It’s not even sand in there. It’s seconds, endlessly turning the maybe into the was.
And every lifetimer has a name on it.
And the room is full of the soft hissing of people living.
Picture the scene…
And now add the sharp clicking of bone on stone, getting closer.
A dark shape crosses the field of vision and moves up the endless shelves of sibilant glassware. Click, click. Here’s a glass with the top bulb nearly empty. Bone fingers rise and reach out. Select. And another. Select. And more. Many, many more. Select, select.
It’s all in a day’s work. Or it would be, if days existed here.
Click, click, as the dark shape moves patiently along the rows.
And stops.
And hesitates.
Because here’s a small gold timer, not much bigger than a watch.
It wasn’t there yesterday, or wouldn’t have been if yesterdays existed here.
Bony fingers close around it and hold it up to the light.
It’s got a name on it, in small capital letters.
The name is DEATH.
Death put down the timer, and then picked it up again. The sands of time were already pouring through. He turned it over experimentally, just in case. The sand went on pouring, only now it was going upward. He hadn’t really expected anything else.
It meant that, even if tomorrows could exist here, there wasn’t going to be any. Not anymore.
There was a movement in the air behind him.
Death turned slowly, and addressed the figure that wavered indistinctly in the gloom.
WHY?
It told him.
BUT THAT IS…NOT RIGHT.
It told him that No, it was right.
Not a muscle moved on Death’s face, because he hadn’t got any.
I SHALL APPEAL.
It told him, he should know that there was no appeal. Never any appeal. Never any appeal.
Death thought about this, and then he said:
I HAVE ALWAYS DONE MY DUTY AS I SAW FIT.
The figure floated closer. It looked vaguely like a gray-robed and hooded monk.
It told him, We know. That is why we’re letting you keep the horse.