"Asimov, Isaac - Profession" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asimov Isaac)
He rolled over on his stomach and peered over the foot of his bed at his roommate. DidnТt he feel it, too? DidnТt this make some impression on him?
GeorgeТs face was thin and had grown a trifle thinner in the nearly year and a half that he had been at the House. His figure was slight but the look in his blue eyes was as intense as it had ever been, and right now there was a trapped look in the way his fingers curled against the bedspread.
GeorgeТs roommate looked up briefly from his book and took the oppoffimity to adjust the light-level of the stretch of wall near his chair. His name was Hali Omani and he was a Nigerian by birth. His dark brown skin and massive features seemed made for calmness, and mention of the Olympics did not move him.
He said, УI know, George.Ф
George owed much to HallТs patience and kindness when it was needed, but even patience and kindness could be overdone. Was this a time to sit there like a statue built of some dark, warm wood?
George wondered if he himself would grow like that after ten years here and rejected the thought violently. No!
He said defiantly, УI think youТve forgotten what May means.Ф
The other said, УI remember very well what it means. It means nothing! YouТre the one whoТs forgotten that. May means nothing to you, George Platen, and,Ф he added softly, Уit means nothing to me, Hali Omani.Ф
George said, УThe ships are coming in for recruits. By June, thousands and thousands will leave with millions of men and women heading for any world you can name, and all that means nothing?Ф
УLess than nothing. What do you want me to do about it, anyway?Ф Omani ran his finger along a difficult passage in the book he was reading and his lips moved soundlessly.
George watched him. Damn it, he thought, yell, scream; you can do that much. Kick at me, do anything.
It was only that he wanted not to beso alone in his anger. He wanted not to be the only one so filled with resentment, not to be the only one dying a slow death.
It was better those first weeks when the Universe was a small shell of vague light and sound pressing down upon him. It was better before Omarn had wavered into view and dragged him back to a life that wasnТt worth living.
Omani! He was old! He was at least thirty. George thought: Will I be like that at thirty? Will I be like that in twelve years?
And because he was afraid he might be, he yelled at Omani, УWill you stop reading that fool book?Ф
Omani turned a page and read on a few words, then lifted his head with its skullcap of crisply curled hair and said, УWhat?Ф
УWhat good does it do you to read the book?Ф He stepped forward, snorted УMore electronics,Ф and slapped it out of OmaniТs hands.
Omani got up slowly and picked up the book. He smoothed a crumpled page without visible rancor. УCall it the satisfaction of curiosity,Ф he said. УI understand a little of it today, perhaps a little more tomorrow. ThatТs a victory in a way.Ф
УA victory. What kind of a victory? Is that what satisfies you in life? To get to know enough to be a quarter of a Registered Electronician by the time youТre sixty-five?Ф
УPerhaps by the time IТmthirty-five.Ф
УAnd then whoТll want you? WhoТll use you? Where will you go?Ф
УNo one. No one. Nowhere. IТll stay here and read other books.Ф
УAnd that satisfies you? Tell me! YouТve dragged me to class. YouТve got me to reading and memorizing, too. For what! ThereТs nothing in it that satisfies me.Ф
УWhat good will it do you to deny yourself satisfaction?Ф
Omani put down his book. He let the other run down and then said, УTo what, George?Ф
УTo correct a miscarriage of justice. A frame-up. IТll get that Antoneffi and force him to admit heЧheЧЧЧ-Ф
Omani shook his head. УEveryone who comes here insists itТs a mistake. I thought youТd passed that stage.Ф
УDonТt call it a stage,Ф said George violently. УIn my case, itТs a fact. IТve told youЧФ
УYouТve told me, but in your heart you know no one made any mistake as far as you were concerned.Ф
УBecause no one will admit it? You think any of them would admit a mistake unless they were forced to?ЧWell, IТll force them.Ф
It was May that was doing this to George; it was Olympics month. He felt it bring the old wildness back and he couldnТt stop it. He didnТt want to stop it. He had been in danger of forgetting.
He said, УI was going tobe aComputerProgrammerandlcanbeone. I could be one today, regardless of what they say analysis shows.Ф He pounded his mattress. УTheyТre wrong. They must be.Ф
УThe analysts are never wrong.Ф
УThey must be. Do you doubt my intelligence?Ф
УInteffigence hasnТt one thing to do with it. HavenТt you been told that often enough? CanТt you understand that?Ф
George rolled away, lay on his back and stared somberly at the ceiling.
УWhat did you want to be, Hali?Ф
УI had no fixed plans. Hydropomcist would have suited me, I suppose.Ф
УDid you think you could make it?Ф
УI wasnТt sure.Ф
George had never asked personal questions of Omani before. It struck him as queer, almost unnatural, that other people had had ambitions and ended here. Hydroponicist!
He said, УDid you think youТd make this?Ф
УNo, but here I am just the same.Ф
УAnd youТre satisfied. Really, really satisfied. YouТre happy. You love it. You wouldnТt be anywhere else.Ф
Slowly, Omani got to his feet. Carefully, he began to unmake his bed. He said, УGeorge, youТre a hard case. YouТre knocking yourself out because you wonТt accept the facts about yourself. George, youТre here in what you call the House, but IТve never heard you give it its full title. Say it, George, say it. Then go to bed and sleep this off.Ф
George gritted his teeth and showed them. He choked out, УNo!Ф
УThen I will,Ф said Omani, and he did. He shaped each syllable carefully.
George was bitterly ashamed at the sound of it. He turned his head away.
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