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They stopped me on the gangway and rolled up my left sleeve. "Clockwork? Or quartz?" asked the one with the hammer. "Oh -- quartz," I said. "Sorry, but rules are rules," said the one with the leather bag. I nodded. He gently peeled the watch off my wrist and laid it over the ship's railing. Crunch: the hammer rebounded. He scooped what was left back into the bag, careful not to drop any glass fragments on the deck. "I just forgot," I said, slightly stunned. "Is there anything else ...?" They looked at each other and shrugged. The one with the bag looked a little guilty. "Here, you can borrow mine," he said, offering it to me. "Thanks." I tightened the strap, then carried on up the gangway. It was an old Rolex Oyster, case tarnished with decades of sweat. I glanced back. The hammer team waited patiently for their next target. The one with the hammer was wearing a red T-shirt with a logo on its back. I squinted closer at the marketing slogan: UNIX - THE TIME IS RIGHT. Rita was already in the fore-deck lounge when I got there. I had half expected her not to show up, but we'd booked the tickets five years ago, three years before the divorce, and her name hadn't disappeared from the roster since then. I suppose I'd assumed she'd forget, or dismiss it, or not think it worth bothering with. I waited for the usual cold shudder of unnameable emotions to pass, then headed for the
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