Lord Isidore G. Dott dashed toward his car with a scowling face, holding his faithful 24-hour briefcase, his bowler hat, and his umbrella. All the while, he tried to chase away, as one chases an annoying fly, his smart-alecky assistant who kept step with him while reminding him of the day's appointments.

This time, he had to admit, the employment agency had "almost" done a decent job.

His hired nuisance, in fact, seemed a tad more alert than his thirty-two unfortunate predecessors. Through a successful counterstrike, he had managed to place himself in front of Dott, using his clipboard to block the blows of his boss's umbrella.

"Lord Isidore, please slow down!" he pleaded, wheezing along.

"I'll run as much as I like!" Dott replied, suddenly shifting direction. 

"I need to talk to you about your grandfather..." continued the assistant, trying to catch up. "The custodians found him in the reading room again, browsing around!"

"So what?" Isidore asked, walking even faster. "Isn't that a public library?"

"He was wearing pajamas and was shoplifting... in the middle of the night!" the assistant informed him.

"Well, call animal control. Case closed. Good-bye!" the lord answered, emotionless.

"For heaven's sake, wait just a second!" the poor man pleaded, on the verge of tears. "What about today's meeting with the city council? You can't cancel that too. It would be the third time we've postponed it. They'll think you don't want to meet with them!"

"It's exactly right, Smith!" admitted Lord Dott. "I can't stand them! I can't tolerate that riff-raff of lazy bumpkins and profiteers! That's the truth! And as far as I'm concerned, you can just let them know!" he said, ending his passionate statement by turning around and stepping on the assistant's foot.

Awarded with degrees in archaeology, ethnology, anthropology, and theoretical philosophy by the prestigious Oxford University, Lord Isidore Dott, general manager of the London branch of the National Library, was not well known for his good manners. On the contrary, his opinions on how to behave with and around people were inadequate and extremely confused.

From childhood, he had had a pathological urge to persecute other people and had been affected by a serious form of misanthropy. He felt deeply adverse to a good portion of humankind, considering them insignificant and incapable of dealing with the precious and delicate instrument that was his brain.

"My only enriching conversations are those with the brilliant person I see reflected in my mirror."

That's what he thought, and he never missed a chance to brutally mention it to any person who crossed his path.

It's not surprising then that none of his coworkers and acquaintances found the dozens of death threats he received every day either strange or alarming. In fact, no one doubted that, sooner or later, one of those threats would come to fruition.

In the meantime, the customary September rain the weather jinxers had announced the previous day started to pour down profusely.

Lord Dott watched in horror as the drops of water flippantly bounced from the brick pavement onto his shiny black leather shoes. U-N-A-C-C-E-P-T-A-B-L-E! Under his military black moustache, his thin lips started to grimace nervously.

"It's all Smith's fault!" he thought. If he had not wasted some precious seconds listening to the fibs of that raving idiot, he would have been already inside his comfortable Rolls-Royce Ghost, leafing through the latest issue of Times magazine, he angrily reasoned to himself. He had to get rid of that pest, and he had to do it quickly.

Taking advantage of a brief moment of his opponent's distraction, he executed his plan, opening his umbrella in the poor man's face and banging his briefcase repeatedly on his victim's shins. Then, he darted toward his car's open door.

His long flamingo-thin legs ran relentlessly down the boulevard until he reached his finish line, while the miserable bag carrier, still in a state of shock, massaged his aching calves under the pouring rain.

"The person who can stop me has yet to be born!" Isidore shouted as he stepped into his Rolls-Royce, waving his hat like a showman. "By the way, Smith..." he continued, lowering the limousine's window enough to poke out his hatted head. "I forgot to tell you... you have until early this afternoon to clear your desk of your personal belongings and silently get out of my hair. You're fired! I mean... extra-fired!" The tinted window closed slowly, hiding the diabolic and triumphant look of the "gentleman" who sat back, brushing his hands against each other as if he were wiping off dust.

His luxurious car was ready to leave and take him far from there. Lord Dott felt relaxed, as a faint flicker of high spirits started to emerge in his mind.

Finally, he could tend to one of his favorite pastimes, the customary reading of the daily paper which his trusted driver, Alfred, had placed on his back seat as usual.

Dott placed his hat by his side. After positioning his 24-karat gold eyeglass, he started to browse the headlines. Apparently, everything seemed to be proceeding perfectly. By the time he arrived at the fourth page, however, he started to feel strange. He unbuttoned his double-breasted coat, furrowed his thick eyebrows, and changed position. Unfortunately, none of his attempts to feel better seemed to help. That "strange sensation" kept bothering him. He decided to keep reading, hoping that home politics could distract him from that troubling thought. Yet, not even the crushing victory of the conservative party in the local elections gave him the least amount of relief. He untidily folded the paper and started to drum his fingers frantically on the armrest. Only then, he realized that the car had been stopped for a while and gave no indication of wanting to move forward. He turned on the internal phone to demand an immediate explanation.

"Alfred, are you asleep behind the wheel?"

"Nossir!" the driver answered, diligently. "I would never dare, without your permission, sir!"

"Then, why in the world aren't we moving, you slacker?"

