by Isaac Asimov
Michael held the edge of the roof of the bus shelter he had floated toward and shoved himself from there, at a height of eight feet from the sidewalk, from light post to light post down the street. Around him, other commuters floated and negotiated the air. A newspaper flapped by, briefly revealing a color photo of an anemic blonde woman in a bikini, followed by a real-life French poodle with a bouffant hairdo and a tuft of tail. An elderly woman with a similar haircut did the front crawl behind the dog, yelling with each stroke. Michael thought it was like watching someone try to fly in a dream.
Michael passed her, reached a phone booth, grabbed a telephone post with both hands, and awkwardly pulled himself to the busy sidewalk. He was two feet from touching down when a cottony pressure returned in his ears.
Michael plummeted to the ground, landing on his right leg and arm and his rear.
Around him, similar accidents occurred in a cacophony of sounds—impact, curses and laughter. The lady with the poodle landed on the two large bus passengers, who were still discussing boxing.
A man screamed in a harsh, wailing note. A thunderous sound of crashing metal, plastic and glass came from down the block, shaking the sidewalk and rattling the glass of the bus shelters. Police sirens sounded in the distance.
Without looking back, Michael knew he had been lucky. Gravitational flux was a major cause of hundreds of accidental deaths every year, according to the All States polls.
His right shin hurt like hell and his forearm was scraped but not bleeding. Michael noted with disdain that he had scraped the elbow of his lucky maroon shirt. He brushed off the front of his pants, rose, assured his side satchel was still strung over his left shoulder, and walked toward the office.
* * * *
“Good day, Mr. Atkinson,” said the man behind the desk. He had a receding hairline and a watermelon-shaped head. “I’m Jeremiah Steiner. Have a seat.”
Michael entered the office doorway. Steiner stood, one large hand on the back of his brush cut, his other hand out, indicating the chairs in front of him. He wore a baby-blue suit, a mustard-yellow dress shirt, and a thin, orange tie with a narrow metal clip.
Michael thanked him. They shook hands perfunctorily, and Michael sat in the chair on the right.
An impressive window took up the entire wall behind the desk, showcasing a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Rows of glassy buildings marched in all directions. The streets 15 stories below bustled with traffic and pedestrians the sizes of ants. To the left was a brown, 20-storey, box-shaped building with a logo, “Intel HR”, in large, thick, white letters at the top. To the right stood a row of skyscrapers whose silvery windows reflected the blue sky. In the distance, beyond the buildings, stood Parliament Hill. Behind that, the rolling hills of Hullatineau faded into the cobalt-colored horizon.
A tall, oak bookcase with rows of hardcover books with golden lettering on the spines stood to the left of Steiner’s desk. A mini-fridge stood in the other corner, along with a small magazine-and-newspaper-cluttered table and two chairs.
“So, Michael—is it okay if I call you that?” Steiner asked.
“Uh, yes,” Michael said quickly.
Steiner sat down, rubbed his palms together, and stared intently at him.
“Good. Care for anything to drink? Don’t be shy to speak up; I’m a little hard of hearing.”
“No thank you,” said Michael.
“Suit yourself,” said Steiner, reaching across the oak desk for a coffee mug. An aqua-colored pad lay in front of him, a phone to the left. In and Out files sat side-by-side on the right. A pile of manila folders and papers sat in the middle. Beside the phone stood a large, ornately framed photograph facing outward; Steiner beamed, wearing a short-sleeved shirt, his thick arm around a beaming woman with unnaturally orange hair, heavy red lipstick, and tight, black leather pants.
Steiner inhaled deeply, put his hands on the desk, scanning the papers quickly and, Michael thought, for the first time. After a moment, Steiner looked up again.
Michael was aware of silence, the smell of cigarettes and a cloying, musky cologne from the 1980s, a vintage brand named Brut.
“Why do you want to work for us?” Steiner asked. “What are some of the skills you can offer Time Company Incorporated?”
“My communications contracts have involved creating products, organizing events, raising the profiles of organizations, updating systems,” Michael said. “Between that and my financial and legal credentials, I have a lot to offer.”
