ords--poor, rich--neither.

Here in one part live the grimy-faced workers, their sagging, shapeless
women and their litters of children. Their windows open upon broken
little streets and bubbling alleys. Idiot-faced wooden houses sprawl
over one another with their rumps in the mud. The years hammer
away--digesting the paint from houses. The years grind away, yet life
persists. Beneath the grinding of the years, life gropes, shrieks,
sweats. And in the evening men light their tobacco and open newspapers.

Around a corner the boxes commence. One, two, three, four, and on into
thousands stand houses made of stone, and their regimental masonry is
like the ticking of a clock. Unvarying windows, doors identical--a
stereotype of roofs and chimneys--these hold the homes of the crowds.
Here the vague faces of the streets, the hurrying, enigmatic figures
pumping in and out of offices and stores gather to sleep and breed. In
the evening the crowds drift into boxes. The multiple destinations
dwindle suddenly into a monotone. The confusions of the city's traffic;
the winding and unwinding herds that made a picture for the eyes of Erik
Dorn, individualize into little human solitudes. The stone houses stand
ticking away the years, and within them men and women tick. Doors open
and shut, lights go on and off, day and night drop a tick-tock across
miles of roofs. And in the hour of the washing of dishes men kindle
their tobacco and read the newspapers.

Slowly, timidly, the city moves away from the little stone boxes.
Automobiles and trees appear. Here begin the ornaments. Marble, bronze,
carved and painted brick--a filigree and a scrollwork--put forth claims.
The lords of the city stand girthed in ornaments. Knight and satrap have
changed somewhat. Moat and battlement grimace but faintly from behind
their ornaments. The tick-tock sounds through the carouse. Sleek, suave
men and languorous, desirable women sit amid elaborations, sleep and
breed in ornamental beds. Power wears new masks. Leadership has improved
its table manners, its plumbing, and its God.

Beautiful clocks, massive with griffiens and gargoyles, nymphs and
scrollwork--they shelter heroes. But heroes have changed. Destiny no
longer passes in the night--a masked horseman riding a lonely road.
Instead, an old watchmaker winds up clocks, sleek men and desirable
women. In the inner offices of the city the new heroes sit through the
day, watchmakers themselves, winding and