close now that his looming shadow seemed to push against her.
Desperately, she turned and grasped the railing. There was no way out except down, and that meant into mouth of the stilled clock machinery. She remembered the horrible manuscript, and whirled to face its author.
Louis Beering, unable to contain his rage any longer, shoved the foolish woman. With a wailing scream, she treadmilled the air briefly before landing silently in the shadows below.
Louis, breathing raggedly, feeling a mixture of anger and elated revenge, clambered out along a steel I-beam and removed the heavy steel wrench he had stuck into the Jubilator's master gear.
As he did so, the room emitted a creaking groan. The gears and sprockets shuddered back to life, and there was a crunching sound somewhere down below, like an egg being cracked open over a frying pan, as the Jubilator's teeth once again bit into the minutes and hours.
Louis Beering gripped the railing and stared down into the darkness while teardrops of drizzle beat against the clock face. "Damn you!" he shouted. "Damn you for bungling the future!"
He let himself out, locking the door. Let maintenance reset the damned clock. He went up into the Sky Bar for a soothing drink, to rekindle his hopes. After all, there were at least a dozen other publishers in Raritania City.
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