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It is half past two in the afternoon. Mechanisms bang away. People scurry. What are we to do? There isn't enough money to continue, they say; nor funds for necessary growth. We are held here; and restrained. We shall be beaten. Markets decide the quality of our justice; our civilisation in general. There is neither time; nor talent. The machines upon which we have relied break and have not been much repaired. What to do? Someone tips hot soapy water across an entrance foyer. Clatter of metal; the handle swings over, banging against a step, and slips out of her hands, tumbling. Part of the floor pattern chips. She tries to go quietly, picks up sideways the loud bucket. A droning voice becomes audible, separable.