"Peter F. Hamilton - The White Stuff" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Peter F)

Five months later his prediction had almost come true. There were no more electronics companies. There
weren't any oil companies left either, thanks to the ubiquitous emax.

The afto-aspro spring had edged out the winter of faded technologies right across the UK. Vigorous
new growth supplanted the obsolete structures and systems of yesterday. Solar collector panels were
spread over roofs, replacing slates and tiles and thatch. Cars were fitted with electrolyte regenerator
cells, kits which turned exhaust fumes back into petrol. That was just a stop-gap. Factories were already
busy installing new production line facilities for vehicles which would be powered solely from an emax,
their bodywork reverting to the Henry Ford bon mot of gleaming solar-collector black.

Afto-aspro was at the heart of it all, but the actual change, the physical adaptations, required manual
labour, skilled and semi-skilled. Opportunity for all. People lost jobs, people found new ones.
Unemployment only rose a couple of per cent. Nigel was laid off and re-employed on a freelance basis,
lower income, inferior terms, poorer conditions. But at least he was still in work.

It was the day the gas network was due to be turned off permanently when Nigel glided his not-so-new
Nimbus into the hypermarket park. He turned off the ignition and the perfect tone of the Sonic Energy
Authority ebbed away; the afto-aspro MB (memory block) player had replaced CDs and cassettes.
MBs had also replaced videos, games cartridges, and floppy disks; each cigarette-sized cylinder stored
hours of data.
There were no kids lurking about ready to thrust the latest afto-aspro application into his face. He
missed them somehow. But for fitting regenerator cells on cars you went to a garage; to wire your home
up to a domestic emax a professional electrician was called in; any household gadget was grown to order
in your local electrical store. Blind Simon was hunched in his usual place beside the hypermarket
entrance, coat buttoned up against the sweltering September sun, flute trilling gently. Nigel patted his
pockets for a coin. There was a wad of notes in his wallet; for a couple of weeks transactions had been
all in sovereigns, or jewellery, or even art; but with things settling down again people were accepting the
promise of the Chief Cashier once more. Even cashpoints were coming back in use as banks replaced
their old electronics with blocks of afto-aspro. "Morning, Simon."
Simon smiled softly. He raised the scuffed old shades and looked straight at Nigel. "I always wondered
what you looked like. I always wondered about the face of a man who would pull a shitty stunt like that,
week in, week out."
The golden Labrador barked angrily.

Nigel stumbled a pace backwards, shock draining the heat from his blood. Simon's eye sockets were
filled with balls of afto-aspro. No irises, no pupils, just blank white spheres. "Clever, isn't it?" the old
tramp said. "The latest compositional program upgrade can design organic substitutes. Eyes are easy; all
an eye does is convert photons to nerve impulses. Molecular filters like kidneys are a little more
complicated, but they'll get there, I'm sure. After all, the only real work left these days is thinking."

"Christ almighty."

"How does your money sound these days, Mr Finchley?" The heat returned to Nigel's blood as fast as it
had left, burning his cheeks and ears. He almost sprinted back to the Nimbus.

***

The trading floor was quiet. Half of the terminals were veiled below dust covers; the level of activity on
the market no longer justified a full team of dealers. Those still on the company's payroll were a subdued,
sober bunch intent on steering a steady course. The days of screaming out deals while holding three