Thief of Time - Terry Pratchett [92]
“I said it’s uncertain death.”
“Is that worse than certain death?”
“Much. Watch.” Susan picked up a hammer that was lying on the floor and poked it gently toward the clock. It vibrated in her hand when she brought it closer, and she swore under her breath as it was dragged from her fingers and vanished. Just before it did, there was a brief, contracting ring around the clock that might have been something like a hammer would be if you rolled it very flat and bent it into a circle.
“Have you any idea why that happened?” she said.
“No.”
“Nor have I. Now imagine that you were the hammer. Uncertain death, see?”
Lobsang looked at the two frozen people. One was medium-sized and had all the right number of appendages to qualify as a member of the human race, and so therefore probably had to be given the benefit of the doubt. It was staring at the clock. So was the other figure, which was of a middle-aged, sheep-faced man still holding a cup of tea and, as far as Lobsang could make out, a biscuit.
“The one who wouldn’t win a beauty contest even if he was the only entrant is an Igor,” said Susan. “The other one is Dr. Hopkins of the Clockmakers’ Guild here.”
“So we know who built the clock, at least,” said Lobsang.
“I don’t think so. Mr. Hopkins’s workshop is several streets away. And he makes novelty watches for a rather strange kind of discerning customer. It’s his speciality.”
“Then the…Igor must’ve built it?”
“Good grief, no! Igors are professional servants. They never work for themselves.”
“You seem to know a lot,” said Lobsang, as Susan circled the clock like a wrestler trying to spy out a hold.
“Yes,” she said without turning her head. “I do. The first clock broke. This one’s holding. Whoever designed it was a genius.”
“An evil genius?”
“It’s hard to say. I can’t see any signs.”
“What kind of signs?”
“Well, ‘Hahaha!!!!!’ painted on the side would be a definite clue, don’t you think?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I’m in your way, am I?” said Lobsang.
“No, not at all,” said Susan, turning her attention to the workbench. “Well, there’s nothing here. I suppose he could have set a timer. A sort of alarm clock—-”
She stopped. She picked up a length of rubber hosepipe that was coiled on a hook by the glass jars, and looked hard at it. Then she tossed it into a corner, and stared at it as if she had never seen anything like it before.
“Don’t say a word,” she said quietly. “They have some very acute senses. Just ease back among those big glass vats behind you and try to look inconspicuous. And do it NOW.”
The last word had odd harmonics to it, and Lobsang felt his legs begin to move almost without his conscious control.
The door moved a little and a man came in.
What was strange about the face, Lobsang thought afterward, was how unmemorable it was. He’d never seen a face so lacking in anything to mention. It had a nose and mouth and eyes, and they were all quite flawless, but somehow they didn’t make up a face. They were just parts that made no proper whole. If they became anything at all it was the face of a statue, good-looking but without anything looking out of it.
Slowly, like someone who had to think about his muscles, the man turned to look at Lobsang.
Lobsang felt himself bunch up to slice time. The spinner groaned a warning on his back.
“That’s about enough, I think,” said Susan, stepping forward. The man was spun around. An elbow was jabbed into his stomach and then the palm of her hand caught him so hard under his chin that he was lifted off the floor and slammed against the wall.
As he fell, Susan hit him on the head with a wrench.
“We might as well be going,” she said, as if she’d just shuffled some paper that had been untidy. “Nothing more for us here.”
“You killed him!”
“Certainly. He’s not a human being. I have…a sense about these things. It’s sort of inherited. Besides, go and pick up the hose. Go on.”
Since she was still holding the wrench, Lobsang did so. Or tried to do so. The coil she’d flung into the corner was knotted and tangled like rubber spaghetti.
“Malignancy,