R ain beaded on the specular toes of Hackworth's boots as he strode 
under the vaulting wrought-iron gate. The little beads reflected the silvery 
gray light of the sky as they rolled off onto the pedomotive's tread plates, 
and dripped to the gray-brown cobblestones with each stride. Hackworth excused 
himself through a milling group of uncertain Hindus. Their hard shoes were 
treacherous on the cobblestones, their chins were in the air so that their high 
white collars would not saw their heads off. They had arisen many hours ago in 
their tiny high-rise warrens, their human coin lockers on the island south of 
New Chusan, which was Hindustani. They had crossed into Shanghai in the wee 
hours on autoskates and velocipedes, probably paid off some policemen, made 
their way to the Causeway joining New Chusan to the city. Machine-Phase Systems 
Limited knew that they were coming, because they came every day. The company 
could have set up an employment office closer to the Causeway, or even in 
Shanghai itself. But the company liked to have job-seekers come all the way to 
the
main campus to fill out their applications. The difficulty of getting here 
prevented people from coming on a velleity, and the eternal presence of these 
people—like starlings peering down hungrily at a picnic—reminded 
everyone who was lucky enough to have a job that others were waiting to take 
their place.