Mr. Bagus Puddleclock, partner in the Puddleclock Lift Corporation, a small company selling and repairing elevators, rushed out of his Kensington residence in terror and started to run around the streets of London, babbling like a poor madman.

The exertion had turned his face to an unhealthy purple, and the pain in his feet, which he had felt incessantly since Piccadilly Circus, had become practically unbearable. He cursed himself for never following a diet worthy of its name. If he had been ten pounds lighter, his mission of arriving on time – and especially alive – at the doors of his company would have been easier.
He struggled to take his handkerchief out of his pants' pocket to wipe the sweat that dripped abundantly on his pig-pink shirt collar. Then he looked around, desperately hoping to find a free taxi. He would have even given away his neurotic Jack Russell Terrier, Goliath, to find a small seat on a car. Sadly, it didn't seem to be his lucky day.

Resigned, he suffered a 15-minute ride on a subway train packed with commuters and spent another 20 interminable minutes painfully climbing uphill, before he could see the modest, squeaky sign of Puddleclock Corporation. The wooden sign never looked better.

He wanted to catch his breath for a second, but he knew he had no time. He turned once more to make sure no one had followed him after his rushed escape, then made a mad dash through the revolving door, ignoring the janitor who was apathetically mopping the checkered floor and the receptionist who was busy painting her nails.

"Good morning, Mr. Bagus," she said, wearily. "Good-bye Mr. Bagus," she said again as he ran off.

Without paying her the least attention, Mr. Bagus continued to run like a charging bull toward the elevator, still blabbering nonsensical words.

"Nobilius... quadrant... demons... sign... Nobilius..." He pressed the button to call the elevator to the ground floor, and then moved around nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and checking his watch at regular intervals. This was the perfect chance, he thought, to measure the limits of his patience. He pressed the button again, once, twice, three times. The blasted elevator was nowhere to be seen.

"Mr. Bagus?" the receptionist said in a nasal, singsong voice. "Do you need to use the elevator?"

Bagus wondered if the poor girl had suffered a serious trauma in her childhood – a violent strike on the head or a bad fall from the cradle – or if she was slow from tragic natural causes.

"Yes, dear! I'm waiting for the elevator," he replied, with faked courtesy.

"It's not working! As usual, as a matter of fact," answered the janitor in an argumentative tone, blowing out the smoke of his large cigar. "Hilarious, don't you think?"

"Isn't smoking forbidden in here?" Bagus reproved him.

The man arrogantly shrugged his shoulders and moved his mop back and forth without much conviction.

"We can talk about that later!" continued Bagus. He had no time to waste in trivial discussions. "Listen well, you two!" he warned them, agitated. "If anyone comes and starts asking strange questions, tell them the firm is closed for remodeling and send them away. Understood?"

"I'm a receptionist, not a bouncer!" the girl objected sharply. "If you have problems with the tax authorities you should talk to an accountant or a good lawyer."

"Well said!" agreed the janitor. "These are the usual abuses of the rich. They think they can pull our strings like puppets, just because they have money. Have you ever heard of unions?"

Mr. Puddleclock counted to ten, fighting the irrepressible urge to hang them both from the light fixture. As incredible as it seemed, at that moment he desperately needed those two slackers.

He wiped again the sweat that had pooled on his forehead and started to inspect his wallet.

"I'll pay you fifty pounds for this favor!"

"In that case, I won't let a draft through that door!" said the janitor, quickly grabbing the money from Bagus's hand. "Do you see this?" he continued, flaunting his mop stick. "This has helped me more than once to avoid some... er... let's say uncomfortable situations." He winked, knowingly.

"What about your great speech about unions?" whined the receptionist.

"Bah!" snorted the man. "I'm not even a member."

Bagus left the two profiteers to work out their differences and begrudgingly started to climb the stairs.

In all those years, he had never noticed there was a stairway in the building, probably because of his long-standing, careful choice of a strictly sedentary life. To avoid wasting effort, he had even asked for an office on the ground floor with a TV, a refrigerator, and a personal bathroom.

He only went to the other floors by elevator and exclusively for impelling matters. Otherwise, he would send Patsy, his saintly secretary. 

On the first floor, he was surprised to see so many employees feverishly working: negotiating prices by phone, organizing files, or typing reports.

"Good morning, Mr. Puddleclock! Did you hear about Project Bat? This contract is going to grant us at least one hundred elevators. A true stroke of luck, right?"

"Yes, of course! The Bates business! Terrific!"

In other circumstances that news would have caused him to jump for joy, but now, after everything that had happened, nothing seemed important.

