ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD

by

Albert Woods

 

On Platform 80, it is all blue and bleeps; ice blue radiating up from the earth, bleeps pipping from the communications equipment in the backpacks. And the weightlessness retards their progress as though they are swimming in oil.

Mumford, the senior of the two, seldom gets his gauntlets dirty, but today he will. Only right, he thinks, that he should be the one to tighten the last couple of nuts before the huge convex reflector - the eightieth and last in an orbiting chain - is rotated through ninety degrees to link up and energise the series. "Armageddon indeed," he scoffs at Baker. "You really believe in that nonsense, do you?.. over."

Baker hands his boss a torque wrench. "Something like that," he says. "I don't know about a last judgement, like they talk of in the Bible, but it's all got to end sometime, hasn't it... over."

"Has it?" Mumford is adjusting the calibration on the spanner now. "I would say that statement's a bit of a contradiction in itself, when you think about it. I mean, if time has got to end, how can it end some time? There won't be time when there's no time, will there... over."

"I don't know," Baker admits. "But I still say that tinkering with it's all wrong. Every time man has tried to alter things-natural, he's come to grief... over."

"Then why did you take this job?... over."

"The money... over."

Mumford chuckles, and applies the wrench.

 

Down at central control, Chief Executive Slaney throws the switch that opens up the speech channel to the worldwide network of synchronisation posts. "Depending on your time zone, good morning, good evening, or just good day to you," he says, brightly. "Let me begin by congratulating you all on the supreme efforts that I, and the entire world, know you have made to bring this project to fruition on time. Very well done! If you would now refer to your programme schedule, you will see that, in ten minutes, you will all be required to switch over to Greenwich Mean Time. There'll be a countdown to this, of course, beginning in five minutes.”

He mutes his microphone. "Coffee please," he crooks his finger at a female aide. "And make it snappy."

She rushes off to oblige.

"Of course," says his deputy, "there'll be none of that finger-snapping stuff once we go live."

Slaney pulls a wry face. "Won't there?" he asks. "Still a doubter, are we?"

"I suppose I am," the deputy says, "if a doubter is somebody who believes that the cessation of time will remove all inclination to chase around. Why do we rush anyway? Presumably because we want to beat time, be ahead of it, not be late; and if there are no deadlines anymore, then why rush?"

"It won't be like that," says Chief Executive Slaney. "All that will happen is that there will no longer be days and nights. That means no weeks; and then no months and, consequently, no years. I know that some of the disbelievers think everything will come to a complete standstill, but our tests on planet 62e have proved this to be completely fallacious."

"I hope you're right," the deputy says, then looks at his watch. "Good heavens!" he jumps up from his seat at the console. "I'm supposed to be attending the amnesty crush in five minutes. I'll be back in time for switchover."

 

On the platform, engineers Mumford and Baker have dealt with the externals, and are back inside the pod, removing their protective suits. There are a few final checks to be made - particularly the servo motors - and then they will rest while awaiting the recovery craft.

"I always find it breathtaking," Baker says, "looking down at mother earth. I must have seen it from here hundreds of times, yet its beauty never fails to impress me."

"I know what you mean," Mumford agrees. "Well, it'll look even better in time – after today, that is."

"Now you're talking contradictions," Baker laughs. "How can there be a time after today, if time stops today?"

Mumford winks. "You're forgetting something," he says. "Time might stop on earth, but it won't up here, will it. And what we're talking about is viewing the earth from space."

"Oh, of course, you're right."

"Yes I am. And it will look good; being in permanent light."

"Will the light be like what we're used to?"

"Why shouldn't it be? It's the same sun-rays, only indirect; bounced around from reflector to reflector so that all darkness is eradicated."

"Well, one article I read said it would be completely different. Said that all of the colours would be separated, like a rainbow."

"That's crap. What do magazines know about it. Why do you think all platforms are equipped with prismatic diffusers?"

"Don't know, I'm only a fitter - not an optical scientist."

Mumford tunes-in the receiver, surfing across a multitude of channels as he does so. "Just hark at it," he smiles. "They're all having a party down there. That's Moscow... listen, they're singing. And this is Rio, I think. They're having one hell of a time."

"World's gone mad," Baker says. "The first time in its existence that every nation has got together to do something, and it has to be this: meddling with things. They couldn't do anything about the starving, but they soon found the money to build these platforms."

"You're just an old stick-in-the-mud, Baker. This is real progress – permanent light, totally controllable climate, guaranteed harvests, among other things. This will be the answer to all of the world's problems; can't you see that?"

"Not really."

