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Стерлинг, Брюс - Стерлинг - TaklamakanФантастика >> Зарубежная фантастика >> Стерлинг, Брюс Читать целиком Bruce Sterling. Taklamakan
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Hugo-99
Source: Asimov's SciFi Magazine
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A bone-dry frozen wind tore at the earth outside, its lethal howling
cut to a muffled moan. Katrinko and Spider Pete were camped deep in a
crevice in the rock, wrapped in furry darkness. Pete could hear Katrinko
breathing, with a light rattle of chattering teeth. The neuter's yeasty
armpits smelled like nutmeg.
Spider Pete strapped his shaven head into his spex.
Outside their puffy nest, the sticky eyes of a dozen gelcams splayed
across the rock, a sky-eating web of perception. Pete touched a stud on his
spex, pulled down a glowing menu, and adjusted his visual take on the
outside world.
Flying powder tumbled through the yardangs like an evil fog. The
crescent moon and a billion desert stars, glowing like pixelated bruises,
wheeled above the eerie wind-sculpted landscape of the Taklamakan. With the
exceptions of Antarctica, or maybe the deep Sahara locales Pete had never
been paid to visit this central Asian desert was the loneliest, most
desolate place on Earth.
Pete adjusted parameters, etching the landscape with a busy array of
false colors. He recorded an artful series of panorama shots, and tagged a
global positioning fix onto the captured stack. Then he signed the footage
with a cryptographic time-stamp from a passing NAFTA spy-sat.
1/15/2052 05:24:01.
Pete saved the stack onto a gelbrain. This gelbrain was a walnut-sized
lump of neural biotech, carefully grown to mimic the razor-sharp visual
cortex of an American bald eagle. It was the best, most expensive piece of
photographic hardware that Pete had ever owned. Pete kept the thing tucked
in his crotch.
Pete took a deep and intimate pleasure in working with the latest
federally subsidized spy gear. It was quite the privilege for Spider Pete,
the kind of privilege that he might well die for. There was no tactical use
in yet another spy-shot of the chill and empty Taklamakan. But the tagged
picture would prove that Katrinko and Pete had been here at the appointed
rendezvous. Right here, right now. Waiting for the man.
And the man was overdue.
During their brief professional acquaintance, Spider Pete had met the
Lieutenant Colonel in a number of deeply unlikely locales. A parking garage
in Pentagon City. An outdoor seafood restaurant in Cabo San Lucas. On the
ferry to Staten Island. Pete had never known his patron to miss a rendezvous
by so much as a microsecond.
The sky went dirty white. A sizzle, a sparkle, a zenith full of stink.
A screaming-streaking-tumbling. A nasty thunderclap. The ground shook hard.
"Dang," Pete said.
They found the Lieutenant Colonel just before eight in the morning.
Pieces of his landing pod were violently scattered across half a kilometer.
Katrinko and Pete skulked expertly through a dirty yellow jumble of
wind-grooved boulders. Their camou gear switched coloration moment by
moment, to match the landscape and the incidental light.
Pete pried the mask from his face, inhaled the thin, pitiless, metallic
air, and spoke aloud. "That's our boy all right. Never missed a date."
The neuter removed her mask and fastidiously smeared her lips and gums
with silicone anti-evaporant. Her voice fluted eerily over the insistent
wind. "Space-defense must have tracked him on radar."
"Nope. If they'd hit him from orbit, he'd really be spread all over. .
. . No, something happened to him really close to the ground." Pete pointed
at a violent scattering of cracked ochre rock. "See, check out how that
stealth-pod hit and tumbled. It didn't catch fire till after the impact."
With the absent ease of a gecko, the neuter swarmed up a
three-story-high boulder. She examined the surrounding forensic evidence at
length, dabbing carefully at her spex controls. She then slithered deftly
back to earth. "There was no anti-aircraft fire, right? No interceptors
flyin' round last night."
"Nope. Heck, there's no people around here in a space bigger than
Delaware."
The neuter looked up. "So what do you figure, Pete?"
"I figure an accident," said Pete.
"A what?"
"An accident. A lot can go wrong with a covert HALO insertion."
"Like what, for instance?"
"Well, G-loads and stuff. System malfunctions. Maybe he just blacked
out."