“A lot to offer,” Steiner replied.
Michael was unsure whether his tone was mockery.
The man behind the desk nodded, his bulbous chin trying to escape from his tight collar. His bloated, pink face had a shaving nick just below the right ear. “You know what we do here, Mr. Acheson?”
“Atkinson.”
“Acherson,” replied Steiner. “You are aware of the power we try to harness and adapt?” He raised a bushy eyebrow that had more hair than the top of his head. The rest of Steiner’s hair had long since retreated to the back and sides in thin, brown strands.
Michael cleared his throat, keeping his voice and nerves steady. Steiner made him nervous.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I have an interest, a very great interest, in stabilizing the space-time continuum. I hear you people are the best. I want to be part of your team.”
Michael gestured with his right hand as though signing his signature in thin air. “I can work independently and as a team player, and juggle several tasks simultaneously in a fast-paced environment under tight deadlines and amid changing priorities. It’s a good fit.”
Michael shrank back as though expecting a blow for his stock, job-description-matching statement.
“Trying to harness the space-time continuum?” Steiner asked rhetorically. “To stabilize it?” He covered his chin with his right hand. “Huh-hmmm!”
“Yes,” Michael said hesitantly, more a question than affirmation.
Steiner guffawed loudly and cruelly and raised his palms. There was a spot of dried blood on his right hand from his shaving nick.
“Mr. Ackerley, as you are no doubt aware, we always keep our appointments. Unlike an interviewee who arrives 20 minutes late.” He nodded toward a clock above the table to his left. The hands were stuck at 11:10.
Michael looked at his digital watch. It read 10:52. The clock’s hand must have risen with the loss of gravity, he thought. When he looked at Steiner, Michael opened his mouth but the interviewer continued.
“We always stick to our schedules, even if the flux goes up and down 12 times a day. Even if time jumps from now to the medieval age, into the futuristic, I don’t know, Hyper-Industrial Revolution. We are the Time Company, Mr. Acheson.” He paused for drama, sounding like an old general in a film giving a monologue before a final battle. Michael was struck by his resemblance to Walter C. Scott. “And we want to control the ebb and flow of these changes. That is the aim of our market.”
Steiner rubbed his palms together, making a sound of gritting sandpaper. “Our job is not to stabilize. No, not at all. Do you know why?”
Michael thought quickly, watching the two thick, gold rings on Mr. Steiner’s index and middle finger.
“Because that would be bad for business?” Michael asked.
Steiner laughed quickly, derisively. “Bad for business?” His smile vanished like the sun behind a cloud. He leaned forward, clearing his papers to one side. “No! That would be apocalyptic for business. Someone has to pick up the pieces. Someone has to keep paid services running. Someone has to make sure people keep paying, even if oxygen suddenly runs out. In fact, if oxygen does run out, send in the Oxygen Men and standardize the Global Positioning Price of oxygen!”
He straightened. There was spittle on the aqua note pad. Steiner’s breath stank of avocado.
Michael leaned away.
“We have to adapt,” Steiner continued. “Time will not adapt to us. I just met a young hotshot the other day, a f
ellow by the name of Ryan Daniel. He goes from town to town reviving dying Christian youth organizations. A self-made man in Europe. Doesn’t get intimidated even if it’s suddenly the Stone Age, or space aliens join the group. He’s an example of what a young man—what you—can make of yourself in this day and age.”
Steiner paused for a reaction, saw none forthcoming, and continued.
“Do you know how many parameters provide the conditions for human life, Mr. Anderson?”
“I believe there are 32,” Michael replied, his stomach clenching. He wanted to fiddle with something with his restless hands.
A toothy smile broke out on Steiner’s face, but was not complimentary. “Very good. Thirty-two conditions that make it possible for all of us to live—for you and I to sit here and chat, for Granny to get young Tommy to deliver her groceries. If one of these were to change—just one—as all other constants have altered and sporadically shifted for nearly 50 years, ever since the last lovable Pope passed on, we wouldn’t say ‘Boo’ before dying in our sleep, on the bus, at work, or driving. We would get swept away, back to the dust where we all came from.”
