It is raining, on a street in a city where it always rains. The daylight is watery and wan, wavering uncertainly as gusts blow mist and drizzle, whip sheets of water down the empty streets. In the distance - far in the distance - towers lift themselves into the featureless gray. Nearer, lower buildings huddle and gutters gush rainwater into the trough of the streets.
The water at least is clean. The streets are clean, all refuse having been flushed away and no city-dwellers, if there are any, possessed of the energy to venture forth and deposit more. The skies are empty as a faithless promise, devoid of sun, moon and flying creatures alike. Other than the white noise of gurgling water and the faint moan of the wind, the city is silent; the windows that look out from the severe gray buildings are uncurtained and black.
Had there been an observer its attention would have been drawn to the small black dot of a man trudging determinedly along the sidewalk. He pauses, hunched under a vast wing of black umbrella, and rips off an impressive sneeze.
"Goddam imagination," he mutters, voice carrying only a few feet in the uncertain wind. "Everything's got to be dramatic. Bah. Looks like a bad crossbreed of Fritz Lang's Metropolis and film noir. One of these days, Director." He shakes his head. "One of these days you're going to outsmart yourself."
He lifts his eyes from the pavement and squints into a wind-blown spume. "If it's my imagination," he groans, "why am I the one getting wet? Storey's behind this. I don't know how, but that wind sounds just like him. Now. Where did I put the door?" He tugs on the nearest, a thick plate-glass number with nothing behind it but the blackness of an empty shop. Grumbling, he works his way down the row. None open. he kicks the last one, petulantly, and it booms emptily.
"Oh, for pity's sake," he snarls at last. "What do I have to do? Open up my laptop in the rain and write out a door?" He mumbles obscenities under his breath. "Fine, then. I'll try one more and if that isn't it, I'll... I'll..." The wind snickers. The figure hunches into his sodden overcoat. "I may just be talking to myself, but - Listen Self! I'm warning you! I'll write this into sunshine!" The wind dies and the drizzle pauses in apprehension. "Hot sunshine! Hot like summer in Alabama, with no shade and dry enough to leave four inches of dust over everything!" A trace of the old fire crackles, his back straightens, his hand waves. "DO NOT MESS WITH ME!" That said he marches around the corner of the block where the rows of industrial warehouses have given way to the genteel crumble of old red brick, wide green shutters, white columns and ornate black wrought iron.
"That's more like it." He marches up the steps to the wide wooden front door and grasps the latch, closes his eyes and whispers something under his breath. There is a shift in perspective, though our putative observer could not have said quite how, a smell of oil and brine and ozone. Director puts his shoulder to the door and heaves. The door opens silently but slowly, its massive weight pulling him inside. Scarcely has the man cleared the lintel before the oaken slab reverses course, slamming shut with a satisfied thud. Outside there is a pause, a single shaft of daylight and then the rain returns with a vengeance.
Inside, Director puts his umbrella in the elephant's foot stand. It vanishes into a protective jungle of canes, walking sticks, batons, parasols and more than one elaborately-carven staff. He pays it no further attention; as always, none other will be able to retrieve it, and it will be instantly at hand when time comes to depart.
"Membership," he chuckles, "has its priveleges." His overcoat comes off, along with his rubber boots, handed to a ghostly functionary who bows and vanishes. Warmer now in body and spirit, drier and therefore in much better humor, he passes from the entry alcove into the great hall. Gigantic suits of armor line it, each inscribed with the name of a hero of ages past. Banners fly overhead; interspersed among them are weapons, battle trophies, sporting cups, masterpieces of the taxidermists' arts and framed artwork of classic games. He takes his time, for there is no hurry now. Despite the solid ticking of the massive grandfather's case clock at the hallway's end, Father Time has no dominion here. He pauses before one particularly grisly animal's head, reaches out as though to stroke it nd demurs when the eyes appear to track his motion. "Good Lord!" he says. "A wlak! Who would have thought... Seems almost disrespectful, but... impressive! Impressive indeed!"