"He was a federal military spook, and you're telling me he passed out?"
Katrinko daintily adjusted her goggled spex with gloved and bulbous
fingertips. "Why would that matter anyway? He wouldn't fly a spacecraft with
his own hands, would he?"
Pete rubbed at the gummy line of his mask, easing the prickly
indentation across one dark, tattooed cheek. "I kinda figure he would,
actually. The man was a pilot. Big military prestige thing. Flyin' in by
hand, deep in Sphere territory, covert insertion, way behind enemy lines. .
. . That'd really be something to brag about, back on the Potomac."
The neuter considered this sour news without apparent resentment. As
one of the world's top technical climbers, Katrinko was a great connoisseur
of pointless displays of dangerous physical skill. "I can get behind that."
She paused. "Serious bad break, though."
They resealed their masks. Water was their greatest lack, and vapor
exhalation was a problem. They were recycling body-water inside their suits,
topped off with a few extra cc's they'd obtained from occasional patches of
frost. They'd consumed the last of the trail-goop and candy from their
glider shipment three long days ago. They hadn't eaten since. Still, Pete
and Katrinko were getting along pretty well, living off big subcutaneous
lumps of injected body fat.
More through habit than apparent need, Pete and Katrinko segued into
evidence-removal mode. It wasn't hard to conceal a HALO stealth pod. The
spycraft was radar-transparent and totally biodegradable. In the bitter wind
and cold of the Taklamakan, the bigger chunks of wreckage had already gone
all brown and crispy, like the shed husks of locusts. They couldn't scrape
up every physical trace, but they'd surely get enough to fool aerial
surveillance.
The Lieutenant Colonel was extremely dead. He'd come down from the
heavens in his full NAFTA military power-armor, a leaping, brick-busting,
lightning-spewing exoskeleton, all acronyms and input jacks. It was
powerful, elaborate gear, of an entirely different order than the gooey and
fibrous street tech of the two urban intrusion freaks.
But the high-impact crash had not been kind to the armored suit. It had
been crueler still to the bone, blood, and tendon housed inside.
Pete bagged the larger pieces with a heavy heart. He knew that the
Lieutenant Colonel was basically no good: deceitful, ruthlessly ambitious,
probably crazy. Still, Pete sincerely regretted his employer's demise. After
all, it was precisely those qualities that had led the Lieutenant Colonel to
recruit Spider Pete in the first place.
Pete also felt sincere regret for the gung-ho, clear-eyed young
military widow, and the two little redheaded kids in Augusta, Georgia. He'd
never actually met the widow or the little kids, but the Lieutenant Colonel
was always fussing about them and showing off their photos. The Lieutenant
Colonel had been a full fifteen years younger than Spider Pete, a
rosy-cheeked cracker kid really, never happier than when handing over wads
of money, nutty orders, and expensive covert equipment to people whom no
sane man would trust with a burnt-out match. And now here he was in the cold
and empty heart of Asia, turned to jam within his shards of junk.
Katrinko did the last of the search-and-retrieval while Pete dug
beneath a ledge with his diamond hand-pick, the razored edges slashing out
clods of shale.
After she'd fetched the last blackened chunk of their employer,
Katrinko perched birdlike on a nearby rock. She thoughtfully nibbled a piece
of the pod's navigation console. "This gelbrain is good when it dries out,
man. Like trail mix, or a fortune cookie."
Pete grunted. "You might be eating part of him, y'know."
"Lotta good carbs and protein there, too."
They stuffed a final shattered power-jackboot inside the Colonel's
makeshift cairn. The piled rock was there for the ages. A few jets of
webbing and thumbnail dabs of epoxy made it harder than a brick wall.
It was noon now, still well below freezing, but as warm as the
Taklamakan was likely to get in January. Pete sighed, dusted sand from his
knees and elbows, stretched. It was hard work, cleaning up; the hardest part
of intrusion work, because it was the stuff you had to do after the thrill
was gone. He offered Katrinko the end of a fiber-optic cable, so that they
could speak together without using radio or removing their masks.
Pete waited until she had linked in, then spoke into his mike. "So we
head on back to the glider now, right?"
The neuter looked up, surprised. "How come?"
"Look, Trink, this guy that we just buried was the actual spy in this
assignment. You and me, we were just his gophers and backup support. The
mission's an abort."
