"Charles de Lint - Pixel Pixies" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

against the wall.
For all the effort they save, the little tasks that they automate and their wonderful storage capacity, at
times like this - when everything's going as wrong as it can go - their benefits can't come close to
outweighing their annoyances.

My present situation was partly my own fault. I'd been updating my inventory all afternoon and before
saving the file and backing it up, I'd decided to go on the Internet to check some of my competitors'
prices. The used-book business, which is what I'm in, has probably the most arbitrary pricing in the
world. Though I suppose that can be expanded to include any business specializing in collectibles.

I logged on without any trouble and went merrily browsing through listings on the various book search
pages, making notes on the particularly interesting items, a few of which I actually had in stock. It wasn't
until I tried to exit my browser that the trouble started. My browser wouldn't close and I couldn't switch
to another window. Nor could I log off the Internet.

Deciding it had something to do with the page I was on - I know that doesn't make much sense, but I
make no pretence to being more than vaguely competent when it conies to knowing how the software
actually interfaces with the hardware - I called up the drop-down menu of "My Favorites" and clicked on
my own home page. What I got was a fan shrine to pro wrestling star Steve Austin.

I tried again and ended up at a commercial software site.

The third time I was taken to the site of someone named Cindy Margolis - the most downloaded woman
on the Internet, according to the Guinness Book of World Records. Not on this computer, my dear.

I made another attempt to get off-line, then tried to access my home page again. Each time I found myself
in some new outlandish and unrelated site.

Finally I tried one of the links on the last page I'd reached. It was supposed to bring me to Netscape's
home page. Instead I found myself on the Web site of a real estate company in Santa Fe, looking at a
cluster of pictures of the vaguely Spanish-styled houses that they were selling.

I sighed, tried to break my Internet connection for what felt like the hundredth time, but the "Connect to"
window still wouldn't come up.

I could have rebooted, of course. That would have got me offline. But it would also mean that I'd lose the
whole afternoon's work because, being the stupid woman I was, I hadn't had the foresight to save the
stupid file before I went gadding about on the stupid Internet.

"Oh, you stupid machine," I muttered.

From the front window display where she was napping, I heard Snippet, my Jack Russell terrier, stir. I
turned to reassure her that, no, she was still my perfect little dog. When I swivelled my chair to face the
computer again, I realized that there was a woman standing on the other side of the counter.

I'd seen her come into the store earlier, but I'd lost track of everything in my one-sided battle of wits with
the computer - it having the wits, of course. She was a very striking woman, her dark brown hair falling in
Pre-Raphaelite curls that were streaked with green, her eyes both warm and distant, like an odd mix of a
perfect summer's day and the mystery you can feel swell up inside you when you look up into the stars on
a crisp, clear autumn night. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn't quite place it. She