The year is 12011. Two hikers cut through a stretch of
cactus-filled desert outside what was once the small town of Van Horn,
near the Mexican border, in West Texas. After walking for the better
part of a day under a relentless sun, they struggle up a craggy
limestone ridge. Finally they come to an opening in the rock, the mouth
of what appears to be a long, deep tunnel.
As they head into the shadows, not quite knowing where the tunnel
will lead, the sudden darkness and the drop in temperature startle their
senses. After a few minutes the hikers reach a cool chamber dimly lit
from above. A tall column of strange shiny metal gears and rods rises
hundreds of meters above them. Steps cut into the walls spiral upward,
and the hikers ascend until they reach a platform. A black globe
suspended above depicts the night sky, encircled by metal disks that
indicate the year and the century.
A giant metal wheel sits in the middle of the platform, and the
visitors each grasp a handle that juts out from its smooth edges. For
the next several hours, they push and walk and push and walk in a
circle, methodically, silently, until the wheel will turn no further.
Exhausted, they rest on the platform and drift off to sleep. At noon the
next day, they’re suddenly awakened by the ethereal tones of chiming
bells.
It sounds like science fiction, but this is the real vision for the
10 000-Year Clock, a monument-size mechanical clock designed to measure
time for 10 millennia. Danny Hillis, an electrical engineer with three
degrees from MIT who pioneered parallel supercomputers at Thinking
Machines Corp., worked for Walt Disney Imagineering, and then cofounded
the consultancy Applied Minds, dreamed up the project in 1995 to get
people thinking more about the distant future. But the clock is no
longer just a thought experiment. In a cluttered machine shop near a
Starbucks in San Rafael, Calif., it’s finally ticking to life.
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