C M Kornbluth - Thirteen O'Clock

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Thirteen O'Clock

C. M. Kornbluth

Thirteen O'Clock

PETER PACKER folded the carpenter's rule and rose from his knees, brushing dust from the neat

crease of his serge trousers. No doubt of it-the house had a secret attic room. Peter didn't know anything

about sliding panels or hidden buttons; in the most direct way imaginable he lifted the axe he had brought

and crunched it into the wall.

On his third blow he holed through. The rush of air from the darkness was cool and sweet. Smart old

boy, his grandfather, thought Peter. Direct ventilation all over the house-even in a false compartment. He

chopped away heartily, the hollow strokes ringing through the empty attic and down the stairs.

He could have walked through the hole erect when he was satisfied with his labors; instead he cautiously

turned a flashlight inside the space. The beam was invisible; all dust had long since settled. Peter grunted.

The floor seemed to be sound. He tested it with one foot, half in, half out of the hidden chamber. It held.

The young man stepped through easily, turning the flash on walls and floor. The room was not large, but

it was cluttered with a miscellany of objects-chests, furniture, knick-knacks and what-nots. Peter opened

a chest, wondering about pirate gold. But there was no gold, for the thing was full to the lid with chiffons

in delicate hues. A faint fragrance of musk filled the ah-; sachets long since packed away were not

entirely gone.

Funny thing to hide away, thought Peter. But Grandfather Packer had been a funny man-having this

house built to his own very sound plans, waiting always on the Braintree docks for the China and India

Clippers and what rare cargo they

might have brought. Chiffons! Peter pocked around in the box for a moment, then closed the lid again.

There were others.

He turned the beam of the light on a wall lined with shelves. Pots of old workmanship-spices and

preserves, probably. And a clock. Peter stared at the clock. It was about two by two by three feet-an

unusual and awkward size. The workmanship was plain, the case of crudely finished wood. And yet

there was something about it-his eyes widened as he realized what it was. The dial showed thirteen

hours!

Between the flat figures XII and I there was another-an equally flat XIII. What sort, of freak this was the

young man did not know. Vaguely he conjectured on prayer-time, egg-boiling and all the other practical

applications of chronometry. But nothing he could dredge up from his well-stored mind would square

with this freak. He set the, flash on a shelf and hefted the clock in his arms, lifting it easily.

This, he thought, -iwould bear looking into. Putting the light in his pocket he carried the clock down the

stairs to his second-floor bedroom. It looked strangely incongruous there, set on a draftsman's table hung

with rules and T squares. Determinedly Peter was beginning to pry open the back with a chisel, when it

glided smoothly open without tooling. There was better construction in the old timeplace than he had

realized. The little hinges were still firm and in working order. He peered into the works and ticked his

nail against one of the chimes. It sounded sweet and clear. The young man took a parr of pliers. Lord

knew where the key was, he thought, as he began to wind the clock. He nudged the pendulum. Slowly it

got under way, ticking loudly. The thing had stopped at 12:59. That would be nearly one o'clock in any

other timepiece; on this the minute hand crept slowly toward the enigmatic XIII.

Peter wound the striking mechanism carefully, and watched as a little whir sounded. The minute hand

met the Roman numeral, and with a click the chimes sounded out in an eerie, jangling discord. Peter

thought with sudden confusion that all was not well with the clock as he had thought. The chimes grew

louder, filling the little bedroom with their clang.

Horrified, the young man put his hands on the clock as though he could stop off the noise. As he shook

the old cabinet the peals redoubled until they battered against the ear-

drums of the draftsman, ringing in his skull and resounding from the walls, making instruments dance and

rattle on the drawing-board. Peter drew back, his hands to his ears. He was foiled with nausea, his eyes

bleared and smarting. As the terrible clock thundered out its din without end he reached the door feebly,

the room swaying and spinning about him, nothing real but the suddenly glowing clock-dial and the clang

and thunder of its chimes.

He opened the door and it ceased; he closed his eyes in relief as his nausea passed. He looked up again,

and his eyes widened with horror. Though it was noon outside a night-wind fanned his face, and though

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C M Kornbluth - Thirteen O'Clock

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