"Smeds-MarathonRunner" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smeds Dave)

enough of that. All that talk about how the very old -- and Neil was about as
old as anyone on the planet-- didn't always adapt to the installation of
nanodocs. They exhibited "a reluctance to engage in life," as if those who had
fought the war against age were now suffering a kind of post-traumatic stress
syndrome. Some had gone as far as suicide.

That was their prerogative, Neil thought. Who said that a person had to act
young just because he looked it? Who said a person had to embrace immortality?

"You'll enjoy it out here," Matthew said.

"You keep telling me that."

"Trust me. This part of town did wonders for me just after I had my nanodocs
installed."

They turned a corner, arriving at their destination.

"My god," Neil whispered.

The area was nothing like he remembered. The dingy gray concrete, blacked-out
windows, and peeling paint had become a panoply of clean, bright facades with an
abundance of glass, proudly displaying the interiors. Gone were the hawkers and
the girls lounging like slung beef on the curbsides, replaced by stylish
registration desks, openly displayed lists of services, and comfortable parlors
for interviews between clients and artists.

The paint on the remodelled apartment house across the street rolled its
molecules, shifting from an off-white to a deep beige that reflected the sun
less harshly. The last time Neil had seen that building, its bottom floor had
been festooned with handbills warning of AIDS. Those posters would be
collector's items now that nanodocs rendered any and all venereal diseases a
part of the past, along with unintentional pregnancy.

The crowds of prospective clientele, still mostly male, wandered past the
establishments like children at an amusement park. Joy soaked the air, a
carefree piquancy that slid in with each inhalation, caressing taste buds on its
way past the tongue like a fine, dry wine. Neil followed his grandson's lead
like a marionette, with his jaw slack and eyes numbed by some new sight almost
every instant. Matthew plunged ahead, clearly gripped by an aphrodisiacal
contact high.

Two female artists chatted on the steps of a coffeehouse, taking a break during
the lull between the morning rush of patrons and the traditional evening
barrage. One of the women noticed Matthew's attentiveness and turned slightly,
providing both men with a view of a cleavage in which a banker could lose small
change forever, if banks still used coins.

"Let's go in here," Matthew suggested.