He kept walking between the desks, trying unsuccessfully to hide his hurry. He gave out stiff smiles and nodded with credible interest, hoping not to raise suspicions and to avoid difficult questions that would cause him to waste more precious time.

After the last row of desks, when he was sure no one could see him, he ran madly toward the room where his brothers were meeting. Although his strength was running out, he didn't stop when one of his moccasins decided to abandon him in the corridor, nor when his suspenders, detached after all the pulling, started to nervously jingle on the floor. He only stopped at the door of the meeting room when he finally read the nameplate: Puddleclock Management.

He didn't bother knocking, but burst in like a tornado, violently slamming the door into the wall.

"Quick! We've no more ti..." his impetuous words choked in his throat.

"Bagus, have you gone mad? Don't you see we're in the middle of a crucial meeting? And, for heaven's sake, what are you wearing?"

Gustaf Puddleclock, his older brother and partner in business, stood up furiously from his chair, placing his skinny, trembling fingertips on the table, and looked mortified at his illustrious guests.

"Mr. Bates, please excuse my brother's poor manners. Normally, he wears decent clothes, eats with silverware, and can express a concept in words and not just gestures. If you don't mind, I suggest we forget this interruption and continue our discussion."

"No!" Bagus interrupted again. "There's no more time!"

This time, the clients' annoyed looks and his brother's resentful glances didn't forgive the interruption. Gustaf pointed to the door, indicating that Bagus's presence was no longer accepted or tolerated.

Bagus didn't budge. He had to warn them of the danger they were all facing.

"You must listen to me! There's no more time. The sign... the sign has appeared!"

Hearing those words, Gustaf teetered, then fell virtually lifeless on his chair while Archibald, the other brother, looked instinctively out of the window, as if expecting an imminent catastrophe.

"Mr. Puddleclock senior!" Bates burst out. "I'm sorry, but if this is the way Puddleclock Lift Corporation conducts its business, I'm afraid you'll have to find another partner, one with more patience and a greater sense of humor. And take my advice..." he continued, as he collected his papers, "if you want to be taken seriously, you need to first repair your own elevator!" Outraged, he gathered his administrative staff and left the room.

The three brothers kept silent around the table. They couldn't discern if their greatest shock was the loss of a multi-million contract, which they had practically held in their pockets, or Bagus's bewildering news.

The first to come to himself after the baffling announcement was Archibald, who wet his lips and cleared his throat, whispering, in a voice he had thought he had lost forever, "The sign... has it really appeared? Are you sure it's Nobilius's pendulum clock?"

Bagus nodded.

"We should have expected it!" Archibald commented, fixing his goatee. "Our peace couldn't last forever."

"Quiet! We shouldn't talk about it here. Someone might be listening!" Gustaf scolded him. "If what Bagus is saying is true, we can expect an unsolicited visit any moment."

Soon, almost as a confirmation, a powerful gust of wind slammed the window shut, blowing around the blood-colored curtains and scattering the remaining documents on the floor.

"Quick! Follow me!" ordered Gustaf, fixing his checkered vest.

"It's time to make some phone calls."

They started to walk to their offices, almost tiptoeing, when they were forced to change their agenda.

"Mr. Puddleclooooock! Mr. Puddlecloooock! Sirs!" croaked a voice from the other end of the corridor. "Whoo-hoo! Siiiirs! Mr. Puddlecloooock!" Suddenly, Patsy's back combed hair emerged, waving rhythmically like the rod of a metronome. Visibly excited, the woman motioned the brothers to follow her into the main hall where all the employees had gathered.

"Come quickly! It looks like some vandal had fun dirtying the streets of London! They're announcing it now."

The three brothers understood immediately.

"Well, it seems our phone calls will have to wait a little longer!" said Gustaf, as he tried unsuccessfully to free himself from the woman's deadly grasp.

In the hall, the employees had placed their chairs in half circle around the TV. There was no more chatter or friendly jokes. Everyone's attention was focused on the BBC reporter who was summarizing, in a dramatic fashion, the story's main events.

The images of downtown London moved slowly on the screen, provoking a mournful bustle in the room. Inexplicable signs and mysterious pictures covered every street that led to Big Ben.

Bagus felt streams of sweat running down his back. He looked at his brothers in silence, reliving the fright he had experienced a few hours earlier.

"Those inconsiderate loafers!" yelled Mr. Adcock, the accountant. "They should lock them up and throw away the key!"

"This would never happen if the government would invest more money and effort in the schools and the education of our youth!" another employee commented.

