"Michael Swanwick - Walking Out" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

though the engineers swore it was perfectly shielded from any harmful
radiation, this fact had kept the rents low. No question but a new flat was
going to give them sticker shock. Maybe that was all to the good, though.
When Krissie saw the bottom line, she might well change her mind about
New England. The law gave them a three-month cooling off period; it
would be easy to break the lease.
Kris wanted to move Downtown to be closer to her sister. Maybe he
could talk Robin into moving as well. They could get adjacent farms and
raise llamas.
 It was another beautiful morning. The Municipal Weather Authority
had programmed a crisp autumnal tang into the air. Light breezes stirred
the little trees on the building tops. They looked just fine outlined against
the dome.
A paper bag blew past Terry's feet and automatically he started after it.
But then a street urchin appeared out of nowhere, a skinny black kid in an
oversized basketball jersey, and snatched it up. He leaped high, tucking in
his knees for a double somersault, and slam-dunked the bag into a
recycling can. With a flourish, he swiped his bank card through the slot to
pick up the credit.
Terry applauded lightly.



"Watches!" the shabby man sang. He was only a step away from being a
beggar. His jacket was shiny and his shoes weren't. One side of his face
was scarred from old radiation burns. That and a blackwork Luna Rangers
tattoo marked him as a vet. The watches flew in great loops and
figure-eights, blinking and goggling whimsically.
"This sort of post-capitalist consumer faddism is only a form of denial,
you know," Terry told him.
"Hah? What're you talking about?"
"Think about it. Your devices consume three times their own weight in
time and labor for their design, manufacture, andтАФnowтАФsales. But what
do they accomplish? A moment's diversion from the sad fact of existence.
It's a measure of our desperation that we'd devote so much energy in order
to generate a respite, however brief, from our very real problems."
"What are you, some kinda nut? Get out of here!" the vendor said
angrily.
Terry stuck his hands in his pockets. "The truth hurts, eh?"
Without answering, the shabby man called his watches in. They came
swooping down on him, finding safe harbor in his many pockets. He
turned and hobbled away.
"It's called denial!" Terry shouted after him. "Therapists have known
about it for centuries!"



It was rush hour in the subway. The crowds were so thick that people
were constantly losing their hold on the platform grab bars and being
jostled up in the air. If it weren't for friendly hands to pull them down,