Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida Port of Valencia

And hesitates.
Because here’s a small gold timer, not much bigger than a watch. It wasn’t there yesterday, or wouldn’t have been if yesterdays existed here. Bony fingers close around it and hold it up to the light. It’s got a name on it, in small capital letters.
The name is DEATH.
Death right.
Not a muscle moved on Death’s face, because he hadn’t got any.
I SHALL APPEAL.
It told him, he should know that there was no appeal. Never any appeal.
Never any appeal.
Death thought about this, and then he said:
I HAVE ALWAYS DONE MY DUTY AS I SAW FIT.
The figure floated closer. It looked vaguely like a grey-robed and hooded monk.
It told him, We know. That is why we’re letting you keep put down the timer, and then picked it up again. The sands of time were already pouring through. He turned it over experimentally, just in case. The sand went on pouring, only now it was going upwards. He hadn’t really expected anything else.It meant that, even if tomorrows could exist here, there weren’t going to be any. Not any more.There was a movement in the air behind him. Death turned slowly, and addressed the figure that wavered indistinctly in the gloom. WHY?It told him.BUT THAT IS . . . NOT RIGHT.It told him that No, it was