At the clock the hall opens to more hallways to the left and right. He does not hesitate; the sound of the revel carries faintly through the otherwise still air. Never has he seen these halls, these rooms, these pavillions and chambers, solars and dungeons and garrets, yet he picks his way through and past with ease. He has never been precisely here, yet he has always known the ways. At last he turns through an opening that is less a door and more a half-opened wall. Overhead the ceiling rises into the distance, yet the fog of smoke makes it loom oppressively near overhead. In a back corner, a band is cranking blues and jazz, rock and punk and funk and swing, all somehow at the same time. Couples are dancing to whatever they like. Across one wall is an enormous bar, backed by an equally large set of mirrors and glass shelves. Arrayed there are thousands of bottles, jugs, skins, porcelain jars and chemical retorts. Behind it stands Stroph, imperturbable as always. Flickering in the shadowed corners are the spirits of bartenders-once-and-always; perched on stools at the front are patrons of the spiritual sort.
Director sidles up. "Bacardi 8 and coke, twist of lime, please." The drink appears before he can finish his order; he smiles and Stroph smiles back. The service - as always - is faultless, the drink itself - the bite of the rum, the sweetness of cola and lime, smoothed by the deep cold of perfect ice cubes - is matchless.
"You're looking well," he says, and Stroph shrugs, smiles - you know how it is. "That's new." Director points to a red LED sign that runs across the top of the mirrors and wraps around a corner. "What is that number?" The digits flicker so fast no-one could read them; they leave only a blurred impression of a very large amount. "Storey's bar tab?" Stroph smiles but shakes his head, no. He leans in close. "That's just the interest." Then he's gone; a set of lovely ladies have come to the counter for refills and pick up trays of food while they wait.
Director ambles over where Gaijin de Moscu is seated but only waves hello; the Gaijin is deep in conversation with a man with black hair, coppery skin and a large hooked nose. "I don't care whether that's an Iroquois or old Smoking Mirror himself," Director thinks, "the Gaijin's busy. We can catch up later." Through a low archway a massive plasma screen is showing a soccer match in wall-sized splendor. The US and Britain are playing; both are wining. "Obvious fantasy," Director snorts, but he grins.
There's Stuyvesant through another doorway, pinned in his seat by an overly-ambitious female character. "I'm married!" he says. "You can't be unfaithful with a literary device," she croons, and leans in closer. Director saunters over and places his drink on the table. Somehow he now has a second which he slides across to Stuyvesant. The woman leers, then squeaks indignantly as Director gives her a playful slap to the fundament. "Time for that later, my dear," he says, and arches an eyebrow at Stuyvesant. "Unless of course you'd rather..."
"No! No. Um, a bit of a relief, actually," Stuyvesant confides, taking a pull at his drink. "I never knew that characters were so... so..."
"Independent? Cranky? Wilful? Obnoxious? Obstreperous?" Director rolls out the last word, takes a long taste of rum and sweetness, and sighs. "Oh, they have minds of their own. Or we're all schizophrenic lunatics with delusions of grandeur..." They share a laugh. "Half the work is setting up the framework and the rest is getting out of the way of the people you put in it. That or I've developed a split personality."
"And both of them are grumpy old bastards?" Stuyvesant asks innocently. They share a laugh and click their glasses in a toast.
"I've been gone long enough to miss the place a bit," Director allows a few minutes later. Another faceless servant glides by, tips another log into the fireplace and continues out another doorway. "It's grown, and Heaven knows it was a rabbit's warren in the old days. I've a bit of time to spare if anyone has suggestions for tales I might enjoy."
Stuyvesant nods, looks around. "And your own work? Not... not leaving it, are you?"
"No, no. Just... work, you know. And illness - surgery. The Real World."
Those words bring everything to a pause. People lean in through the doorways to stare.
"Sorry! Sorry. Stroph - a bit of assistance, if you please! A round for everyone! On m... On Storey's tab, of course!" The revel resumes; the dancing in the cross-wise chamber is shaking the floor. Or perhaps that's tha bassline.
"I've a bit ready to go. Not much... But a murder's afoot. Some surprise guests."
Stuyvesant leans closer. "A murder is always interesting. Whose, pray tell?"
Director shakes his head. "Something should be up this weekend, I hope... Blasted characters, you know, they have minds of their own. I'm trying to write in Teddy Roosevelt, and he's fighting me every step of the way! It's like wresting a bull moose!"
He downs his drink and stands. "I've been gone too long, but I can't stay until I've written a bit more to pay my way. Good to see you!"