Steiner inhaled, exhaled and drank from his mug.
Michael smelled either cough medicine or bad vodka.
A pen floated from Steiner’s desk and toward Michael. A few sheets of paper followed, seemingly in pursuit. Michael rose, but Steiner raised his right hand.
“Leave it,” Steiner said, watching him coldly.
Michael snatched the pen from the air. It was a heavy, gold-encased ball-point pen imprinted with the Time logo. The logo blurred and changed to Domtar Pulp and Paper Mill. Michael’s eyes grew. He looked up as the papers rose toward the speckle-patterned ceiling.
“I said ‘Leave it’,” Steiner repeated.
Michael fought a last urge to grab them and sat down.
Steiner crossed his arms. “What do you think of that, Mr. Atlinson?”
Unsure whether he meant the floating papers or the company philosophy, Michael hedged his bets.
“It’s good,” replied Michael, replacing the pen on the desk under Steiner’s studying gaze. “If change persists, then we have to be ready for it.”
Steiner unfolded his arms, put his elbows on the desk, made a steeple shape with his fingers and stared over them at Michael. After a moment, he grunted and spoke.
“I don’t think that this job is for you, Mr. Averson,” he said, as though discussing the weather. “In this business, we seize opportunity, harness opportunity. You would rather see the potentially disastrous conditions gone, along with the golden opportunity.”
Michael was speechless. He felt a pressure unlocking in his ears, as he always had before one of the universal constants changed in the space-time continuum. He had discovered years ago that many people did not have this same reaction to the shifting conditions of life, and so kept this ability to himself. Michael had lived his entire life under the Changing Thirty-Two Conditions, from different centuries merging with the current century to oxygen becoming carbon monoxide during one of the more perilous moments. The last thing he needed was this ape, Steiner, sermonizing about a fact of life that Michael had always endured.
He felt a horrific, stabbing ear ache. Between Michael’s clenched stomach, sweaty palms, fidgeting hands and dry mouth, this painful episode was the last thing he needed in this job interview or moreover, lecture. The space-time continuum might be controllable, and people might try to capitalize on its unexpected changes, but he had his doubts—especially about leaving the matter in the hands of dumb, middle-aged white men in suits. He suspected that was how it all started with the space debris.
As this insight flashed through Michael’s mind, he covered both ears with his hands.
“It’s the way things are,” said Steiner, watching Michael with curiosity. “Some of us aren’t meant for greater things. I’m sure you’ll find something suitable for someone with your, ah, skills.”
Incoherent sounds, including roars, explosions, and inhuman cries, rose up from outside. Michael’s stomach turned. He looked past Steiner to the city. The Hullatineau Hills were gone. Where they should have been, two jagged, towering volcanoes spouted bursts of red lava under a slate-grey sky. Dome-shaped mountains, a mix of tropical green and feces brown, surrounded the volcanoes. The terrible, loudening noises were drifting over from this jungle.
What Michael presumed was an airplane flew from the hills and over the city. The plane, though, had wide, flapping wings, a long, sharp beak, and round, sharp talons. The flying creature drifted just right of the Parliament tower and disappeared from sight.
“Mr. Steiner—,” Michael said, but Steiner cut him off.
“—Mr. Adleson, you’re just not cut out for this business.”
Michael felt panic hit him in a flash not unlike lightning. He rose, knocked his seat backward, and quickly retreated towards the door.
Michael had never seen a pterodactyl in real life, so when it came into view again, his blood froze. His temples pounded. The creature unleashed a high, ear-splitting cry that reverberated off the walls of the skyscraper canyon. Other creatures, invisible from the vantage point of the window, roared and mewled in the distance. The sounds from the streets below told their terrible stories. There was a smashing sound louder than that of a car falling from the sky. There was a whoosh from an explosion. Screams carried on the wind. Flames burst halfway up the side of the Intel building.
Steiner was still talking.