"But we're searching for a giant, secret, rocket base."
"Yeah, sure we are."
"We're supposed to find this monster high-tech complex, break in, and
record all kinds of crazy top secrets that nobody but the mandarins have
ever seen. That's a totally hot assignment, man."
Pete sighed. "I admit it's very high-concept, but I'm an old guy now,
Trink. I need the kind of payoff that involves some actual money."
Katrinko laughed. "But Pete! It's a starship! A whole fleet of 'em,
maybe! Secretly built in the desert, by Chinese spooks and Japanese
engineers!"
Pete shook his head. "That was all paranoid bullshit that the flyboy
made up, to get himself a grant and a field assignment. He was tired of
sitting behind a desk in the basement, that's all."
Katrinko folded her lithe and wiry arms. "Look, Pete, you saw those
briefings just like me. You saw all those satellite shots. The traffic
analysis, too. The Sphere people are up to something way big out here."
Pete gazed around him. He found it painfully surreal to endure this
discussion amid a vast and threatening tableau of dust-hazed sky and
sand-etched mudstone gullies. "They built something big here once, I grant
you that. But I never figured the Colonel's story for being very likely."
"What's so unlikely about it? The Russians had a secret rocket base in
the desert a hundred years ago. American deserts are full of secret mil-spec
stuff and space-launch bases. So now the Asian Sphere people are up to the
same old game. It all makes sense."
"No, it makes no sense at all. Nobody's space-racing to build any
starships. Starships aren't a space race. It takes four hundred years to fly
to the stars. Nobody's gonna finance a major military project that'll take
four hundred years to pay off. Least of all a bunch of smart and thrifty
Asian economic-warfare people."
"Well, they're sure building something. Look, all we have to do is find
the complex, break in, and document some stuff. We can do that! People like
us, we never needed any federal bossman to help us break into buildings and
take photos. That's what we always do, that's what we live for."
Pete was touched by the kid's game spirit. She really had the City
Spider way of mind. Nevertheless, Pete was fifty-two years old, so he found
it necessary to at least try to be reasonable. "We should haul our sorry
spook asses back to that glider right now. Let's skip on back over the
Himalayas. We can fly on back to Washington, tourist class out of Delhi.
They'll debrief us at the puzzle-palace. We'll give 'em the bad news about
the bossman. We got plenty of evidence to prove that, anyhow. . . . The
spooks will give us some walkin' money for a busted job, and tell us to keep
our noses clean. Then we can go out for some pork chops."
Katrinko's thin shoulders hunched mulishly within the bubblepak warts
of her insulated camou. She was not taking this at all well. "Peter, I ain't
looking for pork chops. I'm looking for some professional validation, okay?
I'm sick of that lowlife kid stuff, knocking around raiding network sites
and mayors' offices. . . . This is my chance at the big-time!"
Pete stroked the muzzle of his mask with two gloved fingers.
"Pete, I know that you ain't happy. I know that already, okay? But
you've already made it in the big-time, Mr. City Spider, Mr. Legend, Mr.
Champion. Now here's my big chance come along, and you want us to hang up
our cleats."
Pete raised his other hand. "Wait a minute, I never said that."
"Well, you're tellin' me you're walking. You're turning your back. You
don't even want to check it out first."
"No," Pete said weightily, "I reckon you know me too well for that,
Trink. I'm still a Spider. I'm still game. I'll always at least check it
out."
Katrinko set their pace after that. Pete was content to let her lead.
It was a very stupid idea to continue the mission without the overlordship
of the Lieutenant Colonel. But it was stupid in a different and more
refreshing way than the stupid idea of returning home to Chattanooga.
People in Pete's line of work weren't allowed to go home. He'd tried
that once, really tried it, eight years ago, just after that badly busted
caper in Brussels. He'd gotten a straight job at Lyle Schweik's
pedal-powered aircraft factory. The millionaire sports tycoon had owed him a
favor. Schweik had been pretty good about it, considering.
But word had swiftly gotten around that Pete had once been a champion
City Spider. Dumb-ass co-workers would make significant remarks. Sometimes
they asked him for so-called "favors," or tried to act street-wise. When you
came down to it, straight people were a major pain in the ass.
