read; south 3 stack,
canton of munich. Relieved, he looked back, ignoring the curious
stares of passersby. That much, at least, was right. But were they in
the right place? Had they come out at the right end?
He glanced at
Jyan, then nodded. "Come on. Let's find that elevator."
It was a noisy,
boisterous place. And it stank. The sharp, sour-sweet smell of spiced
soymeats and overcooked vegetables was mixed inextricably with the
sharper scent of human sweat and the damp, warm smell of the washing.
Jyan looked at Chen, grimacing.
"It's worse
than beneath the Net!"
Chen nodded. It
was true. The air was a rich, unwholesome soup. After the freshness
of the higher tunnels it made him feel like retching. Each breath
seemed to coat the lungs.
Chen pushed out
into the middle of the press, aware of Jyan at his back. Young
children, naked, many of them streaked with dirt, ran here and there
through the crowd, yelling. Some tugged at their clothes as they
passed.
"Ch'ian.'"
one tiny, shaven-headed boy yelled, pulling at Chen's tunic, then
putting his hand out aggressively. Money! He could have been
no more than three at most. Chen glared at him and raised his hand
threateningly, but the child only laughed and ran away, making a sign
with his hand that was unmistakable. And you, thought Chen. And you.
People jostled
this way and that, using their elbows and .shoulders to force a way
through the press. In the midst of it all a few of them simply stood
and talked, making deals or just passing the time, oblivious of the
noise, the crush, the rickshaws jostling to get by. Some turned and
eyed the two men as they made their way through, but most ignored
them, intent on their own business.
At the edge of
things, small groups of women stood in doorways watching them, their
arms folded over their breasts, their lips moving incessantly,
chattering away in the pidgin dialect of these levels. Nearby,
traders pushed their barrows through the crowd, crying out in dae
same strange singsong tongue as the watching women. Small MedFac
screens were everywhere, on brackets fixed to walls and in
shopfronts, on. the sides of rickshaws or pushed along in handcarts,
their constant murmur barely distinguishable above the general
hubbub, while from every side countless PopVoc Squawks blared out,
some large as suitcases, others worn as earrings or elaborate
bracelets. All added to the dull cacophony of sound.
Chen moved
through it all slowly, purposefully, trying not to let it overwhelm
him after the empty silence of the maintenance tunnels. His eyes
searched for Security patrols, conscious all the while of Jyan at his
side, matching him pace for pace. He allowed himself a brief, grim
smile. It would be all right. He was sure it would be all right.
They were mostly
Han here, but those Hung Mao about were almost
indistinguishable in dress or speech. These were Chung Kuo's poor.
Here, near the very bottom of the City, you could see the problem the
City faced—could touch and smell and hear it. Here it hit you
immediately, in the constant push and shove of the crowds that milled
about these corridors. Chung Kuo was overcrowded. Wherever,you turned
there were people; people talking and laughing, pushing and arguing,
bargaining and gambling, making love behind thin curtains or moving
about quietly in cramped and crowded rooms, watching endless
historical dramas while they tended to a clutch of bawling children.
Chen pushed on
dourly, swallowing the sudden bitterness he felt. To those who lived
a quieter, more ordered life in the levels high above, this would
probably have seemed like hell. But Chen knew otherwise. The people
of this level counted themselves lucky to be here, above the Net and
not below. There was law here and a kind of order, despite the
overcrowding. There was the guarantee of food and medical care. And
though there was the constant problem of idleness—of too many
hands and too few jobs—there was at least the chapce of getting
out, by
canton of munich. Relieved, he looked back, ignoring the curious
stares of passersby. That much, at least, was right. But were they in
the right place? Had they come out at the right end?
He glanced at
Jyan, then nodded. "Come on. Let's find that elevator."
It was a noisy,
boisterous place. And it stank. The sharp, sour-sweet smell of spiced
soymeats and overcooked vegetables was mixed inextricably with the
sharper scent of human sweat and the damp, warm smell of the washing.
Jyan looked at Chen, grimacing.
"It's worse
than beneath the Net!"
Chen nodded. It
was true. The air was a rich, unwholesome soup. After the freshness
of the higher tunnels it made him feel like retching. Each breath
seemed to coat the lungs.
Chen pushed out
into the middle of the press, aware of Jyan at his back. Young
children, naked, many of them streaked with dirt, ran here and there
through the crowd, yelling. Some tugged at their clothes as they
passed.
"Ch'ian.'"
one tiny, shaven-headed boy yelled, pulling at Chen's tunic, then
putting his hand out aggressively. Money! He could have been
no more than three at most. Chen glared at him and raised his hand
threateningly, but the child only laughed and ran away, making a sign
with his hand that was unmistakable. And you, thought Chen. And you.
People jostled
this way and that, using their elbows and .shoulders to force a way
through the press. In the midst of it all a few of them simply stood
and talked, making deals or just passing the time, oblivious of the
noise, the crush, the rickshaws jostling to get by. Some turned and
eyed the two men as they made their way through, but most ignored
them, intent on their own business.
At the edge of
things, small groups of women stood in doorways watching them, their
arms folded over their breasts, their lips moving incessantly,
chattering away in the pidgin dialect of these levels. Nearby,
traders pushed their barrows through the crowd, crying out in dae
same strange singsong tongue as the watching women. Small MedFac
screens were everywhere, on brackets fixed to walls and in
shopfronts, on. the sides of rickshaws or pushed along in handcarts,
their constant murmur barely distinguishable above the general
hubbub, while from every side countless PopVoc Squawks blared out,
some large as suitcases, others worn as earrings or elaborate
bracelets. All added to the dull cacophony of sound.
Chen moved
through it all slowly, purposefully, trying not to let it overwhelm
him after the empty silence of the maintenance tunnels. His eyes
searched for Security patrols, conscious all the while of Jyan at his
side, matching him pace for pace. He allowed himself a brief, grim
smile. It would be all right. He was sure it would be all right.
They were mostly
Han here, but those Hung Mao about were almost
indistinguishable in dress or speech. These were Chung Kuo's poor.
Here, near the very bottom of the City, you could see the problem the
City faced—could touch and smell and hear it. Here it hit you
immediately, in the constant push and shove of the crowds that milled
about these corridors. Chung Kuo was overcrowded. Wherever,you turned
there were people; people talking and laughing, pushing and arguing,
bargaining and gambling, making love behind thin curtains or moving
about quietly in cramped and crowded rooms, watching endless
historical dramas while they tended to a clutch of bawling children.
Chen pushed on
dourly, swallowing the sudden bitterness he felt. To those who lived
a quieter, more ordered life in the levels high above, this would
probably have seemed like hell. But Chen knew otherwise. The people
of this level counted themselves lucky to be here, above the Net and
not below. There was law here and a kind of order, despite the
overcrowding. There was the guarantee of food and medical care. And
though there was the constant problem of idleness—of too many
hands and too few jobs—there was at least the chapce of getting
out, by
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