"Нейл Стефенсон. Snow Crash (Снежная лавина, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

retract in the right way so that she glides from street to lawn without a
hitch. Across the lawn, the feet leave a trail of hexagonal padmarks. A
stray dog turd, red with meaty undigestible food coloring, is embossed with
the RadiKS logo, a mirror image of which is printed on the tread of each
spoke.
The bimbo box is pulling away from the curb, across the street.
Squirrelly scrubbing noises squirm from its sidewalls as they grind against
the curb; we are in the Burbs, where it is better to take a thousand clicks
off the lifespan of your Coodyears by invariably grinding them up against
curbs than to risk social ostracism and outbreaks of mass hysteria by
parking several inches away, out in the middle of the street (That's okay,
Mom, ican walk to the curb from here), a menace to traffic, a deadly
obstacle to uncertain young bicyclists. Y.T. has pressed the release button
on her poon's reel/handle unit, allowing a meter of cord to unwind. She
whips it up and around her head like a bob on the austral range. She is
about to lambada this trite conveyance. The head of the poon, salad-bowl
size, whistles as it orbits around; this is unnecessary but sounds cool.
Pooning a bimbo box takes more skill than a ped would ever imagine,
because of their very road-unworthiness, their congenital lack of steel or
other ferrous matter for the MagnaPoon to bite down on. Now they have
superconducting poons that stick to aluminum bodywork by inducing eddy
currents in the actual flesh of the car, turning it into an unwilling
electromagnet, but Y.T. does not have one of these. They are the trademark
of the hardcore Burbclave surfer, which, despite this evening's enter~
tainment, she is not. Her poon will only stick to steel, iron, or
SNOW CRASH
(slightly) to nickel. The only steel in a bimbo box of this make is in
the frame.
She makes a low-slung approach. Her poon's orbital plane is nearly
vertical, it almost grinds on the twinkly suburban macadam on the forward
limb of each orbit. When she pounds the release button, it takes off from an
altitude of about one centimeter, angling slightly upward, across the
street, under the floor of the bimbo box, and sucks steel. It's a solid hit,
as solid as you can get on this nebula of air, upholstery, paint, and
marketing known as the family minivan.
The reaction is instantaneous, quick-witted by Burb standards. This
person wants Y.T. gone. The van takes off like a hormone-pumped bull who has
just been nailed in the ass by the barbed probe of a picador. It's not Mom
at the wheel. It's young Studley, the teenaged boy, who like every other boy
in this Burbclave has been taking intravenous shots of horse testosterone
every after. noon in the high school locker room since he was fourteen years
old. Now he's bulky, stupid, thoroughly predictable.
He steers erratically, artificially pumped muscles not fully under his
control. The molded, leather-grained, maroon-colored steering wheel smells
like his mother's hand lotion; this drives him into a rage. The bimbo box
surges and slows, surges and slows, because he is pumping the gas pedal,
because holding it to the floor doesn't seem to have any effect. He wants
this car to be like his muscles: more power than he knows what to do with.
Instead, it hampers him. As a compromise, he hits the but. ton that says
POWER. Another button that says ECONOMY pops out and goes dead, reminding