 

On earth, it is nearly time to destroy all remaining timepieces. Their possession - other than by those senior officials directly involved in Project Switchover – became illegal a month earlier. Now, by way of ceremonial, each capital city is holding a last crush; piling the clocks, watches and even ancient sundials which the amnesty has unearthed, into great heaps, and compressing them between the jaws of industrial scrap metal compactors. "Here we go," says the deputy, casting his Ingersoll onto the stack. "That's all of mine." Soon after - on the basis of seniority last - the Prime Minister's Cartier Santos joins it, and the people cheer.

"Three, two one..." the announcer's “zero,” has the whole globe synchronised with the atomic clock at Greenwich - the one time recorder still functioning; the one that will be stopped, for good, in an hour's time, when it all goes live.

"Platform eighty report all ready," a communications man announces. "We have full control from here now."

"Good," the chief approves. "Have they dispatched the shuttle to pick up the engineers?"

"There's a slight problem there, Sir."

"Oh?"

"One of the stabilisers is cracked. Service personnel are working on it as we speak."

"How long will it take them?"

"Not sure Sir; half an hour possibly."

"Make sure it’s no longer. Keep me informed."

 

"They're cutting things fine," Mumford says, slightly nervously. "We don't want to be up here at switchover."

"Will it make any difference then?" Baker asks.

"That's something we don't know. That's why we're supposed to re-enter before it starts."

“Surely it was tested on the planet 62e exercise, wasn’t it?”

“Not as far as I know. The crew were down before control threw the switch.”

Baker is disturbed. "Nobody warned me about this. I should be getting danger money. What might happen?"

"Not sure; but it's not worth the risk finding out. Personally, I think we'd dematerialise as we broke through the atmosphere. Earth would be out of time, we wouldn’t, and we're not equipped for time travel."

"Jesus!"

"Oh, don't worry. They'll be here soon."

"I bloody well hope so."

 

"Five minutes to go," the chief executive alerts the synchronisation posts. "I'm now going to switch in the bleeps. We'll give you a countdown on the last minute."

"Sir;" the communications man taps his shoulder, "service say they'll be at least another hour with the shuttle."

"What?"

"Service say they'll be..."

"Yes, I heard you. Dammit!"

"Sir?"

"Well, don't you see? We haven't got another hour."

"Oh hell."

"Quick! Patch me in to platform eighty."

"Sir."

"Platform eighty; this is Slaney."

"Platform eighty receiving you... over."

"Look Mumford; we've got a bit of a problem down here... over."

"What's that Sir?... over."

"The shuttle. It can't fly; and we just don't have the time to fix it.... over."

"With all due respect, Sir, you've got all the time in the world. Can't you delay switchover for a few hours?... over."

"I don't know. Only the PM can decide on that one; and even then he'd have to get the other world leaders to agree... over."

"Well ask him Sir... please... over."

"I'll see what I can do... over and out!"

 

"Thirty-four, thirty-three..." the final countdown has already started.

"Sounds like they're not going to delay it for us," Baker says to Mumford.

"Did you think they would? Can you really imagine the enhancement of the planet being postponed for the sake of two grease monkeys? What are you doing with that suit, Baker?"

"Putting it on. What does it look like."

"Where are you going?"

"Out there. I'm not having them turn that dish."

"Don't be stupid man. Come back... Platform eighty to central control, platform eighty to central control... come in please."

"Central control here... over."

"Give me the chief executive... pronto... over."

"Platform eighty. Slaney speaking. For God’s sake, Mumford, what do you want?... over."

"It's Baker Sir. He's out on the gantry, between the buffers. I think he's trying to reverse polarity on the servos... over."

"Bloody fool. He'll be crushed. We're down to fifteen seconds... over."

"I know. I can hear the count on channel seven... over."

"Eleven, ten, nine..."

"Stop him, can't you?... ove..."

"Too late..."

"Four, three two..."

"Jesus God!"

 

"Platform eighty to central control; platform eighty to central control. Are you receiving me?... Platform eighty to central control; platform eighty to central control. Are you receiving me?... Platform eighty to central control; platform eighty to central control. Are you receiving me? Mayday, mayday. Platform eighty of Project Switchover calling. Is anybody receiving me?... Mayday, mayday. Platform eighty of Project Switchover calling. Is anybody receiving me?"

There is no response from control but, eventually, Baker's distorted voice comes over the communicator. ".over... Baker is This .Mumford Hello"

"Are you on scramble?.. over."

".over... it done I've"

"Talk sense man! What are you doing out there?.. over."

".over... way wrong the facing all are reflector's The"

"Come again... over."

".over... working still is time think I But"

"What was that?"

".out and Over"

* * * *

 Copyright Albert Woods (2013)

Thanks for reading this.

 

For anybody interested, I have my first complete novel up on Amazon – available for Kindle or PC.

 

It’s a crime/political thriller whodunit, and is dirt cheap

 

You can read the synopsis and first chapter for free! So must be worth a look.

 

Just search the title:– EIGHTEEN to TWELVE