Michael gestured with his right hand as though signing his signature in thin air. “I can work independently and as a team player, and juggle several tasks simultaneously in a fast-paced environment under tight deadlines and amid changing priorities. It’s a good fit.”
Michael shrank back as though expecting a blow for his stock, job-description-matching statement.
“Trying to harness the space-time continuum?” Steiner asked rhetorically. “To stabilize it?” He covered his chin with his right hand. “Huh-hmmm!”
“Yes,” Michael said hesitantly, more a question than affirmation.
Steiner guffawed loudly and cruelly and raised his palms. There was a spot of dried blood on his right hand from his shaving nick.
“Mr. Ackerley, as you are no doubt aware, we always keep our appointments. Unlike an interviewee who arrives 20 minutes late.” He nodded toward a clock above the table to his left. The hands were stuck at 11:10.
Michael looked at his digital watch. It read 10:52. The clock’s hand must have risen with the loss of gravity, he thought. When he looked at Steiner, Michael opened his mouth but the interviewer continued.
“We always stick to our schedules, even if the flux goes up and down 12 times a day. Even if time jumps from now to the medieval age, into the futuristic, I don’t know, Hyper-Industrial Revolution. We are the Time Company, Mr. Acheson.” He paused for drama, sounding like an old general in a film giving a monologue before a final battle. Michael was struck by his resemblance to Walter C. Scott. “And we want to control the ebb and flow of these changes. That is the aim of our market.”
Steiner rubbed his palms together, making a sound of gritting sandpaper. “Our job is not to stabilize. No, not at all. Do you know why?”
Michael thought quickly, watching the two thick, gold rings on Mr. Steiner’s index and middle finger.
“Because that would be bad for business?” Michael asked.
Steiner laughed quickly, derisively. “Bad for business?” His smile vanished like the sun behind a cloud. He leaned forward, clearing his papers to one side. “No! That would be apocalyptic for business. Someone has to pick up the pieces. Someone has to keep paid services running. Someone has to make sure people keep paying, even if oxygen suddenly runs out. In fact, if oxygen does run out, send in the Oxygen Men and standardize the Global Positioning Price of oxygen!”
He straightened. There was spittle on the aqua note pad. Steiner’s breath stank of avocado.
Michael leaned away.
“We have to adapt,” Steiner continued. “Time will not adapt to us. I just met a young hotshot the other day, a fellow by the name of Ryan Daniel. He goes from town to town reviving dying Christian youth organizations. A self-made man in Europe. Doesn’t get intimidated even if it’s suddenly the Stone Age, or space aliens join the group. He’s an example of what a young man—what you—can make of yourself in this day and age.”
Steiner paused for a reaction, saw none forthcoming, and continued.
“Do you know how many parameters provide the conditions for human life, Mr. Anderson?”
“I believe there are 32,” Michael replied, his stomach clenching. He wanted to fiddle with something with his restless hands.
A toothy smile broke out on Steiner’s face, but was not complimentary. “Very good. Thirty-two conditions that make it possible for all of us to live—for you and I to sit here and chat, for Granny to get young Tommy to deliver her groceries. If one of these were to change—just one—as all other constants have altered and sporadically shifted for nearly 50 years, ever since the last lovable Pope passed on, we wouldn’t say ‘Boo’ before dying in our sleep, on the bus, at work, or driving. We would get swept away, back to the dust where we all came from.”
Steiner inhaled, exhaled and drank from his mug.
Michael smelled either cough medicine or bad vodka.
A pen floated from Steiner’s desk and toward Michael. A few sheets of paper followed, seemingly in pursuit. Michael rose, but Steiner raised his right hand.
“Leave it,” Steiner said, watching him coldly.
Michael snatched the pen from the air. It was a heavy, gold-encased ball-point pen imprinted with the Time logo. The logo blurred and changed to Domtar Pulp and Paper Mill. Michael’s eyes grew. He looked up as the papers rose toward the speckle-patterned ceiling.
“I said ‘Leave it’,” Steiner repeated.
Michael fought a last urge to grab them and sat down.
Steiner crossed his arms. “What do you think of that, Mr. Atlinson?”
Unsure whether he meant the floating papers or the company philosophy, Michael hedged his bets.
“It’s good,” replied Michael, replacing the pen on the desk under Steiner’s studying gaze. “If change persists, then we have to be ready for it.”
Steiner unfolded his arms, put his elbows on the desk, made a steeple shape with his fingers and stared over them at Michael. After a moment, he grunted and spoke.
“I don’t think that this job is for you, Mr. Averson,” he said, as though discussing the weather. “In this business, we seize opportunity, harness opportunity. You would rather see the potentially disastrous conditions gone, along with the golden opportunity.”
Michael was speechless. He felt a pressure unlocking in his ears, as he always had before one of the universal constants changed in the space-time continuum. He had discovered years ago that many people did not have this same reaction to the shifting conditions of life, and so kept this ability to himself. Michael had lived his entire life under the Changing Thirty-Two Conditions, from different centuries merging with the current century to oxygen becoming carbon monoxide during one of the more perilous moments. The last thing he needed was this ape, Steiner, sermonizing about a fact of life that Michael had always endured.
He felt a horrific, stabbing ear ache. Between Michael’s clenched stomach, sweaty palms, fidgeting hands and dry mouth, this painful episode was the last thing he needed in this job interview or moreover, lecture. The space-time continuum might be controllable, and people might try to capitalize on its unexpected changes, but he had his doubts—especially about leaving the matter in the hands of dumb, middle-aged white men in suits. He suspected that was how it all started with the space debris.
As this insight flashed through Michael’s mind, he covered both ears with his hands.
“It’s the way things are,” said Steiner, watching Michael with curiosity. “Some of us aren’t meant for greater things. I’m sure you’ll find something suitable for someone with your, ah, skills.”
Incoherent sounds, including roars, explosions, and inhuman cries, rose up from outside. Michael’s stomach turned. He looked past Steiner to the city. The Hullatineau Hills were gone. Where they should have been, two jagged, towering volcanoes spouted bursts of red lava under a slate-grey sky. Dome-shaped mountains, a mix of tropical green and feces brown, surrounded the volcanoes. The terrible, loudening noises were drifting over from this jungle.
What Michael presumed was an airplane flew from the hills and over the city. The plane, though, had wide, flapping wings, a long, sharp beak, and round, sharp talons. The flying creature drifted just right of the Parliament tower and disappeared from sight.
“Mr. Steiner—,” Michael said, but Steiner cut him off.
“—Mr. Adleson, you’re just not cut out for this business.”
Michael felt panic hit him in a flash not unlike lightning. He rose, knocked his seat backward, and quickly retreated towards the door.
Michael had never seen a pterodactyl in real life, so when it came into view again, his blood froze. His temples pounded. The creature unleashed a high, ear-splitting cry that reverberated off the walls of the skyscraper canyon. Other creatures, invisible from the vantage point of the window, roared and mewled in the distance. The sounds from the streets below told their terrible stories. There was a smashing sound louder than that of a car falling from the sky. There was a whoosh from an explosion. Screams carried on the wind. Flames burst halfway up the side of the Intel building.