cried the Aesthetics“There is no art, there are only lies,” was the response of the MechanicumIt wasn’t so much the rise of man as it was the fall.If they were to believed it was the day that science would stop the world. Magisters of the Mechanicum had placed advertisements in the more respectable broadsheets inviting the good people of London, the greatest city in the world, to attend the grand unveiling of the Machine, on the Meridian, at the Meridian. Noon, at Greenwich, for the uninitiated. The advertisement reeked of hyperbole but it caught the attention, which, of course, was its entire raison d’être.A glass house capable of holding five hundred wide-eyed Londoners had been constructed for the event, though in truth no-one could know whether a single soul would show. They called it the Palace of Illusion. Even now, twelve hours before the show, the tangible thrill of anticipation fairly crackled through the air. Secrets and lies, the sign driven into the dirt on the embankment proclaimed.
