Morning rush at the agropolis.

  A warm wind blew through the wall of open, over head, glass doors and through lobby, bringing with it the smell of thousands of people going about their early morning habituation;  the red sun lurking over the misty horizon, sending a beam through the short strait street he was heading for; an early pod of over head seeders lumbering out of a shed, humming and clicking down the street into that misty sun beam -  he stepped over the thresh hold, and a warm dank morning tried pinning him down with that widening beam of stellar light, the premonition of heat, a hypnotic fulcrum, probing.  It wasn't a long walk, and he was soon at his building.  He checked with the dispatcher, threw his lunch box and thermos in his rig, and left before his maintenance technician could give him the business over his alleged mistreatment of the equipment.  Four little shops infest the front of his shed, and one of them was a decent place for breakfast, there's always a line at the window, and a wait for one of the ten stools is out of the question.  He bought his egg sandwich and ice tea and walked up the grassy side of the shed to sit on the roof with the rest of the operators.