It started. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. One, two, three, four o’clock. Hammers in the massive Grandfather clock in the parlour below pounded against the tuned chime rods, condensing the space of four hours into a matter of a few seconds. In his bedchamber directly above, Harris Wimberly opened his eyes, still in the mist of sleep for a space of some seconds, and for that space of time, he was not sure where he was, or what day of the week it was.
From somewhere far below, within the bowels of the house came the chattering of a steam valve as it opened, fueling the air heater signaling the start of the waking day, and warmer air within the house.
After an exhausting and lengthy dirigible flight from England just three days before, where he had labored at his trade for a fortnight, he is once again at home in his own bed. He will have slept here only for these three nights, for once again his trade calls him to another city, and another series of nights in beds not his own.
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