of the Art Deco sunrise sharp and angry. The ship dipped, and a lion, all steel majesty and power, tore through the nose’s remaining glass as the Nimrod hit the building at an angle.
The control room was turned upside down. Carson saw Byron and the robot King of 125th Street go flying as the floor became the ceiling. The last thing he saw was the wheel of the main hatch approaching his face at high velocity.
The noise was colossal, impossible. It stopped cars; it stopped people. The major telephone exchanges feeding New York City froze as the system was overloaded with calls, and the police and fire departments went into high alert, cars and appliances racing out into the streets without a clue where they should be heading.
Reporters rushed to 405 Lexington Avenue, or as far as they could get before being stopped by the traffic or stuck in the mass of people who stood and stared and watched as a giant craft, something crossed between an old-fashioned zeppelin and a vast armored crab, crashed into the crown of the Chrysler Building. Some on the street fearfully recalled the Chicago airship crash of 1919. Others cried out that airships were full of hydrogen and the thing would blow, raining burning metal and debris from its skeleton like the Hindenburg had.
The Chrysler Building – the most famous building in New York, prettier than the Empire State Building although not as tall – shook, the vibration throwing people to the sidewalk and making cars jump on their suspensions. Those still standing gasped. From the street, the airship looked small, dwarfed by the Art Deco crown of the landmark, but the building was immense and the altitude great; everyone knew the horror that was unfolding before them.
The crown of the building buckled around the impact, throwing a huge cloud of smoke and flame, brilliant against the night sky. People screamed and the drone of car horns from the stationary traffic died as car doors were thrown open, the vehicles’ occupants desperate to escape.
And then they ran, everyone, running for their lives as the crown of the Chrysler Building shattered, steel, stone, and glass exploding like fireworks. The sunrise spire bent and then toppled, taking out a huge chunk of the building as it fell nearly directly downwards.
The first pieces of rubble hit the street, bouncing cars like toys, and people screamed and ran from the great billowing cloud of dust and smoke that enveloped the street like a sandstorm claiming a desert city.
The remains of the Nimrod continued to travel through the upper floors of the building, sheering the crown completely from the skyscraper. The crown flopped and folded like wet paper and fell on the opposite side, and the ship, powered by gravity, plowed into Grand Central Terminal in a second mushroom cloud of flame and smoke.
FORTY-SEVEN
Nimrod opened his eyes to the light, and found himself standing in a familiar room, huge and empty save for a desk and a chair. On his left and right were two rows of columns like a Greek temple, and beyond, a wall painted with a vast mural of New York.
He was in the Cloud Club. The old faithful service revolver in his hand was pointed at Evelyn McHale.
The Ghost of Gotham floated in front of her desk; a desk spotless and dust-free. Nimrod could see it faintly through her. She smiled, and Nimrod felt slightly embarrassed, as though he’d caught her in her slip.
“I don’t mind, if that is what you are worried about,” she said.
Nimrod’s mustache bristled. “I didn’t used to be able to see through you. You used to be as substantial as the rest of us.”
The Director glided forward, towards the barrel of the gun.
“Yes,” she said, “I was. But it gets harder and harder. I’m being pulled down. It takes all my will and effort to stay tethered to this universe.”
“So why stay? You want New York – you want the Fissure – but if you can leave, then leave! You are not needed nor wanted here, and I dare say you have never seemed particularly enamored of your situation. Let yourself go.”
The Director shook her head, her eyes hidden slightly behind her spectral veil. “To leave is a fate worse than death.”
“Forgive me, my dear,” said Nimrod, “but I do believe that fate has already befallen you.”
“I cannot leave,” she said, her voice rising.
Nimrod adjusted his grip on the gun and raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t entirely sure why he