Sperre Heart

Carla's' is like any other diner on 34th. caught in the classic restoration. Modeled on establishments two hundred years back, it has low counters, carpeted floors and paper menus. They don't really fry eggs or char-broil steaks, but what they do prepare is served on big ceramic plates and eaten with real steel utensils.

Aston sits at one of his usual tables, pulling at his food with knife and fork. He stares at his plate, and clumsily shoves shredded scraps of food into his constantly full mouth. Aston is a young man, thirty-five years old. Bald and smooth, he is thin and small-shouldered with an even, pale color.

The drone of conversation and the clatter of dinnerware linger in the heavy morning air. Conversation is light. Temperaments are low. It is a typical workday morning in the City. Aston looks through the glass window of the diner. The street is filled with people; people walking in every direction, people leaving and entering transports; people standing in small groups. Many look happy. Most talk with those near them. Aston must invent for himself what they are saying to one another. It all takes place in silence on this side of the glass.

As his eyes fall on the empty chair across from him, Aston stops chewing. A soft bump of his table sets him in motion again. Three people walk past, mumbling to each other as they tug at their jackets and gloves. Aston's gaze follows them out of the diner. He swallows a thick clump of food as he looks down at his half-eaten meal. A scrap of food swings from an upheld fork.

His clean, smooth features are fractured by a look of frustration. He is frozen in his own thoughts.

"Breakfast is a same run. Same plate four-fold this week. Load it in. I breakfast here all days pre-work."

Aston looks to the street, his fork still held high. People are swarming through an opaque doorway in the building across the street.

"There I business Western New World products. Shit it out." He hangs on his silent insight.

After one long last gulp of beverage, Aston fumbles for coinage from his bag and tosses it on the table. The coins spin and slide on the ceramic tabletop as he moves quickly out the door and into the vortex of people.

Aston looks at the base of the Western New World max-complex. He follows its gray, smooth face as it races high into the sky. Some four-hundred stories high, it holds up one bright, blue patch of sky on its slender spire with it's neighbors. Precious little sunlight makes it onto the maze of walkways, below. Glowing lamps above the transport lines wash street-level in a warm gray-orange glow. Aston stands on a small sliver of sunshine at his feet, his shoes glowing brightly. He follows the narrow carpet of light up the walkway about meter where it ends in a sharp point.

"The failing of Friday is the weekend is next. The advantage of Tuesday is you have someplace to go. Something for the time. The Weekend; three days of... well, not me. Least I have food, and a rent, and no-low health rating. Psyche reads 'tolerance'. Politically astute. Fitted in. But not kept here."

To his right, among the mountains of steel and lights is a tiny jagged piece of beige concrete with little rectangular windows. The Sperre building was once the tallest structure in the city and the entire World.

A small smile twists Aston's face in his silence. He tilts his head slightly to the side.

"Least they had style. I'd space-ward in the soon, save there is none like you on alien sands. Once there, I am never back. Out for all by law. This City is home for me, realize that. The Sperre is my heart; I have none elsewhere."

Without as much as a glance to New World, Aston is crosses West thirty-second towards West thirty-fourth. The Sperre now. Work later.

The interior of Sperre is as it always was. Deco fixtures, stone stairs and marble-faced walls. The gentle clop of Aston's shoes echo in the cramped dim hallways.

Aston smirks with reassurance to himself; "This relic is beautiful. Abounding style. Compact. Soft."

He pretends to ignore the plaque he is approaching to his left. He has read it too many times to forget the words. He then reads it again:

"Dedicated to those who seek and nurture the wisdom of the past. Where their footsteps end, ours begin. Harold Sperre, Secretary of the Interior, 2089, at the re-dedication of this National Park."

His thoughts hang on the words jutting from the brass plaque.

"What they knew. Such perspectives are past, but they thought them open, with conviction."

I am moved all times that I am here. Longing for something here or there. I wonder how that people judged their psych-states. Happy? Nar, they were as I and mine. They were lost,too. I know from the Shakespeare Writers that people are solid, back then as now."

In silent benevolence he asks, "What plan had they as restore to lonely lives? What plan is for me and mine? Accept transfer to the wet-dorms, or maximal, off-world. Ten years of travel. One night of sleep. It is said to be reasonable. New World moves out there. Why not myself? Why myself?"

Aston traces the "W" with a gloved finger before turning and moving away.

He passes through the heavy glass doors on Fifth Avenue. To his right, neons catch his attention. A retailer. A book store.

"I see a need for myself. A book. History. Legends. Explorations. Others lived so I may read."

Inside, there are many boxes and crates on the floor, the display shelves hovering only a few items. There are a couple of moving cases pacing about, showing the few patrons what they carry inside. Aston makes eye contact with a man in a thick smock and large boots walking towards him. Both men smile. Aston speaks in nearly a monotone.

"New store? What event?"

The man pulls his large brown gloves from his hands as he speaks.

"Books, videos, sonics. Players, too. Product goal?"

"Books with history," Aston answers.

The man in the smock takes a step back and holds his chin.

"Long throw; you educational?"

Aston slowly rolls his head side to side.

"I guest objects."

"We do have books gone of inventory. Antiques, too."

The men look at each other for a moment, motionless. The man in the smock then turns and heads to the back of the store. The man waves his hand at Aston from behind and heads through a large window-less door. Aston begins to handle some of the items in the store, waiting for his return. He eyes a small metal reproduction of the Sperre Building on one of the platforms. Not as detailed as the miniature in his apartment. Still, its crude lines and muddled metallic color give it a soft look, like that of a mirage or fading memory.

The man returns with a self-driven dolly holding a big ragged metal box of books. It lands at his feet with a large sound.

The man stands aside as Aston pulls at the soft metal top of the box. Before him are a mosaic of stained brown and green and blue books. Many are covered in fabric. Some have titles in dull gold on one face or on the side. Aston carefully lifts each book from the case, twirling it before his face. Some books he places next to him on a small hovering table. Others he drops back into the box. The man in the smock is rocking back and forth on his thick-soled boots. Aston is mumbling.

"Ehr, most leave me limp. Past one-hundred back, 'ough. Many are, well, limp."

Aston holds one particular book high in the air, its dust falling on his gloved hand and sleeve. It is small and thin and square, with a rusty metal hasp. Aston twirls the book about, cocks his head to the side, then slowly shoves the book up under his arm.

Spending only a moment more before the shallow box, Aston collects the few books in the pile on the table and walks towards a counter. The man in brown sprints past Aston and turns to face him.

"What is the fee?"

The man flashes an open hand, then three fingers. "Cost plus three. Hail from deep keep in a mansion. Kept well, no?"

Aston looks back at the hovering box, then turns to the man. "Further history?"

"Nar. Survived estate raid. "

Aston holds one finger to the air and sweeps it across his body. "Alone is seven. That, or this add."

Aston places his finger down on the small replica of the Sperre building in the case before him. The man in the heavy smock nods.

"Fine. Bundle and bill."

An afternoon of work later, Aston rides the Twenty-eighth Street line home at four p.m. This Friday evening would be different. None of his standard escapist fare. No videos, no sims, no holos. Aston is entranced by his new old books, their musty odor holding promise of the truths within. Ideas, stories, and exploration, new at the time of writing, lay in wait to be reborn in the mind of the reader; in Aston's mind, tonight.

On top of the pile on his lap is the small square book with the rusty metal hasp. Aston can not peek at its pages, even if he allowed himself to do so. The lack of title on its face or side bewilders and intrigues him. No well-chosen words to hint at the place or the time or the characters. He has no idea what to expect from it. This evening would indeed be special. He would enter the world held tightly in the little square book.

...