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The derelict station, like most of the old downtown section, was fixed in a rigor mortis of past usefulness; shapes flitted among the shadows here and there but it couldn't be said the place was inhabited. The impression that people no longer wanted to live in this part of town was reinforced by the new tall buildings to the east: orthogonal Venusian World's Fair constructions, a giant mega-globe and the expensive hotels thrown up to host a transient population. A freeway loop on stilts cut across the city like the dreadful scar from a dangerous necessary operation. Knoxville had recently undergone some major surgery; its vital organs had been replaced by artificial replicas. It had been transformed into a Conference Centre, one of those places that depends for its prosperity on cartel-constructed hotels that guarantee a standard minimum-quality accommodation for businessmen siphoning off the wealth of other richer cities. Where local industry had declined the franchise commodity and service companies had moved in: Hilton, McDonald's, Texaco. If you had ever wondered how it was you could cross the United States without ever encountering the family hotel, the home-made hamburger or locally-brewed beer, in Knoxville, Tennessee, you can see the reason with your own eyes: the miracle of capitalism regenerating itself on its own corpse.
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