The air hung like wet curtains over London as the young man made his way through the streets. Moving a bit too fast to qualify as walking, but just under the requisite speed for running, he gave off the air of someone unsure as to whether or not his destination was a place he was willing to go. The street wasn’t making it any easier for him to make up his mind. Carriages kept missing him at alarming speeds. He stepped into the deep center of puddles so frequently and with such accuracy that it was only the expression on his face which hinted that it was not indeed his intention. The air displaced by a passing dirigible ruffled his hair in a manner that would have suited him if he were the kind of man to whose hair a slight breeze would do wonders. He wasn’t. That was all right. He had many other fine qualities.
Written in crab-apple handwriting on the small card in his hand was an address that was bound to be on this corner, or maybe the next. Just as long as it wasn’t one of those blasted offices that moved around every time he thought he’d found it. In these cases, the man was never quite sure if it the fault lay with the buildings themselves, or with his own colorful sense of direction. This was the trouble, he thought, with those new mechanical legs. One likes to know where one stands in terms of ineptitude, and adding legs to things that rightly shouldn’t have so much as a pulse was mucking things up.
He’d carefully given up hope three separate times before he found himself on the correct doorstep. A quick glance to the foundations having assured him as to the distinct lack of legs of any kind, he let himself into the building.
The door, which had been hard to open, had no such reservations about flying shut. The noise inspired the young man to jetée into the foyer, startling into slightly better posture the two men whom he now saw had been lurking surreptitiously in the background.
“Hello,” said the young man, after a moment. “Would you by chance be Misters Damien Hastur and Oliver Ligur?”
The taller of the two others grunted, which could’ve been taken either way, really, but the young man brightened anyway. “I’m here to see—” here he checked his card, “a Mister Anthony Crowley? My name’s Ezra Fell.”