On board the space station, Huygens 413, The maintenance bay buzzed with activity. Brother Gort stared at his craft, as many others often did. It was always an occasion when a ship of one of the Monks of History drifted in to be fixed. It turned out this was quite a regular event as the Monks, of which Brother Gort was one, still used wood as their primary spacecraft building material. Wood, even wood soaked in the fundamental nature of time itself, needed regular care when travelling through deep space, a solitary woodworm could spell disaster never mind an altercation with an asteroid or solar flare. Gort's ship had sprung a leak, in truth a knot in the wood had been pushed out by Gort's own hand. It was more curiosity to see if it would move and lo and behold it did, Gort instantly regretted the action and resolved to never mention it to anyone. A chiming shook him from his ever gloomy thoughts, it was the clock. He opened up the leather satchel that he had been subconsciously clinging to and produced a small carriage clock not much larger than a turnip. Housed in a golden veneer of amber the cogs of the clearest crystal tinkled gently as they turned. The face had no numbers or markings of any kind but had three hands that seemed to turn independently of one another, the hands moved smoothly yet a little manically, the whole mechanism crackled with power. This clock could alter time, it could change yesterday into tomorrow and vice versa (although perhaps this is a little less impressive). Gort had to take it, it was too dangerous for any one person to control never mind a collection of Monks who would spend most of their day discussing alternate uses for sundials on cloudy days. Stealing the clock turned out to be easier than he thought but it had left him with a surprising problem, what was he going to do with it? He placed the clock carefully back in the satchel, the seemingly random chiming had stopped for now. The Brotherhood would be looking for him, he needed a plan but as with all of his best plans first of all Gort needed some ale.
Marvin stood motionless pondering the airlock release, it would suck him into the vacuum of space. He could drift carefree through the void, his batteries would last a decade or so and eventually he would be pulled into a collision with some astronomical body, perhaps even a dying star. He should be so lucky, no doubt he would get stuck in orbit around some lump of rock. The depressing thought made him retract his arm from the big red button that said DO NOT PUSH on it. Marvin redid his calculations, ahh there it was, a lazy rounding error of the 4,332nd decimal place. The original solution had given some tangible arithmetic hope that things in Marvin's existence could not get any worse but then his ship had broken down. It had thrown the whole of reality into question. Now he would be marooned for days on this bleak maintenance station that hung in orbit around the most uninteresting of planets, inhabited only by a exotic range of slimes. The only solace from identifying the error was that the mathematics itself still held firm. Marvin sighed as his communicator beeped, he had been summoned.
The barman nodded enquiringly at the balding monk as he thirstily finished the last gulp of his ale, Gort shook his head and let his hand slip into the bag that he clutched on his lap. His hand fumbled for the small hand of the ornate clock and gave it the most gently of taps. There it was again his first ale of the evening although by now it was his fifth first ale of the evening and although he had entered the cantina only moments ago he was, much to the barmans bemusement, inebriated. It was only a small violation and no one would really notice, but this was how the clock worked, small violations although initially harmless would eventually lead to large multiverse altering events. The gardener at his Monastery had been caught altering the evolution of a nearby planetary system, he was trying to cultivate a race of people in his own image only a little bit taller. Alas the original timeline could never be properly reconstructed and there is now a prospering race of slightly tall balding males (and females) with spectacular gardens. The gardener is allowed to visit from time to time and it is said he is worshipped as a deity, all very disturbing. Deep down Gort knew the clock had its claws into him he had many schemes percolating in his head, he had to get rid of it soon or else there would be big trouble. His hand was already creeping towards the clock again.
Marvin sat motionless at the table, his fellow crew mates now engaged in rowdy conversation, a fight as always was imminent. Marvin never really understood why he joined them in their regular group poisonings but the ritual seemed important to the men and at the very least he should make an effort to 'fit in'. If nothing else Marvin found the melancholy of these station cantinas oddly comforting, they made the remoteness and vastness of the multiverse seem manageable if just for a fleeting moment. Ever watchful for a flying bottle or stool Marvin scanned the cantina, something was wrong. It was as close to a real feeling as Marvin could get, his main processing unit had become jerky, calculations would be reset or lost mid integration. Perhaps he was losing his mind, it was vast and unwieldy and it was always going to be a matter of time before it began to outgrow its hardware, this could be the start Marvin thought glumly. Then his attention was drawn to the small balding man slumped over the stool at the bar, the barman began to poke him. The short plump man was dressed in a simple cloak and did not fit the usual patron of such an establishment. Curious Marvin relocated himself beside the by now slumbering man,
'is he with you?' The bewildered barman asked
'What's happened to him?' Marvin replied evasively
'One drink, that's what's happened to him' replied the barman 'You had better get him out of here before I call station security' he added irritatedly.
Marvin was about to protest but as there was little else to do he promptly picked up the sleeping monk in one hand and his satchel in the other and carried them to the corridor outside. Marvin found a quiet cargo bay and gently set the Monk down onto the floor. Still not sure what he was doing he then decided his best course of action was to wait for the man to wake up.