Pete preferred the company of seriously twisted people. People who
really cared about something, cared enough about it to really warp
themselves for it. People who looked for more out of life than mommy-daddy,
money, and the grave.
Below the edge of a ridgeline they paused for a recce. Pete whirled a
tethered eye on the end of its reel and flung it. At the peak of its arc,
six stories up, it recorded their surroundings in a panoramic view.
Pete and Katrinko studied the image together through their linked spex.
Katrinko highlit an area downhill with a fingertip gesture. "Now there's a
tipoff."
"That gully, you mean?"
"You need to get outdoors more, Pete. That's what we rockjocks
technically call a road."
Pete and Katrinko approached the road with professional caution. It was
a paved ribbon of macerated cinderblock, overrun with drifting sand. The
road was made of the coked-out clinker left behind by big urban
incinerators, a substance that Asians used for their road surfaces because
all the value had been cooked out of it.
The cinder road had once seen a great deal of traffic. There were
tire-shreds here and there, deep ruts in the shoulder, and post-holes that
had once been traffic signs, or maybe surveillance boxes.
They followed the road from a respectful distance, cautious of
monitors, tripwires, landmines, and many other possible unpleasantries. They
stopped for a rest in a savage arroyo where a road bridge had been carefully
removed, leaving only neat sockets in the roadbed and a kind of conceptual
arc in midair.
"What creeps me out is how clean this all is," Pete said over cable.
"It's a road, right? Somebody's gotta throw out a beer can, a lost shoe,
something."
Katrinko nodded. "I figure construction robots."
"Really."
Katrinko spread her swollen-fingered gloves. "It's a Sphere operation,
so it's bound to have lots of robots, right? I figure robots built this
road. Robots used this road. Robots carried in tons and tons of whatever
they were carrying. Then when they were done with the big project, the
robots carried off everything that was worth any money. Gathered up the
guideposts, bridges, everything. Very neat, no loose ends, very Sphere-type
way to work." Katrinko set her masked chin on her bent knees, gone into
reverie. "Some very weird and intense stuff can happen, when you got a lot
of space in the desert, and robot labor that's too cheap to meter."
Katrinko hadn't been wasting her time in those intelligence briefings.
Pete had seen a lot of City Spider wannabes, even trained quite a few of
them. But Katrinko had what it took to be a genuine Spider champion: the
desire, the physical talent, the ruthless dedication, and even the smarts.
It was staying out of jails and morgues that was gonna be the tough part for
Katrinko. "You're a big fan of the Sphere, aren't you, kid? You really like
the way they operate."
"Sure, I always liked Asians. Their food's a lot better than Europe's."
Pete took this in stride. NAFTA, Sphere, and Europe: the trilateral
superpowers jostled about with the uneasy regularity of sunspots,
periodically brewing storms in the proxy regimes of the South. During his
fifty-plus years, Pete had seen the Asian Cooperation Sphere change its
public image repeatedly, in a weird political rhythm. Exotic vacation spot
on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Baffling alien threat on Mondays and Wednesdays.
Major trading partner each day and every day, including weekends and
holidays.
At the current political moment, the Asian Cooperation Sphere was deep
into its Inscrutable Menace mode, logging lots of grim media coverage as
NAFTA's chief economic adversary. As far as Pete could figure it, this
basically meant that a big crowd of goofy North American economists were
trying to act really macho. Their major complaint was that the Sphere was
selling NAFTA too many neat, cheap, well-made consumer goods. That was an
extremely silly thing to get killed about. But people perished horribly for
much stranger reasons than that.
At sunset, Pete and Katrinko discovered the giant warning signs. They
were titanic vertical plinths, all epoxy and clinker, much harder than
granite. They were four stories tall, carefully rooted in bedrock, and
painstakingly chiseled with menacing horned symbols and elaborate textual
warnings in at least fifty different languages. English was language number
three.
"Radiation waste," Pete concluded, deftly reading the text through his
spex, from two kilometers away. "This is a radiation waste dump. Plus, a
nuclear test site. Old Red Chinese hydrogen bombs, way out in the Taklamakan
desert." He paused thoughtfully. "You gotta hand it to 'em. They sure picked
the right spot for the job."
"No way!" Katrinko protested. "Giant stone warning signs, telling
people not to trespass in this area? That's got to be a con-job."
