"Samuel R. Delany - Time Considered as a Helix of Semi-Precious Stones" - читать интересную книгу автора (Delaney Samuel R)

TIME CONSIDERED AS A HELIX OF
SEM-PRECIOUS STONES
Samuel R. Delany
Lay ordinate and abscissa on the century. Now cut me a quadrant. Third quadrant if you please. I was
born in тАШfifty. Here itтАЩs тАЩseventy-five.

At sixteen they let me leave the orphanage. Dragging the name theyтАЩd hung me with (Harold Clancy
Everet, and me a mere ladтАФhow many monickers have I had since; but donтАЩt worry, youтАЩll recognize my
smoke) over the hills of East Vermont, I came to a decision:

Me and Pa Michaels, who had belligerently given me a job at the request of The Official looking
Document with which the orphanage sends you packing, were running Pa MichaelsтАЩ dairy farm, i.e.,
thirteen thousand three hundred sixty-two piebald Guernseys all asleep in their stainless coffins, nourished
and drugged by pink liquid flowing in clear plastic veins (stuff is sticky and messes up your hands),
exercised with electric pulsers that make their muscles quiver, them not half awake, and the milk just
a-pouring down into stainless cisterns. Anyway. The Decision (as I stood there in the fields one afternoon
like the Man with the Hoe, exhausted with three hard hours of physical labor, contemplating the
machinery of the universe through the fog of fatigue): With all of Earth, and Mars, and the Outer Satellites
filled up with people and what-all, there had to be something more than this. I decided to get some.

So I stole a couple of PaтАЩs credit cards, one of his helicopters and a bottle of white lightning the geezer
made himself, and took off. Ever try to land a stolen helicopter on the roof of the Pan Am building,
drunk? Jail, schmail, and some hard knocks later I had attained to wisdom. But remember this oh best
beloved: I have done three honest hours on a dairy farm less than ten years back. And nobody has ever
called me Harold Clancy Everet again.



Hank Culafroy Eckles (red-headed, a bit vague, six foot two) strolled out of the baggage room at the
spaceport carrying a lot of things that werenтАЩt his in a small briefcase.

Beside him the Business Man was saying, тАЬYou young fellows today upset me. Go back to Bellona, I
say. Just because you got into trouble with that little blonde you were telling me about is no reason to
leap worlds, come on all glum. Even quit your job!тАЭ

Hank stops and grins weakly: тАШWellтАжтАЬ

тАЬNow I admit, you have your real needs, which maybe we older folks donтАЩt understand, but you have to
show some responsibility towardsтАжтАЭ He notices Hank has stopped in front of a door marked men. тАЬOh.
Well. Eh.тАЭ He grins strongly. тАЬIтАЩve enjoyed meeting you, Hank. ItтАЩs always nice when you meet
somebody worth talking to on these damn crossings. So long.тАЭ

Out same door, ten minutes later, comes Harmony C. Eventide, six foot even (one of the false heels was
cracked, so I stuck both of them under a lot of paper towels), brown hair (not even my hairdresser
knows for sure), oh so dapper and of his time, attired in the bad taste that is oh so tasteful, a sort of man
with whom no Business Men would start a conversation. Took the regulation тАШcopter from the port over
to the Pan Am building (Yeah. Really. Drunk), came out of Grand Central Station, and strode along
Forty-second towards Eighth Avenue, with a lot of things that werenтАЩt mine in a small briefcase.
The evening is carved from light.