It was how he imagined America must be, possibly like downtown LA. Sparse islands of Colonial, Victorian and Federation buildings huddled almost unseen, certainly overlooked, beneath their arrogant, successful neighbours, the serried ranks of opulent, thrusting skyscrapers. He saw the uncompromising towers of steel, glass and concrete as towers of silver and gold bullion, luminescent, at times almost sparkling, in the bright sunlight. But in the canyoned depths, down at street level where he walked in early morning or evening, they changed into dull vaults of lead and iron. In summer, apart from early or late in the day, there was little shade. It was a business furnace, and the bumper-to-bumper cars and shoulder-to-shoulder crowds that crawled sweatily through the sweltering grid of streets were all there for one purpose: to worship at the altar of Mammon, to make or spend money. And he, Hugh Drysdale, was one of those on the inside, one of the privileged who knew what was going on in these modern places of worship, these shrines.
