Stand on the main street of Trimedea and you will find six spokes to choose from. At each the building lines extend into the horizon and no route appears more intuitive than the other. There is another intersection with six legs not so far away, and each is monumental and grand and decisive.
Trimedea is a city of triangles. Long ago, a surveyor of eccentric talents, tiring of the regularity of his commissions and mad from repetition, laid the city out not in square blocks but in triangles and spokes. Yet the triangles proved difficult for the townsmen to maneuver. Owners fretted about their irregularly shaped blocks, of the extra construction costs borne for their homes and offices. Ladies soured at getting lost regularly, the pattern of streets being irregular and unfit for the ordinary mind to grasp. Even the coroner found the allotments unfit for his work, for criminals had so many routes to choose from in their escapes.
The governors, their ballot boxes at stake, drew up plans to re-survey the town as a grid. They contracted a surveyor of Euclidean talents and paid him handsome sums to cast a grid of grand proportion over old Trimedea. The triangular streets were all sealed, demoted to back alleys as the right angles were forced through the old blocks, paying the angry proprietors for the spate of inconveniences.
If you arrive at Trimedea today, you will not find a city of triangles, but one of squares. In all parts of the city, crosses, numbers, and rectangles reign. But look in the back alleys and atriums of the old section of town behind facades of new mansions. You will still find the old main street and the vaulted arcade of Trimedea, quietly hidden, reminding us all that the beneath the layers of our great grid are strange dispositions at work, histories with little in common with our present deference to sameness.