"Michael Swanwick - Mother Grasshopper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

existence nor possibility of any significant traffic there.

Yet the closer we got, the more people we saw approaching it. They appeared out
of the everywhere and nothingness like hydrogen atoms being pulled into
existence in the stressed spaces between galaxies, or like shards of ice
crystallizing at random in supercooled superpure water. You'd see one far to
your left, maybe strolling along with a walking stick slung casually over one
shoulder and a gait that just told you she was whistling. Then beyond her in the
distance a puff of dust from what could only be a half-track. And to the right,
a man in a wide-brimmed hat sitting ramrod-straight in the saddle of a native
parasite larger than any elephant. With every hour a different configuration,
and all converging.

Roads materialized underfoot. By the time we arrived at the terminus, they were
thronged with people.

The terminal building itself was as large as a city, all gleaming white marble
arches and colonnades and parapets and towers. Pennants snapped in the wind.
Welcoming musicians played at the feet of the columns. An enormous holographic
banner dopplering slowly through the rainbow from infrared to ultraviolet and
back again, read:

BYZANTIUM PORT AUTHORITY MAGNETIC-LEVITATION MASS TRANSIT DIVISION
GROUND
TERMINUS

Somebody later told me it provided employment for a hundred thousand people, and
I believed him.

Victoria and I parked the truck by the front steps. I opened the door for her
and helped her gingerly out. Her belly was enormous by then, and her sense of
balance was off. We started up the steps. Behind us, a uniformed lackey got in
the pickup and drove it away.

The space within was grander than could have been supported had the terminus not
been located at the cusp of antenna and forehead, where the proximate masses
each canceled out much of the other's attraction. There were countless ticket
windows, all of carved mahogany. I settled Victoria down on a bench -- her feet
were tender -- and went to stand in line. When I got to the front, the
ticket-taker glanced at a computer screen and said, "May I help you, sir?"
"Two tickets, first-class. Up."

He tapped at the keyboard and a little device spat out two crisp pasteboard
tickets. He slid them across the polished brass counter, and I reached for my
wallet. "How much?" I said.

He glanced at his computer and shook his head. "No charge for you, Mister
Daniel. Professional courtesy."

"How did you know my name?"