"I'm not sure, sir... but, if my opinion is welcome, I believe we're stuck in a traffic jam."

"Then do something! Find another way. Go back. Rent a jet. Just do something, for heaven's sake, before I get another terrible hea- dache!"

"Sir, it'll be very difficult to maneuver the car with all these people crowding the streets!"

"What do you mean, people crowding the streets?" cried Lord Dott, who had reached the limits of his patience.

"People... sir," Alfred repeated. "They seem to be looking at so- mething... they seem hypnotized."

Frustrated, Dott rolled down the dividing glass between him and the driver and struck Alfred on the head with the paper.

Hypnotized people, right! This time Alfred must have tipped his bottle of brandy a little too much.

"Hey, tipsy driver! Didn't I tell you not to drink at work?"

"If you don't believe me, take a look!" the driver challenged him politely, then removed his hat to scratch his head in disbelief.

"Blimey! What in the world's going on?" said Dott, stretching forward to look out of the windshield. "What are all those wild-eyed people doing in the middle of the street?"

"I really don't know, sir! I just know that a drop of brandy would be appropriate now!" admitted the driver.

Hundreds of people were in fact frozen still in the streets. Could all the people of London have lost their mind at the same time?

Isidore put his bowler hat on backwards and rushed out of the car so abruptly that he almost broke his neck.

Only then he noticed the mysterious symbols covering the streets, the monstrous cloud hovering on top of Big Ben, and the unnatural silence, broken only by repeated peals of thunder and by the powerful sound of the large clock.

"It must be the devil at work!" shouted a distressed lady at his side.

Dott looked again at the tower, squinting to find focus. What he saw left him dumbstruck.

He rubbed his eyes and breathed on his eyeglass to be sure there were no impediments to his vision. There weren't. The famous Big Ben, the most renowned clock in the world, had apparently gone absolutely mad. Its two hands moved as fast as the blades of a helicopter, generating a disquieting noise as they pierced the air.

"Alfred, you slacker!" yelled Dott. "I'm not paying you good money to stay still like a scarecrow. Make yourself useful! Turn on the radio and tune in to the national station!"

"Yessir!" answered the driver, promptly.

All of a sudden, a knot of people formed around the Rolls Royce, while swarms of helicopters feverishly buzzed over their heads and around the tower.

"...after the unfortunate appearance of the symbols in our streets, just a few hours ago," said the radio reporter, nervously, "another shocking event is now distressing the Londoners' minds.

"We're connected live with downtown London, where our spe- cial correspondent Nicholas Purdy will try to shed some light on this new, unusual occurrence. Nicholas, can you hear me? Where are you exactly at this moment? Can you give us an update on the situation there?

"Good morning, James! I'm right in front of the famous Big Ben, together with hundreds of Londoners, and I can only say... if yesterday they had told me I would see a day like this, I wouldn't have believed it!

"Now, after the strange appearance of enigmatic signs on the streets of downtown London, even the clock tower seems to be victim of an unexplainable malfunction. A little over half an hour ago, the hands of the clock started to rotate independently of each other at a ghastly pace, with their movement creating indescribable trails of light. If I weren't the skeptic I'm known to be, I would call it witchcraft."

"Witchcraft! Bah!" Dott repeated, with a sardonic smile. "Has anyone ever heard of magnetic discharge or short circuit? If this Purdy were at my service, I would have already sent him a nice letter of termination, together with a kick in his behind!" With this, he quickly began to shove away the people who had gathered around his car. "Shoo! Shoo! Go away, lazybones! Go and loiter somewhere else! In this country, every event is a good excuse to skip work."

He had just placed one foot in his car, when he had to stop abruptly. 

"Just a moment!" the correspondent declared, worried. "James... I have to get back to you for a new update... there's something new up there!"

Everyone turned their eyes toward the tower.

The hands of the clock started to slow down, then stopped, while a series of powerful, heavy tolls made the earth shake. The noise became deafening. The windows of cars and busses alike started to crack. The glass of the street lights and shop windows began to crumble like sand.

"Patron saint of drivers, protect me!" shouted Alfred, even if no one could hear him in that racket.

The earth shook and twisted dynamically as if to free itself of thick, heavy chains after centuries of imprisonment. With every jolt, everything shuddered.

A few minutes later, absolute peace and quiet returned to reign. Big Ben's long hands turned slowly again, but... counterclockwise! "What's happening?" said an old lady, loudly blowing her nose as she held back her tears.

Dott gave her a haughty look, stepping aside to avoid her germs. "It looks obvious!" he finally replied, unconcerned. "Isn't it clear?" "And what should be so clear, Beanpole?" yelled a truck driver, exasperated.

"Right! Tell us, wise guy!" added another. "What are we missing?" 

Lord Isidore gave them a disdainful look, uncertain whether or not he should share his brilliant insight with this vile rabble. Finally, the temptation to throw those bumpkins into a state of deeper panic helped him decide.

"Something terrible is about to happen!" Dott chuckled as he perceived a sense of terror spreading through the crowd. "Big Ben has not gone mad, my dear ones! It's just marking... the countdown!"