"The belt! That's what we need to straighten some backs! Only with a firm hand can we obtain results in this country!" contradicted the janitor, who had joined the group with his mop and bucket. Bagus walked up to him from behind.

"Didn't I ask you to watch the door?" he whispered in the janitor's ear.

"I can't spend all evening mopping the same squares because of your paranoia," the man explained himself.

"Be quiet everyone!" ordered Patsy "They're about to interview an eye-witness!"

Suddenly, the whole room became totally silent.

"I'm certainly not an expert but..." the witness said, still visibly in shock, "I don't think this was the work of a group of kids."

"Why do you say that?" inquired the reporter.

"Well..." The man hesitated. "Those symbols... those images... are repeated on every street... I saw them when they appeared – instantly, out of nowhere. No one wrote them!" The volume of his voice kept increasing.

"They came out of nowhere," repeated the young reporter, reluctantly.

"Exactly, sir! I can swear," replied the man, realizing his words sounded irrational.

"Umm... very interesting," said the reporter in a sarcastic tone of voice. "Would you like to add anything to this 'incredible' testimony?" 

"Well, if I may give my opinion... these writings on the ground are not senseless scribbles and spots!" the man continued.

"They're not?" the reported repeated, ready for another weird theory.

"I'm an inveterate fan of puzzles, and I can almost swear those symbols are hiding a message."

Gustaf crossed his fingers while Bagus and Archibald closed their eyes and held their breath, as if that could help them avoid the worst. "Don't tell me!

Don't tell me! I bet it's a ghost writing his memoir in code!" teased the reporter, realizing his scoop was slowly turning into a joke.

He then turned to the camera, flashing the most charming smile, and delivered his report.

"International authorities have immediately launched a detailed hunt for the 'Scribbling Gang,' as the police have comically called them. It is, in fact, certain that this defacement of the streets of London is the work of a gang of unruly youngsters armed with paintbrushes, not of some Sudoku-loving ghost. Unfortunately, the information regarding this case struggles to be revealed because of the state of maximum security declared by Scotland Yard's Chief Inspector Horatio Anicet Biddle. We're obviously eager to give you some updates on this regrettable case. But now, live from London, this is really all there is for today. Back to the studio."

At the end of the report, as expected, another bedlam of comments exploded in the room. Everyone had a different opinion, but they all agreed on one thing: that shameful act, whoever committed it, must have been the work of a diabolical mind. After all, this person had managed to organize and orchestrate one of the most colossal operations of the last few years, right under everyone's eyes.

The Puddleclock brothers left the buzz of the room and retired to a corner of the corridor to decide what to do.

"Apparently, someone must have found and activated the clock!" declared Gustaf. "I just wonder how!"

"If we don't want the magic to stop, we need to decipher the text as soon as possible!" Archibald added, concerned. "Today!"

"Yes!" the oldest brother agreed. "We have to speak to Abigore Gammal. He'll know how to help us!"

"Let's hope he can do it on time!" wished Archibald. "CRACK!" A sinister noise came from the elevator shaft.

"Did you hear that?" asked Bagus, suddenly white like a freshly washed sheet.

"What was it?" wondered Archibald, not completely sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"It seemed to be coming from the elevator," said Gustaf, looking nervously around.

"Isn't it broken?" asked Bagus.

"CRACK-CRACK!"

The brothers turned abruptly. More strange creaks came from the elevator shaft.

"Let's not waste any time!" yelled Gustaf. "To the car! Now!"

The three old men put on their coats and hats and rushed out of the building, climbing into their old and dusty pale blue MG convertible, which had not been running for almost thirty years.

"Oh Lord! What's that thing in the sky?" Bagus exclaimed, leaning out the window.

"Can you stop giving only bad news?" scolded Gustaf, trying to revive the lethargic windshield wipers.

A thick purple-red cloud loomed over the clock tower, repeatedly emanating clusters of furious lightning and luminescent green electrical flashes.

"Gustaf, start this wretched clunker!" Archibald urged him. "And what do you think I'm trying to do? Dance the polka?" shouted Gustaf as he floored the gas pedal again.

The old MG went on grumbling by fits and starts for a few yards. Then, as if it had finally understood the urgency of the situation, started to race, leaving a bleak trail of black smoke behind.

"Watch out for the light pole!" shrieked Bagus, holding on with all his might to the sides of his seat.

"I saw it, I saw it!" reassured him Gustaf, completely bent over the steering wheel.

