"James Tiptree Jr - your faces, my sisters, your faces are filled with light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tiptree James Jr)

old city. Chi-cago or She-cago,
which was it. She should find
out; she's been this way
several times now. Courier to
the West. The lake behind her
 is Michigam, Michi-gami, the
shining Big Sea Water.
Satisfied, she figures she has
come nearly seventy miles
already since she left the
hostel yesterday, and only
one hitch. I'm not even tired.
That beautiful old sister, she
thinks. I'd have liked to talk
with her more. Like the wise
old Nokomis. That's the
trouble, I always want to stop
and explore the beautiful
places and people, and I
always want to get on too, get
to the next. Couriers see so
much. Someday
CO


BYTE BEAUTIFUL
she'll come back here and have a good swim in the lake, loaf and ramble around the old city. So much to see; no
danger except from falling walls; she's expert at watching that. Some sisters say there are dog-packs here; she
doesn't believe it. And even if there are, they wouldn't be dangerous. Animals aren't dangerous if you know what
to do. No dangers left at all, in
the whole free wide world!
She shakes the rain out of her face, smiling up at the blowing night. To be a courier, what a great life! Rambling
woman, on the road. Heyo, sister! Any mail, any messages for Des Moines and points west? Travel, travel on. But
she is traveling in really heavy downpour now, she sees. She squeezes past a heap of old wrecked "cars" and splash!
one foot goes in ankle-deep. The rain is drumming little fountains all over the old roadway. Time to get under; she
reaches back and pulls the parka hood up from under her pack, thinking how alive the highway looks in the flashing
lightning and rain. This road must have been full of the "cars" once, all of them shiny new, roaring along probably
quite close together, belching gases, shining their lights, using all this space. She can almost hear them, poor crazy
creatures. Rrrr-oom! A blazing bolt slaps down quite near her, strobes on and off. Whew! That was close. She
chuckles, feeling briefly dizzy in the ozone. Ah, here's a ramp right by her, it looks okay.
Followed by a strange whirling light-shaft, some trick of the storm, she ducks aside and runs lightly down from
the Stevenson Expressway into the Thirty-fifth Street underpass.
"Gone." Patrolman Lugioni cuts the flasher, lets the siren growl diminu-endo. The cruiser accelerates in the
curb lane, broadcasting its need of a ring job. "S—tass kids out hitching on a night like this." He shakes his
head.
Al, the driver, feels under his leg for the pack of smokes. "I thought it
was a girl."
"Who can tell," Lugioni grunts. Lightning is cracking all around them;
it's a cloudburst. On every side of them the Saturday night madhouse tears
on, every car towing a big bustle of dirty water in the lights of the car