sure he dared try to drive it.
His watch flashed, calling attention to itself. It was mechanical, but it had a magic way about it. The glowing hands indicated 8:05 P.M ., the correct time of day. But the red sweep hand was moving. It hadn’t been before; the seconds were marked by a miniature inset dial on the left, opposite the day-date windows on the right. This little hand was still moving, so he knew that function had not been usurped by the sweep. What was the red hand doing?
As he watched, the sweep passed the noon spot—and the hand in the little thirty-minute dial just below it clicked back from 9 to 8. The stopwatch function was operating—and now he realized it was running backward. The sweep hand was moving counterclockwise. What kind of stopwatch was that?
A countdown timer, he realized. This watch was telling him he had less than eight minutes to do something, or to get somewhere. But what, or where?
A cold shiver crawled down his back. He was Death, or some poor facsimile thereof. He had to go and collect his first soul!
Zane rebelled. He had not sought this office! Only the purest coincidence had brought him to this incredible pass.
Coincidence? He had touched on that before. If the woman who had explained things really had been Fate, then she must have measured the thread of his life; she had guided him to his damnable destiny. She had put him here deliberately. In so doing she had in effect killed his predecessor. Why had she done that?
The watch was blinking insistently. He now had six minutes. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he missed whatever appointment he had, but knew already that these supernatural entities played hardball politics. Maybe his predecessor had balked, and so Fate had arranged to eliminate him. Certainly she had evinced no grief at his demise. If Zane balked, she could do the same to him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this office, but knew he wasn’t ready for that. So he had better get on with the job, trying to buy time to figure out his real feelings about it, and to ascertain what his real options might be.
Where was the instruction manual Fate had mentioned? He didn’t see it, and didn’t have time to look for it. The thing could have been lost a century ago by his predecessor.
Zane put his hands on the steering wheel of the car named Mortis and touched his right foot to the accelerator. Where was the ignition key? He had none. Maybe it was back on the body of the former Death.
Zane shuddered. He had been propelled into this misadventure, but he didn’t want to go back to its starting point! He checked the panel, hoping for an alternative. After all, many vehicles operated by magic in minor ways, just as many magic things had mechanical controls. A simple touch switch was marked ON/OFF. He flicked it to ON—and the car came to life. The front panel lighted, the radio came on, and the seat harness clasped him protectively. The motor thrummed with muted power. Oh, yes, this was some car!
Well, so be it. Zane found the reverse control andstarted backing the car out. It handled like a dream device, amazingly smooth and responsive. Death had lived no Spartan existence!
A warning beeper sounded, and the rearview mirror flashed: the way was not clear. But in a moment it was, as a stray auto passed, and he was able to back onto the street.
The Deathmobile continued to move smoothly, responding so instantly and accurately to his smallest guidance that it almost seemed alive. Zane was no automotive expert, but suspected this was one of the finest machines of its breed. It was not magic, basically, but was as apt an instrument of transport as anything magical could be. Oh, yes, Death possessed the best!
Yet Death, for all his perquisites, was dead. This was the somber reality behind the seeming affluence. Death’s killer had inherited the estate.
He shifted to DRIVE and moved carefully forward, getting the feel of this wonderful thing. It was easy to merge with
His watch flashed, calling attention to itself. It was mechanical, but it had a magic way about it. The glowing hands indicated 8:05 P.M ., the correct time of day. But the red sweep hand was moving. It hadn’t been before; the seconds were marked by a miniature inset dial on the left, opposite the day-date windows on the right. This little hand was still moving, so he knew that function had not been usurped by the sweep. What was the red hand doing?
As he watched, the sweep passed the noon spot—and the hand in the little thirty-minute dial just below it clicked back from 9 to 8. The stopwatch function was operating—and now he realized it was running backward. The sweep hand was moving counterclockwise. What kind of stopwatch was that?
A countdown timer, he realized. This watch was telling him he had less than eight minutes to do something, or to get somewhere. But what, or where?
A cold shiver crawled down his back. He was Death, or some poor facsimile thereof. He had to go and collect his first soul!
Zane rebelled. He had not sought this office! Only the purest coincidence had brought him to this incredible pass.
Coincidence? He had touched on that before. If the woman who had explained things really had been Fate, then she must have measured the thread of his life; she had guided him to his damnable destiny. She had put him here deliberately. In so doing she had in effect killed his predecessor. Why had she done that?
The watch was blinking insistently. He now had six minutes. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he missed whatever appointment he had, but knew already that these supernatural entities played hardball politics. Maybe his predecessor had balked, and so Fate had arranged to eliminate him. Certainly she had evinced no grief at his demise. If Zane balked, she could do the same to him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this office, but knew he wasn’t ready for that. So he had better get on with the job, trying to buy time to figure out his real feelings about it, and to ascertain what his real options might be.
Where was the instruction manual Fate had mentioned? He didn’t see it, and didn’t have time to look for it. The thing could have been lost a century ago by his predecessor.
Zane put his hands on the steering wheel of the car named Mortis and touched his right foot to the accelerator. Where was the ignition key? He had none. Maybe it was back on the body of the former Death.
Zane shuddered. He had been propelled into this misadventure, but he didn’t want to go back to its starting point! He checked the panel, hoping for an alternative. After all, many vehicles operated by magic in minor ways, just as many magic things had mechanical controls. A simple touch switch was marked ON/OFF. He flicked it to ON—and the car came to life. The front panel lighted, the radio came on, and the seat harness clasped him protectively. The motor thrummed with muted power. Oh, yes, this was some car!
Well, so be it. Zane found the reverse control andstarted backing the car out. It handled like a dream device, amazingly smooth and responsive. Death had lived no Spartan existence!
A warning beeper sounded, and the rearview mirror flashed: the way was not clear. But in a moment it was, as a stray auto passed, and he was able to back onto the street.
The Deathmobile continued to move smoothly, responding so instantly and accurately to his smallest guidance that it almost seemed alive. Zane was no automotive expert, but suspected this was one of the finest machines of its breed. It was not magic, basically, but was as apt an instrument of transport as anything magical could be. Oh, yes, Death possessed the best!
Yet Death, for all his perquisites, was dead. This was the somber reality behind the seeming affluence. Death’s killer had inherited the estate.
He shifted to DRIVE and moved carefully forward, getting the feel of this wonderful thing. It was easy to merge with
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