"Asimov, Isaac - Profession" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asimov Isaac)

УNo one. Doctor, I meant to do no wrong.Ф
УWho said anything about wrong? Useless is what I would say. Why did you keep it to yourself?Ф
УIЧI thought theyТd laugh at me.Ф (He thought abruptly of a recent exchange with Trevelyan. George had very cautiously broached the thought, as of something merely circulating distantly in the very outermost reaches of his mind, concerning the possibility of learning something by ladling it into the mind by hand, so to speak, in bits and pieces. Trevelyan had hooted, УGeorge, youТll be tanning your own shoes next and weaving your own shirts.Ф He had been thankful for his policy of secrecy.)
Dr. Antonelli shoved the bits of film he had first looked at from position to position in morose thought. Then he said, УLetТs get you analyzed. This is getting me nowhere.Ф
The wires went to GeorgeТs temples. There was the buzzing. Again there came a sharp memory of ten years ago.
GeorgeТs hands were clammy; his heart pounded. He should never have told the doctor about his secret reading.
It was his damned vanity, he told himself. He had wanted to show how enterprising he was, how full of initiative. Instead, he had showed himself superstitious and ignorant and aroused the hostility of the doctor. (He could tell the doctor hated him for a wise guy on the make.)
And now he had brought himself to such a state of nervousness, he was sure the analyzer would show nothing that made sense.
He wasnТt aware of the moment when the wires were removed from his temples. The sight of the doctor, staring at him thoughtfully, blinked into his consciousness and that was that; the wires were gone. George dragged himself together with a tearing effort. He had quite given up his ambition to be a Programmer. In the space of ten minutes, it had all gone.
He said dismally, УI suppose no?Ф
УNo what?Ф
УNo Programmer?Ф
The doctor rubbed his nose and said, УYou get your clothes and whatever belongs to you and go to room 15-C. Your files will be waiting for you there. So will my report.Ф
George said in complete surprise, УHave I been Educated already? I thought this was just toЧФ
Dr. Antonelli stared down at his desk. УIt will all be explained to you. You do as I say.Ф
George felt something like panic. What was it they couldnТt tell him? He wasnТt fit for anything but Registered Laborer. They were going to prepare him for that; adjust him to it.
He was suddenly certain of it and he had to keep from screaming by main force.
He stumbled back to his place of waiting. Trevelyan was not there, a fact for which he would have been thankful if he had had enough self-possession to be meaningfully aware of his surroundings. Hardly anyone was left, in fact, and the few who were looked as though they might ask him questions were it not that they were too worn out by their tail-of-the-alphabet waiting to buck the fierce, hot look of anger and hate he cast at them.
What right had they to be technicians and he, himself, a Laborer? Laborer! He was certain!

He was led by a red-uniformed guide along the busy corridors lined with separate rooms each containing its groups, here two, there five: the Motor Mechanics the Construction Engineers, the AgronomistsЧ There were hundreds of specialized Professions and most of them would be represented in this small town by one or two anyway.
He hated them all just then: the Statisticians, the Accountants, the lesser
breeds and the higher. He hated them because they owned their smug knowledge now, knew their fate, while he himself, empty still, had to face some kind of further red tape.
He reached 15-C, was ushered in and left in an empty room. For one moment, his spirits bounded. Surely, if this were the Labor classification room, there would be dozens of youngsters present.
A door sucked into its recess on the other side of a waist-high partition and an elderly, white-haired man stepped out. He smiled and showed even teeth that were obviously false, but his face was still ruddy and unlined and his voice had vigor.
He said, УGood evening, George. Our own sector has only one of you this time, I see.Ф
УOnly one?Ф said George blanidy.
УThousands over the Earth, of course. Thousands. YouТre not alone.Ф
George felt exasperated. He said, УI donТt understand, sir. WhatТs my classification? WhatТs happening?Ф
УEasy, son. YouТre all right. It could happen to anyone.Ф He held out his hand and George took it mechanically. It was warm and it pressed GeorgeТs hand firmly. УSit down, son. IТm Sam Ellenford.Ф
George nodded impatiently. УI want to know whatТs going on, sir.Ф
УOf course. To begin with, you canТt be a Computer Programmer, George. YouТve guessed that, I think.Ф
УYes, I have,Ф said George bitterly. УWhat will I be, then?Ф
УThatТs the hard part to explain, George.Ф He paused, then said with careful distinctness, УNothing.Ф
УWhat!Ф
УNothing!Ф
УBut what does that mean? Why canТt you assign me a profession?Ф
УWe have no choice in the matter, George. ItТs the structure of your mind that decides that.Ф
George went a sallow yellow. His eyes bulged. УThereТs something wrong with my mind?Ф
УThereТs something about it. As far as professional classification is concerned, I suppose you can call it wrong.Ф
УBut why?Ф
Ellenford shrugged. УIТm sure you know how Earth runs its Educational program, George. Practically any human being can absorb practically any body of knowledge, but each individual brain pattern is better suited to receiving some types of knowledge than others. We try to match mind to knowledge as well as we can within the limits of the quota requirements for each profession.Ф
George nodded. УYes, Iknow.Ф
УEvery once in awhile, George, we come up against a young man whose mind is not suited to receiving a superimposed knowledge of any sort.Ф
УYou mean I canТt be Educated?Ф
УThat is what Imean.Ф
УBut thatТs crazy. IТm intelligent. I can understandЧФ He looked helplessly about as though trying to find some way of proving that he had a functioning brain.
УDonТt misunderstand me, please,Ф said Ellenford gravely. УYouТre intelligent. ThereТs no question about that. YouТre even above average in intelligence. Unfortunately that has nothing to do with whether the mind ought to be allowed to accept superimposed knowledge or not. In fact, it is almost always the intelligent person who comes here.Ф
УYou mean I canТt even be a Registered Laborer?Ф babbled George. Suddenly even that was better than the blank that faced him. УWhatТs there to know to be a Laborer?Ф
УDonТt underestimate the Laborer, young man. There are dozens of subclassifications and each variety has its own corpus of fairly detailed knowledge. Do you think thereТs no skill in knowing the proper maimer of lifting a weight? Besides, for the Laborer, we must select not only minds suited to it, but bodies as well. YouТre not the type, George, to last long as a Laborer.Ф