Ambient Read Online Free Page A

rang; when all broke for the exit, they
discovered that the Drydens had locked the doors behind them,
and now charged all an escape fee.
    "Maintenant?" I asked, "Why?"
    "Speed increase," he muttered, pressing the button again.

    "You're flyin' now," mumbled Avalon.
    After the Long Island accident and the birth of Ambients; after
the revelation of the Q documents and the loss of spirit thereof;
after the economic emergency, the resulting currency devaluation, and what was called, by some, the unavoidable regrouping
of structures, came the twelve months known by Ambients, and
now by most, as the Goblin Year. All made up the Ebullition
(another Ambient coinage that slipped into general use-though
we just called it the Ebb). I was twelve, that year, unknowing of
the inventiveness of my future employers; uncertain, as was
everyone, of what future there might remain. My mother had
been killed earlier, during a pro-life riot. My father, once a realtor, once well-off, managed to hold only one property, the building on Avenue C in which Enid and I lived, and had lived, since
that time. Dad was gone in a matter of weeks; Enid raised me,
having raised herself.
    "I was elevatorspeaking," he said.
    "Oh," she nodded. "Of course."
    "I'll see what can be done," I said, knowing nothing could be
done; there was nothing wrong with the elevator.
    "Good man," said Mister Dryden.
    Since then, all had adjusted-some more so than others. It was
quite simple. The government served those who supervised the
sailing of the yacht of state; the government controlled the business that controlled the government. Complex in theory, it was
infallible in practice. I gather that new owners weren't much different from old ones; oldboss, newboss, as Enid put it. Live and
let live was the word; so went the thought, so went the act. With
useful exceptions matters ran themselves; that this did not always
work to everyone's benefit aroused among the government apparatchiks no concern, brought no interpretation, produced no
apology, stirred no regret. Those in control worked their legerdemain when and as they wished. It was nature's way.
    "Here now," said Mister Dryden as the elevator slowed.

    American society, thus, had three arenas in which all could
cavort: that of owners and their servants; that of boozhies, the old
bourgeois; that of what the government pegged the Superfluous.
The last, like owners, paid no taxes; unlike owners, they were
felt to deserve no shielding from the vicissitudes of life. Unless
they entered the Army (by draft or, in the case of women, by
choice) the Superfluous were underemployed. Some were useful
to industry; the elderly were useful in research. All did business
on the unders; many got along. There was no excuse for being
poor in America; it was much easier to be dead.
    "Ola, Renaldo," said Mister Dryden.
    But no cynic, I; there was never a country like America in
which to live.
    Mister Dryden's waiting room was impressive: paneled in woodtone, shielded from the public hall by three-inch glass; that hall's
door openable only from the reception desk. A neon smirker hung
behind the desk. Renaldo was the receptionist. He was once a
member of La Societa Mariel, formed originally to provide its
members with jobs; people helping their own, as the government
always insisted. As with Jimmy, the lure of Dryco proved inescapable. Madre was tattooed in his lower lip; her image marred
the backs of his hands. He shaved his head; he affected a bushy
mustache and wore small hoop earrings. The metal plate in his
skull reflected the overhead light; his head at some angles resembled an expensive kitchenware item.
    "Renaldo," said Mister Dryden, "Punch up 37H, 26B, 29C,
2T. Expect them. Don't enter others. "
    "Toderecho," said Renaldo.
    Cameras focused the doors leading from the public hall. On
his monitors, Mister Dryden could see who entered, could signal
by silent alarm. Renaldo kept an ax by his desk, ready