There were those people who, being supplied with gravitic feet, found themselves in front of the factory at midnight without teasing the cat which, oscillating between realities, followed by herself the fleeing shadow of acidic clouds in a heavy leaden sky; that flying cat which, already soaked to the skin, still patrolled in the rain, the grey menacing light, between the enormous apartment towers the length of the King’s Road.
The flying cat watched Blue Markinsonn as he vanished in the embrace of the tram heading towards the hills. It hissed and its eyes glowed a strange actinic blue. It had much to report to its masters; much.
The air-cat, minou des vents, replete with information, smacked into a grey, scaly concrete wall and began its headfirst descent. Paw over paw it crawled while the intemperate rain lashed around it. If it could sense alarm it would have done so at the basic unsafeness of the surface it had hold of; rivulets and gusherettes of rain plashed from cornices seventeen storeys up and bathed the luckless airmoggy in water that strangely reminded it of home, or of something that its radically redesigned neocortex thought might have been home, once. It was less cat than aerial spy platform and somehow more than either of those. Blue Markinsonn's houseplants had twigged its little game early on but had proved unable to explain this to their owner in the days when he paced his little flat or dressed in silence and half an hour before heading for the office.
But the houseplants, their radar attuned to the closeness of their master, had begun keening with a radical sense of loss. How now would they keep him safe from floating pussoids that stared with horrible oval faces at his own? From the stygian creature that even now reached the ironstone blocks at the base of the flatblock and hopped onto the ground, where suddenly all cat it yowled and pelted full damn pelt for the sinister offices of the Recalibrator - there to tell all it knew?