"Alan Dean Foster - Humanx 5 - Sentenced To Prism" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

Apparently the ancients had actually hauled even the severely injured all the
way to factorylike buildings for the purpose of treating them, instead of
doing
the necessary work on the spot. Imagine, subjecting an accident victim to the
trauma of movement!
A civil policeman in his armored pale blue suit stood chatting with a media
vendor. The latter's suit boasted several flashing tridee screens, each
equipped
with a hard-copy printout for those who wanted to purchase. While staring at
one
screen Evan almost bumped into a woman advertising a forthcoming tridee. The
flexible screen she wore from neck to knees wriggled with scenes from the
forthcoming play. To ensure that preoccupied passersby looked at the ad, the
video playback would disappear at unpredictable intervals and the screen would
become completely transparent‑but only for a second‑before the
advertisement
resumed.
Three kids had halted outside a confectionery shop. He noticed them only
because
they were bawling and crying loud enough to drown out everything else com-ing
over his communicator. The adults hurrying by ig-nored their cries, for the
children were already being attended to‑by their suits, which wouldn't
tolerate
unprogrammed or unnecessary digressions. Only a parent or school administrator
could alter that programming, and so the children would have to learn to be
satisfied with the fruit juice and milk their clothing would readily pro-vide.
Such musings reminded Evan that he was hungry him-self. He nudged one of the
controls set into the left arm of his suit. The small dispenser mounted on the
right shoulder slid forward until it was properly positioned. A few cassava
chips were followed by a dose of hot Sam-steadyon tea, heavily sugared. The
snack was more than enough to put spring in his step for the rest of the walk
home.
Naturally he didn't unsuit until he was safe and secure within his apartment.
No
use courting arrest for outraging public morals.
The spacious rooms were cluttered and disorganized, in sharp contrast to their
occupant's mind. Tapes and chip files were piled in corners, on furniture,
even
in the kitchen. And the books, of course. Evan's few visitors never failed to
remark on the presence of the books. Real books, printed on tree shavings.
A storage chip might hold a hundred, a thousand times as much information, but
there was no pleasure to be gained from holding one in the palm of your hand.
A
real book provided tactile and visual enjoyment as well as information.
One of these days he'd have to get the place cleaned up. He'd been telling
himself that for ten years. His lady friends tried to do it for him, without
success. Possibly his ferocious response that he wouldn't be able to find
anything discouraged them from pursuing the long‑range excavation
necessary to
complete the work. Or maybe it was because none of them hung around for more