"FWLS21" - читать интересную книгу автора (A Future We'd Like to See)

fired up the rover.

The sun gleamed off the well-polished hood, as the airbag
below the car inflated, hover jets synchronizing. The airbag
serves a few purposes : it keeps the gravs and jets concentrated
on the road, keeps gravel out, and ensures that if I slam into
another rover I'll merely bounce off.

I shifted the gravs into reverse and pulled out of my
driveway, sliding along the suburban lanes. There it was : the
huge Y-270 sign. The gateway to hell, the point of no return.
Hate the highway, love the car, I always say. I slammed it into
17th gear and rocketed into the fray.

My car bounced off of a few creeps attempting to merge into
the 25th lane, causing a spinout or two and a bumper banger
behind me. I didn't care; I just wanted off of the highway as
soon as possible. I gunned the engine past the 263 M'wwts an
Hour mark, the normal speed limit. Nobody really pays attention
to the limit. It's every Ytt for himself.

I weaved through fourteen lanes or so, following the route
given to me by my boss for getting to G'thrsB'yg city. Take Y-
270 to the G'hh cutoff, head down the subpass and swerve through
the undertunnel to Y-78, where you immediately cross five lanes
and head up the spiral ramp back to Y-270. If you don't make the
five lane crossover in three seconds, you'll miss the ramp and
have to circle around through the next three crossovers until you
can try again.

Back on Y-270 (neatly missing the ten lane bottleneck...
yeesh, only TEN lanes? Are they insane?), I cruised along,
cutting off a few losers and maneuvering into the left three
passing lanes.

Wouldn't you know it? Just my luck, three hatter hap
g'llars are hogging the passing lanes! These are a bastard breed
of driver that sputters along at 200 M'wwts an Hour to conserve
sucrose and plays Adult Contemporary at top volume with the
treble cranked up. They usually wear large hats as well.

I considered pulling out the blaster and deflating a few
airbags to clear the way, but they'd probably just swerve out of
control like the cheap sunday drivers they are and cause an
accident. So, I sat, gripping the stick with light green
knuckles, waiting for these offs k'li ann tramps to get the hell
out of my way.

Several other drivers gave up on it and decided to form a
new passing lane next to them by rear-ending anybody who didn't