"Well, it would sure account for them using robots, and then destroying
all the roads."
"No, man. It's like you wanna hide something big nowadays. You don't
put a safe inside the wall any more, because hey, everybody's got
magnetometers and sonic imaging and heat detection. So you hide your best
stuff in the garbage."
Pete scanned their surroundings on spex telephoto. They were lurking on
a hillside above a playa, where the occasional gullywasher had spewed out a
big alluvial fan of desert-varnished grit and cobbles. Stuff was actually
growing down there squat leathery grasses with fat waxy blades like dead
men's fingers. The evil vegetation didn't look like any kind of grass that
Pete had ever seen. It struck him as the kind of grass that would blithely
gobble up stray plutonium. "Trink, I like my explanations simple. I figure
that so-called giant starship base for a giant radwaste dump."
"Well, maybe," the neuter admitted. "But even if that's the truth,
that's still news worth paying for. We might find some busted-up barrels, or
some badly managed fuel rods out there. That would be a big political
embarrassment, right? Proof of that would be worth something."
"Huh," said Pete, surprised. But it was true. Long experience had
taught Pete that there were always useful secrets in other people's trash.
"Is it worth glowin' in the dark for?"
"So what's the problem?" Katrinko said. "I ain't having kids. I fixed
that a long time ago. And you've got enough kids already."
"Maybe," Pete grumbled. Four kids by three different women. It had
taken him a long sad time to learn that women who fell head-over-heels for
footloose, sexy tough guys would fall repeatedly for pretty much any
footloose, sexy tough guy.
Katrinko was warming to the task at hand. "We can do this, man. We got
our suits and our breathing masks, and we're not eating or drinking anything
out here, so we're practically radiation-tight. So we camp way outside the
dump tonight. Then before dawn we slip in, we check it out real quick, we
take our pictures, we leave. Clean, classic intrusion job. Nobody living
around here to stop us, no problem there. And then, we got something to show
the spooks when we get home. Maybe something we can sell."
Pete mulled this over. The prospect didn't sound all that bad. It was
dirty work, but it would complete the mission. Also this was the part he
liked best it would keep the Lieutenant Colonel's people from sending in
some other poor guy. "Then, back to the glider?"
"Then back to the glider."
"Okay, good deal."
Before dawn the next morning, they stoked themselves with athletic
performance enhancers, brewed in the guts of certain gene-spliced ticks that
they had kept hibernating in their armpits. Then they concealed their travel
gear, and swarmed like ghosts up and over the great wall.
They pierced a tiny hole through the roof of one of the duncolored,
half-buried containment hangars, and oozed a spy-eye through.
Bombproofed ranks of barrel-shaped sarcophagi, solid and glossy as
polished granite. The big fused radwaste containers were each the size of a
tanker truck. They sat there neatly ranked in hermetic darkness, mute as
sphinxes. They looked to be good for the next twenty thousand years.
Pete liquefied and retrieved the gelcam, then re-sealed the tiny hole
with rock putty. They skipped down the slope of the dusty roof. There were
lots of lizard tracks in the sand drifts, piled at the rim of the dome.
These healthy traces of lizard cheered Pete up considerably.
They swarmed silently up and over the wall. Back uphill to the grotto
where they'd stashed their gear. Then they removed their masks to talk
again.
Pete sat behind a boulder, enjoying the intrusion after-glow. "A
cakewalk," he pronounced it. "A pleasure hike." His pulse was already normal
again, and, to his joy, there were no suspicious aches under his
caraco-acromial arch.
"You gotta give them credit, those robots sure work neat."
Pete nodded. "Killer application for robots, your basic lethal waste
gig."
"I telephoto'ed that whole cantonment," said Katrinko, "and there's no
water there. No towers, no plumbing, no wells. People can get along without
a lot of stuff in the desert, but nobody lives without water. That place is
stone dead. It was always dead." She paused. "It was all automated robot
work from start to finish. You know what that means, Pete? It means no human
being has ever seen that place before. Except for you and me."
