Imperial Earth

Duncan’s fellow passenger twisted around in his seat and called over his shoulder: “They say the New Yorkers are getting more tolerant. Last man to walk on that wasn’t lynched on the spot -they gave him a choice between gas and electrocution.” Duncan presumed he was joking, but didn’t pursue the matter; this back-to-back seating was not good for conversation.

From time to time Bill van Hyatt, who was riding-quite expertly-a beautiful cream-colored pony, came up to him to deliver snippets of information. Most of these were welcome, even though not always necessary.

Of all Man’s cities, New York was still the most famous-the only one

where all exiles, every169 where in the Solar System, would feel at home. Now that they were clear of the taller trees, it was possible to see many of the midtown landmarks-not only the dominating finger of the Empire State Building, but the slowly orbiting Grand Central Mobile, the shining slab of the old United Nations, the great terraced pyramid of Mount Rockefeller spanning half the island from Fifth Avenue to the Hudson River…. Duncan had no difficulty recognizing and naming these, but the more distant structures to the east and west were strange to him. That big golden dome over in-was it New

Jersey?-was most peculiar, but Duncan had grown a little tired of exposing his ignorance and was determined to ask no more nonessential questions. He could always look up the guidebooks later.

They reached Columbus Circle and started climbing the ramp up to the bridge over the Grand Canal that now bisected Manhattan. On the level below, bikes, trikes, and passenger capsules were racing silently back and forth; and on the level below them, the famous Checker Gondolas were shuttling between the East River and the Hudson. Duncan was surprised to see such heavy traffic so far north of the city area, but guessed it was almost all recreational or tourist

There was a brief pause at an Eighth Avenue comfort station for the benefit of the horses and miniphants—which, like all herbivores, had low-efficiency, rapid-turnover conversion systems. Some of the passengers also took advantage of the stop, even though the facilities were not intended for them. Remembering his contretemps at Mount Vernon, Duncan tried to imagine what the New York streets must have been like in the days when horses provided the only transportation, but failed and thankfully abandoned the attempt.

Now they were skirting the northern flank of Mount Rockefeller, which towered two hundred and fifty meters above them—challenging the Empire

State Building in altitude and completely eclipsing it in bulk. With

the exception of a few dams and the Great 170 Wall of China-hardly a fair comparison-it was the largest single structure on Earth. Here had gone all the rubble and debris, all the bricks and concrete, the steel girders and ceramic tiles and bathtubs and TV sets and refrigerators and air conditioners and abandoned automobiles, when the decayed uptown area was finally bulldozed flat in the early twenty second century. The clean-up had, perhaps, been a little too comprehehsive; now the industrial archaeologists were happily mining the mountain for the lost treasures of the past.

The straggling line of men and animals continued south along the wide, grassy sward of Eighth Avenue, skirting the western face of the huge pyramid. Unlike the southern facade, which was entirely covered by the celebrated Hanging Gardens of Manhattan, this side was a montage of frescoes, murals, and mosaics. It would never be completed. As fast as one work of art was finished, another would be demolished, not always with the consent of the artist. The west side of Mount Rockfeller was an aesthetic battlefield; it had even been bombed-with cans of red paint. The terraces and stairways of the man-made bill were crowded with sightseers, and on many of the vertical surfaces craftsmen were at work in swinging chairs suspended by cables. Morbidly conscious as he was of terrestrial gravity,

Duncan could only look on these courageous artists with awe-struck admiration.

Nearer ground level, there were hundreds of more informal attempts at expression. One section of wall, four meters high and fifty long, had been set aside for graffiti, and the public had taken full advantage of the opportunity with crayons, chalk, and spray guns. There was a good deal of cheerful obscenity, but most of the messages were totally meaningless to

Duncan. Why, he wondered, should he SUPPORT THE MIMIMALIST MANIFESTO? Was it true that KILROY WAS HERE and if so, why? Did the announcement that COUNCILMAN WILBUR ERICKSON IS A YENTOR convey praise or censure? He brooded over these and similar world-shattering problems all the way south to 44th Street.