Movement

Not a breath of vapor rose from the smokestacks, not a single train moved along the glistening tracks. A silence and a stillness blanketed it all, and was more jarring than the noise and heat of the city had ever been. A tall man strode through the streets, the only movement in the metropolis.

All the Movements of the city were powered by a single boiler that stood in the center of the bronze, urban web. It was massive and ugly, ancient and beautiful in its own way. For what is more beautiful than something serving its true purpose?

The man checked his pocketwatch, and hurried on. The movement of this city had been still for too long, and it galled him like a stopped watch does an old watchmaker. He longs to see it move again, and count the hours with its patient hands.

When the water dried up, the city ground to a halt. It is an old, old story. Coal and water, water and coal; the twin pillars of the city gate were etched with those words. One without the other was mere heat, mere moisture, but combined, they were power.

He approached the center of the city at last, and a glad sound met his ears. He bent to the pavement and out hit ear to it to be sure. A rushing a bubbling of water, far below him in the subterranean river on which the city had been founded, again ran free.

The creases around his eyes deepened at the sound, but he was back on his feet in a moment, and moved with renewed strength.

The city would live once more.