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Section 1

The old town is a greyness. like dust under a carpet. The river runs grey, like old dead blood. No citizens here; all have been scooped up to the habitats of the new city. who cares about the old town, when the sleek intersections above it are so diverting? Each bean and brace manufactured the same, the even bustle of daily routines. each face and chest glowing in the marigold Sun.
Momoros' beautiful and rosy children dance through the morning. in the cloistra. they slip and slap upon the marble walkways between pools. and fling themselves fearlessly towards the first platforms of the Apotheon. Beneath the south Godhand Terminal. ls a vast metallic udder. with brass pods for teats. A mechanical conveyance swings across to it. delivering packages through one of its many square apertures. The finished products erupt from the backside of the beast, and are collected by a bulbous cargo vessel.

Inside the udder. young men and women. toiling happily. affix nuts and washers to panels, beating the machines with the rattle of progress. Above them, the angel of apotheosis hangs symbotic, hovering above all lest they lose faith for a moment in their godliness, and shirk their duty.

"We are gods!” comes the beatific cry, as it must always do. once every minute.

lt's is here that the Gallish designs are followed to the letter. The engines are shear and sleek. Each template is matched. and tho foreman checks each piece for defects. When the sun is halfway high, there is a short interval, then work resumes. All the workers are happy. they are safe. well-fed. they know that one day. they will be allotted a kinder challenge - a seat in the assembly. or pool duty at one of the cloistra.

But the grayness undermines. Its imperfection taints.



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