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said Christophe, “but sometimes these things are necessary.”
    “You mean killing us!”
    One of the other Babelites tossed Christophe a bulky backpack, which he caught with his free hand and slung over one shoulder.
    “Yves,” Christophe said, “go now.”
    Yves wasted no time stepping to the open bay doors and jumping out. I was close enough to the edge to see narrow parawings explode from his pack. They were extremely maneuverable, for the man made a sharp turn and went soaring out of the pier through a set of girders. He had enough height to sail a safe distance from the tower before the bomb exploded.
    “You cowards!” spat Andrew, and Christophe leveled the gun at his head to discourage any last-minute heroics.
    “Pierre, go!” said Christophe.
    Before Pierre could take two steps to the doors, the ticking stopped with a wheeze, like a dying man’s final exhalation.
    Hunnnnhhhhh….
    My eyes flew to the clock. The minute hand was still nine minutes from twelve.
    “What is wrong with it?” Christophe demanded.
    Pierre gave a shrug and said, “It is a bit temperamental.”
    “It’s run out of tick,” snapped Christophe. “Did you wind it properly?”
    “Mais oui,” said Pierre, “but with the mediocre materials you give me to work with, what can you—”
    At this Christophe exploded into an angry torrent of French, which his compatriot returned with much gesticulating and shrugging. During all this, the fourth Babelite kept his pistol aimed at Hassan, Andrew, and me, nervously glancing between us and his fellows.
    “Mon Dieu!” Christophe said, throwing up his hands. “Just wind it up some more. Imbécile! ”
    Pierre stepped toward the clock, but before he could touch it, the wheezing tick resumed.
    Uh-hunh-uh-hunh-uh-hunh
    He turned to Christophe. “ Ça marche. It’s good.”
    Christophe’s face was rigid with contempt. “Perhaps I should make you stay behind, to make sure it is, as you say, good .”
    Pierre gave a shrug. “It will work. I have tested it many times.”
    For a few seconds Christophe stared at the timer as it wheezed on. Then he blew air noisily through his lips. “Pierre, go. You too, Jules.”
    Gratefully Pierre jumped out the bay doors and deployed his parawings. Jules followed.
    Christophe turned his pistol on the rest of us, shrugging his parawing pack onto both shoulders. “Would you prefer that I shoot you, or would you like to go down with your ship?” he asked me.
    “Down with my ship,” I said, though I had no intention of dying today.
    “Very well,” he said. “I am sorry.” As he clipped together his chest harness, the pistol fell from his nervous hand.
    All three of us sprang at him, Andrew with a savage roar, as Christophe lunged for his pistol. We landed atop him in a heap, kicking and punching. The pistol spun away across the deck toward the open bay doors, and I launched myself at it, snatching it up just before it went over the edge. I leapt to my feet.
    “Get up!” I shouted, aiming my pistol at Christophe.
    Breathing hard, he stood.
    “Shut it off!” I yelled.
    He shook his head. “Unfortunately, only Pierre knows how.”
    “Bollocks!” shouted Andrew, striding toward me. “Give me the gun, Cruse!”
    He snatched it from my hand, fumbling it, and it fell to the deck.
    As Andrew scrambled to pick up the gun, Christophe ran for the bay doors. Hassan and I grabbed him from behind, and we all struggled on the very brink. Christophe punched me in the face and jumped toward the opening. Hassan had him firmly by one of his shoulder straps and pulled back with all his weight. Christophe spun around, the parawing pack flying off his body and onto the deck. He staggered off balance, arms windmilling, then fell to his death through the bay doors with a small squeak of dismay.
    The three of us stood panting, staring at one another.
    The bomb wheezed in its crate.
    “How much time do we have?” Hassan asked.
    I ran over and looked. “Seven