The Ticktockman: very much over six feet tall, often silent, a soft purring man when things went
timewise. The Ticktock-man.

Even in the cubicles of the hierarchy, where fear was generated, seldom suffered, he was called
the Ticktockman.

But no one called him that to his mask.

You don't call a man a hated name, not when that man, behind his mask, is capable of revoking
the minutes, the hours, the days and nights, the years of your life. He was called the Master
Timekeeper to his mask. It was safer that way.

"This is what he is," said the Ticktockman with genuine softness, "but not who he is? This
time-card I'm holding in my left hand has a name on it, but it is the name of what he is, not
who he is. This cardioplate here in my right hand is also named, but not whom named, merely
what named. Before I can exercise proper revocation, I have to know who this what is."

To his staff, all the ferrets, all the loggers, all the finks, all the commex, even the mineez, he said,

"Who is this Harlequin?"

He was not purring smoothly. Timewise, it was jangle



If you don't know who I am, why do you need to?

If you need to know who I am, why don't you?

If you know who I am, why ask me?

Maybe we'll never know...