“…Mr. Achleson,” he said, rising to his feet. He watched Michael open the office door. “There’s no need to take things so hard. I’m sure there are sanitary cleaning employers who would be happy to enlist your particular services. But I would appreciate it if you would not take my pen with you.”
“What?” Michael said, too busy watching the northern sky roil and listening to the sounds echo across the downtown core. A lime-green tail about 20 feet long swung out from behind the Excel building, below the enflamed floor. Two more pterodactyls circled the Parliament tower, chasing each other like children in a game of tag. They soared toward Steiner’s building and overhead in a rush of wind. The glass rattled in its frame. A car honked repeatedly below. An alarm shrieked.
“Please return the pen, Mr. Aversyon,” Mr. Steiner said. He stood stoically, refusing to face the chaos behind him. “It’s merely another shift in the space-time continuum. There’s nothing like the Dinosaur Age to liven up your schedule.”
Michael looked down at the golden pen. He held it in a white-knuckled grip in his right hand. He looked back up at the window. A pterodactyl soared into the canyon of skyscrapers. It flapped its wings the size of tarpaulins with a sound of thunder. As it passed the window, Michael saw its fungus-green hide the texture of leather, and its beady, yellow eyes with black pupils
“My name is Michael Atinkson, you sorry, sanctimonious, son of a bitch,” Michael said. “Here’s your pen!”
Steiner’s face dropped. His fat chin resembled a bobbing apple.
Michael threw the pen at him. The pen flipped through the air, caught a glint of sunlight, and bounced off the space between Steiner’s eyes.
The nearby pterodactyl returned to view, passing from left to right, then veering toward the window. The light from the pen reflected off its cocked, soccer-ball-sized eye. The creature vanished from sight.
Steiner teetered backward, stunned and confused, his eyes closed and his mouth slack.
The deafening sound of giant, thrashing wings came from down the street.
Michael, having seen the winged creatures circle the tower and pass twice, saw with clarity what was happening. It’s circling the block, he thought, a cold sensation in his gut, and coming back for another pass.
He stifled a scream and opened the door behind him. Steiner rubbed his own forehead.
“Run!” said Michael.
Steiner blinked and watched, blank-eyed. “Don’t be afraid of change, son,” he said.
Michael slammed
the door.
He ran past the spacious reception lobby to the two elevators in the nearby hallway and hit the “Down” button between the doorways repeatedly. The doors opened. Michael leapt in, threw himself back to the wall and screwed his eyes shut. The doors shut with a skidding sound. The elevator descended.
He was out of breath and his heart was still running a sprint even though he had stopped.
The orchestral sound of glass shattering in Steiner’s fifteenth-floor office did not occur until the elevator had descended two more floors. Someone yodeled in pain. Plaster clattered the top of the elevator with a sound like hailstones.
Michael was hyperventilating. The elevator descended. The sounds continued distantly, a heavy object bouncing off the roof every few seconds. Someone gripped his shoulder with warm, strong, reassuring fingers. He opened his eyes, heart hammering.
Michael turned to see a tall, black man with long dreadlocks standing in front of the elevator panel. The stranger removed his yellow headphones with his free hand. He looked at Michael imploringly with dark blue eyes.
“It will be okay,” he said calmly. The stranger cocked his ear as though about to shake water out of it. He looked up and squinted one eye. “Yes, it will be okay now.” He nodded repeatedly.
Michael recognized the gesture and noticed the stranger’s long, dark sideburns and trim goatee. Michael’s face must have given him away; the man produced a card from the back pocket of his jeans and handed it over.
“I knew it,” the stranger said. A wide, friendly grin spread on his face. “You were on the bus today. Call this number when you’re ready. There are a lot of us out here.”
Michael looked at the card as the elevator reached bottom.
A “ding” sounded. The doors opened. He looked up as the man removed his hand from Michael’s shoulder and stepped out, still smiling.
“Knew what?” Michael asked, baffled.
“That you were one of us. It’s a look you get with the conditions. We see the conditions coming, and we think we can probably even stop them.”
