The air was unseasonably cold on the strip that night.

A light, but relentless drizzle had been blessing the well regimented foliage in the shiny planters all around the spaceport for the past few hours, but the clouds were sparse enough that the ice moon was able to affectionately caress the plasteel hexagons of the main landing pad with diaphanous rays of pale light, undisturbed by the visual cachophony of Neon-colored LEDs that bathed the rest of Edda cyberpunkingly.

Due to an ill defined but very well publicized “Quantum instability event”, all flights were grounded for the business day. The whole area was blanketed by an unusual silence, the only audible noise being a fat black-and-white cat purring loudly from under a service bench nearby, waiting for the general wetness in the air to stop.

His name was Sir Scratches Baron Birdslayer Lord of Wet Food at Ten Sharp. He gave himself that name and he was quite proud of it: he felt like it encapsulated his whole being in a very concise way.

He was enjoying the quiet moment, a rare treat as of late: for the past few days he had been eluding the attention of some of the newcomers, very unpleasant and dangerous fellows, who looked like locusts, but were clearly out for Sir Scratches Baron Birdslayer Lord of Wet Food at Ten Sharp’s skin. He loathed the idea of bugs wanting to eat him rather than the other way around. It felt absolutely unnatural.

He was enjoying his rest so much that he didn’t even flinch when a pair of elegant lacquered shoes clacked sharply next to him and stopped, their owner sitting on the bench without even showing the proper decor by greeting Sir Scratches Baron Birdslayer Lord of Wet Food at Ten Sharp. His catness was obviously offended by this, so he suspended his purring in protest.

“Took you long enough” Said a sandy voice from the shadows of a column nearby, its tone so dry that the rain stopped just short of it.

“Dinner waits for no man” answered lacquered shoes, flatly

“You must be in charge of your stomach, to be in charge of your life” answered the dry voice from the shadows

“A life doesn't need a charge, but a bright goal” went shoes

“And what is a goal of not the will of the economy?” went dry voice

There was a substantial pause of almost perfect silence, so still that one could almost hear the continuous rain gently tapping over the landing pod.

“Don’t you mean <the will of Allah?>” tried lacquered shoes, the slightest hint of panic coloring the top of his voice

The moist silence protracted further, the person in the shadow lighting a lho-stick and taking a long drag. The light of the e-garette briefly drew the contours of his face, showing a middle aged, badly shaven, sleep deprived, plastic-surgery objecting, broken nosed, square-jawed police officier.