Fantastic Metropolis

A sudden thought shocks him into action. He runs down to his study, snatches up the papers on his desk. Even as he watches, the letters in the words of his new book close up and evaporate. He is left with a stack of blank sheets.

He sighs and goes outside, to smoke his pipe and survey the fields for damage of a more mundane nature. But the storm wasn’t violent enough. The dykes have held. His experiment has broken even.

As he takes another look at his jammed sails, he realises that the wooden pole is not the handle of a broom after all, but something much stranger. A splintered lance. What can that mean? He suspects a literary allusion.

He is tired of discovering new wonders about Saturn. He decides not to improve any telescopes today. He wants to play with time instead. There is never enough of it. And what does exist is never punctual. It’s his duty to rectify this inadequate situation. He decides to invent the pendulum clock.