"I'd say you should also leave that mail box in its place... and the side of that bus!" Bagus kept hollering.

"If you howl in my ears again, I swear I'll leave you by the side of the road!" threatened Gustaf.

Keeping calm in a vehicle driven by a nearly blind super centenarian without a valid driving license wasn't certainly the simplest thing in the world. In the list of possible calamities, this catastrophe came between a swim in a shark-infested sea and an earthquake.

"Watch out, Gustaf! The telephone booth!" Bagus covered his face with his hands to avoid seeing his brothers getting splattered against the windshield. Surprisingly, he never heard the shatter of glass. Puddleclock senior managed miraculously to avoid even that obstacle and continued his deadly race towards the center of London.

Archibald, who had to stick his dentures back in his mouth at every bounce, kept trying to monitor the behavior of the suspicious cloud.

"I don't mean to alarm you, but that reddish mass is getting bigger and bigger!" he warned anxiously.

Just then, the car stopped abruptly and without warning, thrusting the two old passengers forward.

"Here we are!" declared Gustaf.

"Congratulations on your smooth driving!" complimented Bagus. 

The MG parked in front of a pleasant three-floor residence surmounted by a glass dome and completely surrounded by thick, wild vegetation. At first, the place seemed deserted. Some letters stuck out of a dangling mailbox. The pages of the daily paper swirled around on the unkempt lawn and a few empty milk bottles waited trustingly on the patio.

"Gammal lives here?" asked Bagus, surprised.

They followed the path to the entrance, carefully avoiding the emerging roots of a tree, and pushing away sharp thorns and leaves at every step. Gustaf immediately recognized the symbol of the Contrary World, engraved on the door post: Gozer's crown, Edenal's crown and Aragon's upside-down crown, with three keys in the background – the same symbol which, well-hidden, was part of Puddleclock Corporation's sign.

"I bet you're looking for that old fool, Abigore?" said a high-pitched voice behind them.

They saw a head full of rollers appear from behind a bush. It was a nosy neighbor who had been watching them carefully, dressed in an awful flowery robe.

"Don't waste time ringing the bell!" she continued, while she kept examining them. "That clown hasn't answered all morning." She petted the dog she was holding in her arms, also dressed up in a horrendous flowery suit. "He has been locked in that miserable dome for hours. I'd like to know what he's messing around with. In fact, if you see him, tell him if he doesn't clean up this garbage dump I'll have to call the police. Am I making myself clear?"

Afraid of interrupting the aggressive monologue, the three old men simply nodded, wishing the unbearable and whiney litany would come to a speedy end.

Their wish was soon granted by Abigore Gammal himself. In a matter of seconds, the squeaky front door began to open slowly. Then, in the almost complete darkness, a hand motioned them to enter.

"I have been expecting you!" said a calm, deep voice. "The events are unfolding quickly."

The light of a freshly lit candle revealed a thin face crowned by an unkempt mane of grey hair and a room overflowing with clocks.

"Abigore! Old friend!" Gustaf and the man exchanged some affectionate pats on the back. "How are you?"

"Still as lively as ever, my dear!" he said, following his words with a powerful cough.

"What are you doing with all these clocks?" Gustaf asked, curious.

"I tried to avoid the irreparable, but apparently I didn't succeed!" said Abigore, climbing on the first step of a shaky winding staircase. "For years, I've collected all sorts of clocks, hoping that one day I may find the real one." 

"But someone else found it first," added Bagus. 

"Exactly!" lamented the old man.

The Puddleclocks followed Gammal to the dome on top of the stairs. Much of the space was taken up by an enormous telescope used for a careful study of some portions of the heavenly spheres. All around hung stellar maps, Leonardo-style drawings, and dozens of pages written in code.

"Do you think it was them?" Gustaf asked, shuddering at the thought.

Gammal didn't answer. Something else had suddenly caught his attention.

"Darn it!" he said, nearing the glass.

Some of the symbols on the streets were now lit up. The cloud had turned into a cyclone and the greenish electrical flashes had become more powerful as they intersected each other around the top of the tower. Traffic blocked the whole downtown area while hundreds of people moved to the streets, creating an unprecedented jam.

Gustaf turned to Gammal, who kept watching the scene, hypnotized. "We need to translate those signs, Abigore. We need your help!" 

"I know, Gustaf, but I'm afraid it won't change anything," bemoaned his friend.

"What do you mean?" asked Gustaf, anxiously.

"I mean the spell is broken! What you see there is the first stage in Nobilius's message. My dear ones, what you see before your eyes is the awakening of the contrary time!"