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

Downtown wasn't so bad as Midtown if you had kids. But of courseтАФall
this urban bureaucracy!тАФyou couldn't do anything so simple as just move
there. You had to stand in line. Flats were assigned according to a
complicated formula. So many points from the monthly lottery (one ticket
for paying rent; extra for civic service or orbital work), and so many for
need (about one room per family member, plus kitchen and bath). Plug in
the neighborhood statsтАФquality-of-life, environmental health, access to
schools, clinics, entertainment;тАФand out pops the number. They'd drawn
a high number last month, thanks in part to the Black Lagooner being on
its way, so they'd decided it was now or never.
He spent half an hour sitting on a gut-sprung sofa before the
government lady called him in. She rose to shake his hand. "Mr. Bissel.
Thank you for your patience." He took a chair and she sank back down
behind her desk. "Where exactly were you thinking of moving?"
"New Hampshire."
She looked up.
Terry laughed. "Just a joke. Right now, today, I'm interested in
something Downtown. Quiet. Spacious. Suitable for a newborn."
"IтАФsee." The government lady touched three spots on her desk and it
spat out a hardcopy of three addresses. But she didn't hand them over.
"Mr. Bissel, I note that you're monolingual."
"Yeah? So?"
"No crafts or hobbies. You don't play any musical instruments." She
frowned. "Your cultural preservation ratings are distinctly below the
mean."
"Aw, c'mon, you know as well as I do, that stuffs all bullshit."
The woman's eyes flared. "I most certainly do not! MultidiversityтАФ"
"тАФis a crock. Look, if you want to preserve our goddamn priceless
ethnic and cultural heritages, then just hand out rifles. What do you think
ethnicity is all about, if it's not hating the people in the next county?
Molotov cocktails for everybody in the bar! Kill the lot and let God sort 'em
out! The plain and simple truth is that instead of trying to preserve our
tribal identifications, we ought to be doing everything we can to obliterate
them. You want to prevent the next war? Burn the family albums!"
Her mouth opened and shut. She said nothing.
Terry picked up the hardcopy. On the way out, he grinned and said,
"Never mind me. I'm Irish on my mother's side, and 'tis like me Mither
always sez: The only thing the Irish like better than an argument is a good
fight."



The first apartment was in Chinatown, overlooking the Canal. There
were some kids jigging crabs on the stairs out front. Little goats were
running around on the roof. Terry liked water well enough, but he didn't
like sky goats all that much. Supposedly they helped keep the city clean by
eating trash. He couldn't see it.