Budapest, basically, had changed little over half a millennium.
The Danube, seldom blue except when seen through the eyes of a twosome
between whom spark has recently been struck, still wandered its way
dividing the old, old town of Pest from the still older town of Buda.
Where the stream widens there is room for the one hundred and twelve
acres of Margitsziget, or Margaret Island to the West-world. Down
through the ages, through Celts and Romans, Slavs and Hungs, Turks and
Magyars, none have been so gross as to use Margitsziget for other than
a park.
Buda, lying to the west of the Danube, is of rolling hills and bluffs
and of ancient towers, fortresses, castles and walls which have
suffered through a hundred wars, a score of revolutions. It dominates
the younger, more dynamic, Pest which stretches out on the flat plains
to the east so that though you stand on the Harmashatarhegy hill of
Buda and strain your eyes, you are hard put to find the furtherest
limits of Pest.
The jetport was on the outskirts of Pest, and the craft carrying
Nadine Haer, Joseph Mauser and Max Mainz, settled in for a gentle
landing, the autopilot more delicate far than human eye served by
human hand.
Max, his eyes glued to the window, said, "Well, gee, it don't look
much different than a lotta the other towns we passed over."
Nadine looked at him and laughed. She alone of the three of them had
ever been outside the boundaries of the West-world having attended
several international medical conventions. Over the years, the Frigid
Fracas had laid its chill on tourism, so that now travel between
West-world and Sov-world was all but unknown, and even visiting the
Neut-world was considered a bit far out and somewhat suspect of going
beyond the old time way of doing things--even among the Uppers.
Securing a passport for a Middle's trip, not to speak of a Lower's,
involved such endless bureaucratic red tape as to be nonsensical.