Just Your Average 68-Year-Old College Freshman.
The clocks are firmly in control. They’re tenured and all but untouchable.
A clock in A204 decided there wasn’t time enough for the oceans—Atlantic, Pacific, etc., we blew off a million square miles of open water. The clock in C125 nixed kinships in favor of functionalism. A clock in the math lab aborted a slope-intercept demonstration, bad news for us remedial pukes.
They control the length of classes too. Periods scheduled to go an hour and a quarter last anywhere from ten minutes to several hours. Hands speed up when a lecture is inspiring but slow to a crawl when it’s a dud.
The chronometers (we call them that when they’re within hearing distance) command a position high on the back wall. Professors can see every time a student glances back to check the time—it’s like being heckled by a drunk. Something has to be done.