"Hey, then it's a first! We scored a first intrusion! That's just
dandy," said Pete, pleased at the professional coup. He gazed across the
cobbled plain at the walled cantonment, and pressed a last set of spex shots
into his gelbrain archive. Two dozen enormous domes, built block by block by
giant robots, acting with the dumb persistence of termites. The sprawling
domes looked as if they'd congealed on the spot, their rims settling like
molten taffy into the desert's little convexities and concavities. From a
satellite view, the domes probably passed for natural features. "Let's not
tarry, okay? I can kinda feel those X-ray fingers kinking my DNA."
"Aw, you're not all worried about that, are you, Pete?"
Pete laughed and shrugged. "Who cares? Job's over, kid. Back to the
glider."
"They do great stuff with gene damage nowadays, y'know. Kinda re-weave
you, down at the spook lab."
"What, those military doctors? I don't wanna give them the excuse."
The wind picked up. A series of abrupt and brutal gusts. Dry, and
freezing, and peppered with stinging sand.
Suddenly, a faint moan emanated from the cantonment. Distant lungs
blowing the neck of a wine bottle.
"What's that big weird noise?" demanded Katrinko, all alert interest.
"Aw no," said Pete. "Dang."
Steam was venting from a hole in the bottom of the thirteenth dome.
They'd missed the hole earlier, because the rim of that dome was overgrown
with big thriving thornbushes. The bushes would have been a tip-off in
themselves, if the two of them had been feeling properly suspicious.
In the immediate area, Pete and Katrinko swiftly discovered three dead
men. The three men had hacked and chiseled their way through the containment
dome from the inside. They had wriggled through the long, narrow crevice
they had cut, leaving much blood and skin.
The first man had died just outside the dome, apparently from sheer
exhaustion. After their Olympian effort, the two survivors had emerged to
confront the sheer four-story walls.
The remaining men had tried to climb the mighty wall with their
handaxes, crude woven ropes, and pig-iron pitons. It was a nothing wall for
a pair of City Spiders with modern handwebs and pinpression cleats. Pete and
Katrinko could have camped and eaten a watermelon on that wall. But it was a
very serious wall for a pair of very weary men dressed in wool, leather, and
homemade shoes.
One of them had fallen from the wall, and had broken his back and leg.
The last one had decided to stay to comfort his dying comrade, and it seemed
he had frozen to death.
The three men had been dead for many months, maybe over a year. Ants
had been at work on them, and the fine salty dust of the Taklamakan, and the
freeze-drying. Three desiccated Asian mummies, black hair and crooked teeth
and wrinkled dusky skin, in their funny bloodstained clothes.
Katrinko offered the cable lead, chattering through her mask. "Man,
look at these shoes! Look at this shirt this guy's got would you call this
thing a shirt?"
"What I would call this is three very brave climbers," Pete said. He
tossed a tethered eye into the crevice that the men had cut.
The inside of the thirteenth dome was a giant forest of monitors.
Microwave antennas, mostly. The top of the dome wasn't sturdy sintered
concrete like the others, it was some kind of radar-transparent plastic.
Dark inside, like the other domes, and hermetically sealed at least before
the dead men had chewed and chopped their hole through the wall. No sign of
any radwaste around here.
They discovered the little camp where the men had lived. Their bivouac.
Three men, patiently chipping and chopping their way to freedom. Burning
their last wicks and oil lamps, eating their last rations bite by bite,
emptying their leather canteens and scraping for frost to drink. Surrounded
all the time by a towering jungle of satellite relays and wavepipes. Pete
found that scene very ugly. That was a very bad scene. That was the worst of
it yet.
Pete and Katrinko retrieved their full set of intrusion gear. They then
broke in through the top of the dome, where the cutting was easiest. Once
through, they sealed the hole behind themselves, but only lightly, in case
they should need a rapid retreat. They lowered their haul bags to the stone
floor, then rappelled down on their smart ropes. Once on ground level, they
closed the escape tunnel with web and rubble, to stop the howling wind, and
to keep contaminants at bay.
With the hole sealed, it grew warmer in the dome. Warm, and moist. Dew
was collecting on walls and floor. A very strange smell, too. A smell like
smoke and old socks. Mice and spice. Soup and sewage. A cozy human reek from
the depths of the earth.
"The Lieutenant Colonel sure woulda have loved this," whispered
Katrinko over cable, spexing out the towering machinery with her infrareds.
"You put a clip of explosive ammo through here, and it sure would put a
major crimp in somebody's automated gizmos."
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