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

handle. She is headed straight for the exit of the Burbclave at fantastic
speed.
Behind her, an explosive crash sounds, resonating in her gut, as the
minivan slides sideways into the gravestone.

She ducks under the security gate and plunges into traffic on Oahu. She
cuts between two veering, blaring, and screeching BMWs. BMW drivers take
evasive action at the drop of a hat, emulating the drivers in the BMW
advertisements-this is how they convince themselves they didn't get ripped
off. She drops into a fetal position to pass underneath a semi, headed for
the Jersey barrier in the median strip like she's going to die, but Jersey
barriers are easy for the smartwheels. That lower limb of the barrier has
such a nice bank to it, like they designed it for road surfers. She rides
halfway up the barrier, angles gently back down to the lane for a smooth
landing, and she's in traffic. There's a car right there and she doesn't
even have to throw the poon, just reaches out and plants it right on the lid
of the trunk.
This driver's resigned to his fate, doesn't care, doesn't hassle her.
He takes her as far as the entrance to the next Burbclave, which is a White
Columns. Very southern, traditional, one of the Apartheid Burbclaves. Big
ornate sign above the main gate:
WHITE PEOPLE ONLY. NON-CAUCASIANS MUST BE PROCESSED.
She's got a White Columns visa. Y.T. has a visa to everywhere. It's
right there on her chest, a little barcode. A laser scans it as she careens
toward the entrance and the immigration gate swings open for her. It's an
ornate ironwork number, but harried White Columns residents don't have time
to sit idling at the Burbclave entrance watching the gate slowly roll aside
in Old South majestic turpitude, so it's mounted on some kind of
electromagnetic railgun.
She is gliding down the antebellum tree-lined lanes of White Columns,
one microplantation after another, still coasting on the residual kinetic
energy boost that originated in the fuel in Studley the Teenager's gas tank.
NEAL STEPHENSON
The world is full of power and energy and a person can go far by just
skimming off a tiny bit of it.
The LEDs on the pizza box say: 29:32, and the guy who ordered it-Mr.
Pudgely and his neighbors, the Pinkhearts and the Roundass clan-are all
gathered on the front lawn of their microplantation, prematurely
celebrating. Like they had just bought the winning lottery ticket From their
front door they have a clear view all the way down to Oahu Road, and they
can see that nothing is on its way that looks like a CosaNostra delivery
car. Oh, there is curiosity-sniffing interest-at this Kouner with the big
square thing under her arm-maybe a portfolio, a new ad layout for some
Caucasian supremacist marketing honcho in the next plat over, but- The
Pudgelys and the Pinkhearts and the Roundasses are all
staring at her, slackjawed. She has just enough residual energy to
swing into their driveway. Her momentum carries her to the top. She stops
next to Mr. Pudgely's Acura and Mrs. Pudgely's bimbo box and steps off her
plank. The spokes, noting her departure, even themselves out, plant
themselves on the top of the driveway, refuse to roll backward.