The Complete Short Stories

Stacey stopped, pointed to a blue-faced clock mounted on one of the buildings overlooking the plaza. ‘Let’s say, for example, that a lower-grade executive leaving his office at the allotted time, 12 o’clock, wants to have lunch, change a library book, buy some aspirin, and telephone his wife. Like all executives, his identity zone is blue. He takes out his schedule for the week, or looks down the blue-time columns in the newspaper, and notes that his lunch period for that day is 12.15 to 12.30. He has fifteen minutes to kill. Right, he then checks the library. Time code for today is given as 3, that’s the third hand on the clock. He looks at the nearest blue clock, the third hand says 37 minutes past — he has 23 minutes, ample time, to reach the library. He starts down the street, but finds at the first intersection that the pedestrian lights are only shining red and green and he can’t get across. The area’s been temporarily zoned off for lower-grade women office workers — red, and manuals — greens.’

‘What would happen if he ignored the lights?’ Conrad asked.

‘Nothing immediately, but all blue clocks in the zoned area would have returned to zero, and no shops or the library would serve him, unless he happened to have red or green currency and a forged set of library tickets. Anyway, the penalties were too high to make the risk worthwhile, and the whole system was evolved for his convenience, no one else’s. So, unable to reach the library, he decides on the chemist. The time code for the chemist is 5, the fifth, smallest hand. It reads 54 minutes past: he has six minutes to find a chemist and make his purchase. This done, he still has five minutes before lunch, decides to phone his wife. Checking the phone code he sees that no period has been provided for private calls that day — or the next. He’ll just have to wait until he sees her that evening.’

‘What if he did phone?’

‘He wouldn’t be able to get his money in the coin box, and even then, his wife, assuming she is a secretary, would be in a red time zone and no longer in her office for that day — hence the prohibition on phone calls. It all meshed perfectly. Your time programme told you when you could switch on your TV set and when to switch off. All electric appliances were fused, and if you strayed outside the programmed periods you’d have a hefty fine and repair bill to meet. The viewer’s economic status obviously determined the choice of programme, and vice versa, so there was no question of coercion. Each day’s programme listed your permitted activities: you could go to the hairdresser’s, cinema, bank, cocktail bar, at stated times, and if you went then you were sure of being served quickly and efficiently.’

They had almost reached the far end of the plaza. Facing them on its tower was the enormous clock face, dominating its constellation of twelve motionless attendants.

‘There were a dozen socio-economic categories: blue for executives, gold for professional classes, yellow for military and government officials — incidentally, it’s odd your parents ever got hold of that wristwatch, none of your family ever worked for the government — green for manual workers and so on. But, naturally, subtle subdivisions were possible. The lowergrade executive I mentioned left his office at 12, but a senior executive, with exactly the same time codes, would leave at 11.45, have an extra fifteen minutes, would find the streets clear before the lunch-hour rush of clerical workers.’

Stacey pointed up at the tower. ‘This was the Big Clock, the master from which all others were regulated. Central Time Control, a sort of Ministry of Time, gradually took over the old parliamentary buildings as their legislative functions diminished. The programmers were, effectively, the city’s absolute rulers.’

As Stacey continued Conrad gazed up at the battery of timepieces, poised helplessly at 12.01. Somehow time itself seemed to have been suspended, around him the great office buildings hung in a neutral interval between yesterday and tomorrow. If one could only start the master clock the entire city would probably slide into gear and come to life, in an instant be repeopled with its dynamic jostling millions.

They began to walk back towards the car. Conrad looked over his shoulder at the clock face, its gigantic arms upright on the silent hour.

‘Why did it stop?’ he asked.

Stacey looked at him curiously. ‘Haven’t I made it fairly plain?’

‘What do you mean?’ Conrad pulled his eyes off the scores of clocks lining the plaza, frowned at Stacey.

‘Can you imagine what life was like for all but a few of the thirty million people here?’