"Garbage Day" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mccarthy Wil)

something resembling the end of the twenty-first century. A preponderance of
stone and metal and silica glass. Lighted signs had to look a certain way: like
neon or mercury vapor or electroluminescent bulk diode. As the sunset deepened
and the streetlights came on one by one, he noted with satisfaction that they
were simulated gas flame. Had there been gaslights in the twenty-first century?
If not, there ought to have been!
As the boys made their way westward, a full Moon slipped into view from behind
one of the towers.
"Awooooo!" said a kid named Peter Kolb, pointing.
Bascal turned, looked, spread his arms. "Ah, now that is a Moon. July, to be
specific. The Buck Moon. And we, my friends, are the young bucks making our way
in the world. Let all the people of the domes of the Moon gaze down upon us in
wonder. This is our night."
"Buck Moon? Says who?" someone asked.
"Says the Naval Almanac," Bascal answered.
Feck cleared his throat. "It's, uh, from the Algonquin."
Conrad turned. "Eh?"
"North American tribal society. Very old, but, you know, still in existence.
Almost as big as the islands of Tonga, actually. Almost as many people."
Now everyone was looking at Feck, and even by gaslight you could see him
blushing.
Bascal looked surprised. "Feck! You don't know things, do you? Peter knows
things, he's the son of Laureates. Conrad thinks he knows things. But you? Ah,
wait a minute, I'm perceiving something: you have a connection to this tribe.
Wait, don't tell me! You're, let's see ... " He studied Feck's complexion and
features for a moment. "You're one-eighth by blood."
"One-quarter," Feck said, "But it's not Algonquin, it's Chippewa. Their
neighbors. For us, this is the Raspberry Moon."
"Ah! You're practically a native guide! I had no idea."
"I've never been to North America," Feck said. "Anyway, this area is Kiowa, or
maybe Lakota. The Horse Moon."
"We'll have to horse around," Bascal answered merrily. "And give a big, fat
raspberry to the good citizens of Denver. Any other moons we should know about
tonight?"
Feck scratched his ear, uncomfortable with the attention. The crowds were
lighter here; the boys were practically alone in their pool of lamplight. "Uh,
the Corn Moon? Or maybe it's Popcorn Moon. Also Raptor, Thunder, and Blood."
"Wow. That's raw. I like it. We'll screech like eagles, leaving a wake of
thunder and blood. And raspberry popcorn! Actually, that's quite silly. But
anyway the town is ours, and I say we take a bite."
Ah, the Poet Prince. Conrad snorted to himself.
Ho and Steve, unimpressed by this dialog, exchanged a look, then turned and
started off toward the sunset again. And once again, Bascal seemed honor-bound
to go after them, to assert himself. He got between them, and propped his elbows
up on each of their shoulders, looking side-to-side and grinning.
"You know," he said, "a preservation district like this one runs on what they
call a 'service economy.' You walk around looking at objects on display, and if
you like one, the shopkeepers will print out a copy for you, or have it faxed to
your address. Or you can sit in a restaurant, and order yummy comestibles from a
highly restricted menu. Sometimes the whole selection fits on a card, or a sign.