parkland and a cluster of antique subway cars. She’s wearing a 1950s sundress and a broad-brimmed hat, and it’s like an essay on the last century — the austere steel bridge, the bright blobs of subway graffiti, and her yellow dress, flapping against her legs as she climbs over the bridge’s rail. A picture of elegance and style from the age of money, violence, and simplicity. She’s a strawberry blonde, slim, her skin blank and virginal as new butter. She’s beyond the rail now, hanging out over the mountain - high drop. Thin translucent shadows move across her — the shadows of the neosilk-and-nanotube filaments that hang the city from the hundreds of five-kilometer-high towers that encircle it. (A civic agent notices you noticing, and attaches itself to