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'Well,' he said, consulting the large chronograph on his wrist, 'in ten seconds that cyclist will be knocked over and killed.'
'And?' I asked, sensing that I was missing something.
He looked around furtively and lowered his voice.
'Well, it seems that right here and now is the key event whereby we can avert whatever it is that destroys every single speck of life on this planet!'
I looked into his earnest eyes.
'You're not kidding, are you?'
He shook his head.
'In December 1985, your 1985, for some unaccountable reason, all the planet's organic matter turns to … this.'
He withdrew a plastic specimen bag from his pocket. It contained a thick pinkish opaque slime. I took the bag and shook it curiously as we heard a loud screech of tyres and a sickly thud; a few moments later a broken body and a twisted bicycle landed close by.
'On the twelfth of December at 20.23, give or take a second or two, all organic material – every plant, insect, fish, bird, mammal and the three billion human inhabitants of this planet – will start turning to that. End of all of us. End of Life – and there won't be that boy band I was telling you about. The problem,' he went on as a car door slammed and we heard feet running towards us, 'is that we don't know why. The ChronoGuard are not doing any upstreaming work at present; Downstreamers seem to be unaffected—'
'Why is that?'
'Industrial action. Upstreamers are on strike for shorter hours. Not actually fewer hours, you understand, it's just the hours that they do work they want to be, er, shorter.'
'So while they are on strike the world could end? Isn't that sort of daft?'
'From an industrial action viewpoint,' said my father, thinking about it carefully, 'I think it's a very good strategy indeed. I hope they can thrash out a new agreement in time.'
'But that's crazy!'
Dad shrugged.
'I'm not in the Timeguild any more, Sweetpea. I went rogue, remember?'
'So what can we do?' I asked.
'The centre of the disaster is unclear,' replied my father as he patted his pockets for his pipe. 'All my efforts to jump straight there have failed. I've run trillions of timestream models and the outcome is the same – whatever happens here and now somehow relates to the aversion of the crisis. And since the cyclist's death is the only event of any significance for hours in either direction, it has to be the key event. The cyclist must live to ensure the continued health of the planet.'
We stepped out from behind the billboard to confront the driver, a youngish man who was visibly panicking.
'Oh my God!' he said as he stared at the twisted body at our feet. 'Oh my God! Is he—?'
'At the moment, yes,' replied my father in a matter-of-fact sort of way as he filled his pipe.
'I must call an ambulance!' stammered the man. 'He could still be alive!'
'Anyway,' continued my father, ignoring the motorist completely, 'the cyclist obviously does something or doesn't do something, and that's the key to this whole stupid mess.'
The motorist stopped wringing his hands for a moment and looked at the pair of us suspiciously
'I wasn't speeding, you know,' he said quickly. 'The engine might have been revving but it was stuck in second …'
'Hang on!' I said, slightly confused 'You've been beyond 1985, Dad – you told me so yourself!'
'I know that,' replied my father grimly, 'so we'd better get this absolutely right.'
'There was a low sun,' continued the driver, as he thought hard, 'and he swerved in front of me!'
'Male guilt avoidance syndrome,' explained my father. 'It's a recognised medical condition by 2054.'
