The Woman Who Died a Lot

We passed the Bad Time warning signs seven miles from Kemble Timepark and drove slowly into the Mild Distortion zone, where a certain temporal lumpiness punctuated the countryside. For the most part, everything appeared normal, but the odd hot spot of temporal fallout showed up as a patch of spring foliage when the rest was late summer and even on occasion an isolated patch of snow. We noted that in several places the road had been diverted around hastily fenced-off anomalies. The hot spots were quite obvious to the time-savvy—the shadows cast by the sun were bent either forward or back, depending on whether the anomaly was running fast or slow. We also noticed that the land within the zone was cultivated, but in a unique way: The emerging science of agritemporal farming used the dilation gradients to ensure a rolling supply of ripe produce as well as nonseasonal growth. In one field we saw a farmer driving a tractor while wearing a clumsy gravity suit. We waved, and he waved back seven seconds later.

We entered the village of Kemble soon afterward. The township was neat and tidy, but several abandoned houses suggested that living here was not without its risks and frustrations. The school was long closed and fenced off, the children now bused to Cirencester when a particularly steep gradient had seeped into the school one Friday afternoon, extending Mrs. Auberge’s French lesson from forty minutes to six days.

We stopped at the main gates of the abandoned facility. A small group of a dozen or so campaigners was camped out with several shabby-looking caravans, and placards had been tied to the fence. The first read PLEASE, WOULD IT BE TOO MUCH TROUBLE TO ASK YOU TO CLEAN UP OUR TOWN? and the next, VILLAGERS WANT ASSURANCES OVER REAL TIME IF THAT’S OKAY WITH YOU. I’d seen these guys before and knew of the protest. It was by local middle-class residents—hence the polite placards—who despite assurances that the decommissioned time engines were “perfectly safe within the broad definitions of ‘safe’ as outlined by the Environmental Agency,” had been collecting evidence of their own to the contrary. We parked the Sportina and climbed out.

We greeted the protesters, who were friendly and unthreatening, and listened to their complaints with interest. It seemed that the engines were leaking flux at an increasing rate and that “no one was interested in doing anything about it.”

“What time do you have?” asked one of the group.

I told him, and he showed me his watch. It was a six minutes slow. Five others showed me their watches, too, and they all displayed errors between two minutes to six hours.

“Have you spoken to the decommissioning agents?” I asked.

“They ignore us,” he replied, “or tacitly suggest that we should be grateful for living longer according to an outside observer.”

We listened to their grievances after that, which were long and tedious—mostly about a little-understood phenomenon called dilation lag that caused cell phones and other transmission signals to be unable to mesh.

“If we want to watch TV,” grumbled one, “we have to go to Oaksey. The only radio stations we can pick up are those on AM, and the pitch of that is noticeably high.”

“Yes,” said another, “I know for a fact that they’re thinking of moving the Stroud-Swindon rail line six miles to the east. I understand that the train is now always three minutes late—it has to slow down when traveling past here to stay on schedule.”

“And house prices are tumbling,” said another. “If I wanted to sell, I’d have to accept half of what I paid for it.”

“And what did you pay for it?” I asked. “Just out of interest.”

“A hundred pounds. They’re dirt cheap because no one wants to live here.”

“We get occasional Backflashes, too,” said the fourth.

“And what did you pay for it?” I asked. “Just out of interest.”

“A hundred pounds. They’re dirt cheap because no one wants to live here.”

“We get occasional Backflashes, too,” said the fourth, “but we only know that from external observers. Ooh, look,” he added, pointing to a woman standing two hundred yards away who was waving a red flag. “Lori says we’ve just had one.”

Most of their problems could be solved simply by moving away. None of the protesters were the original residents, who had all been compensated generously and wisely moved out or taken up agritemporal farming. We listened to them for just long enough to get their respect, but not so long that our ears started bleeding.

“Does anyone know who posted these?” asked Friday, holding up the fifteen envelopes when there was a lull in the conversation.

“Let me see,” said the one who seemed to be in charge. He examined the postmarks and passed them to a second man, who looked at them, nodded, then passed them back.

“That would have been the Manchild,” he said, nodding toward the disused facility. “He made a rare appearance to post them.”

“Do you know why?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“George!” said the first. “You can’t encourage people to go . . . in there.”