"(ebook) Philip K. Dick - The Book of Philip K. Dick" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

"If you kill me," Sung-wu wailed, "I'll be a carrion-eating fly. I _saw_ it, a shiny-winged blue-rumped fly crawling over the carcass of a dead lizard-- In a rotting, steaming jungle in a filthy cesspool of a planet." Tears came; he dabbed at them futilely. "In an out-of-the-way system, at the bottom of the ladder!"
Tinker was amused. "Why this?"
"I've sinned." Sung-wu sniffed and flushed. "I committed adultery."
"Can't you purge yourself?"
"There's no time!" His misery rose to wild despair. "My mind is _still_ impure!" He indicated Frija, standing in the bedroom doorway, a supple white and tan shape in her household shorts. "I continue to think carnal thoughts; I can't rid myself. In eight months the plague will turn the wheel on me--and it'll be done! If I lived to be an old man, withered and toothless--no more appetite--" His plump body quivered in a frenzied convulsion. "There's no _time_ to purge and atone. According to the scanner, I'm going to die a young man!"
After this torrent of words, Tinker was silent, deep in thought. "The plague," he said, at last. "What, exactly, are the symptoms?"
Sung-wu described them, his olive face turning to a sickly green. When he had finished, the three men looked significantly at each other.
Ben Tinker got to his feet. "Come along," he commanded briskly, taking the Bard by the arm. "I have something to show you. It is left from the old days. Sooner or later we'll advance enough to turn out our own, but right now we have only these remaining few. We have to keep them guarded and sealed."
"This is for a good cause," one of the sons said. "It's worth it." He caught his brother's eye and grinned.

Bard Chai finished reading Sung-wu's blue-slip report; he tossed it suspiciously down and eyed the younger Bard.
"You're sure? There's no further need of investigation?"
"The cult will wither away," Sung-wu murmured indifferently. "It lacks any real support; it's merely an escape valve, without intrinsic validity."
Chai wasn't convinced. He reread parts of the report again. "I suppose you're right; but we've heard so many--"
"Lies," Sung-wu said vaguely. "Rumors. Gossip. May I go?" He moved toward the door.
"Eager for your vacation?" Chai smiled understandingly. "I know how you feel. This report must have exhausted you. Rural areas, stagnant backwaters. We must prepare a better program of rural education. I'm convinced whole regions are in a jangled state. We've got to bring clearness to these people. It's our historic role; our class function."
"Verily," Sung-wu murmured, as he bowed his way out of the office and down the hall.
As he walked he fingered his beads thankfully. He breathed a silent prayer as his fingers moved over the surface of the little red pellets, shiny spheres that glowed freshly in place of the faded old--the gift of the Tinkerists. The beads would come in handy; he kept his hand on them tightly. Nothing must happen to them, in the next eight months. He had to watch them carefully, while he poked around the ruined cities of Spain--and finally came down with the plague.
He was the first Bard to wear a rosary of penicillin capsules.



THE DEFENDERS

TAYLOR sat back in his chair reading the morning newspaper. The warm kitchen and the smell of coffee blended with the comfort of not having to go to work. This was his Rest Period, the first for a long time, and he was glad of it. He folded the second section back, sighing with contentment.
"What is it?" Mary said, from the stove.
"They pasted Moscow again last night." Taylor nodded his head in approval. "Gave it a real pounding. One of those R-H bombs. It's about time."
He nodded again, feeling the full comfort of the kitchen, the presence of his plump, attractive wife, the breakfast dishes and coffee. This was relaxation. And the war news was good, good and satisfying. He could feel a justifiable glow at the news, a sense of pride and personal accomplishment. After all, he was an integral part of the war program, not just another factory worker lugging a cart of scrap, but a technician, one of those who designed and planned the nerve-trunk of the war.
"It says they have the new subs almost perfected. Wait until they get _those_ going." He smacked his lips with anticipation. "When they start shelling from underwater, the Soviets are sure going to be surprised."
"They're doing a wonderful job," Mary agreed vaguely. "Do you know what we saw today? Our team is getting a leady to show to the school children. I saw the leady, but only for a moment. It's good for the children to see what their contributions are going for, don't you think?"
She looked around at him.
"A leady," Taylor murmured. He put the newspaper slowly down. "Well, make sure it's decontaminated properly. We don't want to take any chances."
"Oh, they always bathe them when they're brought down from the surface," Mary said. "They wouldn't think of letting them down without the bath. Would they?" She hesitated, thinking back. "Don, you know, it makes me remember--"
He nodded. "I know."
He knew what she was thinking. Once in the very first weeks of the war, before everyone had been evacuated from the surface, they had seen a hospital train discharging the wounded, people who had been showered with sleet. He remembered the way they had looked, the expression on their faces, or as much of their faces as was left. It had not been a pleasant sight.
There had been a lot of that at first, in the early days before the transfer to undersurface was complete. There had been a lot, and it hadn't been very difficult to come across it.
Taylor looked up at his wife. She was thinking too much about it, the last few months. They all were.
"Forget it," he said. "It's all in the past. There isn't anybody up there now but the leadies, and they don't mind."
"But just the same, I hope they're careful when they let one of them down here. If one were still hot--"
He laughed, pushing himself away from the table. "Forget it. This is a wonderful moment; I'll be home for the next two shifts. Nothing to do but sit around and take things easy. Maybe we can take in a show. OK?"
"A show? Do we have to? I don't like to look at all the destruction, the ruins. Sometimes I see some place I remember, like San Francisco. They showed a shot of San Francisco, the bridge broken and fallen in the water, and I got upset. I don't like to watch."
"But don't you want to know what's going on? No human beings are getting hurt, you know."
"But it's so awful!" Her face was set and strained. "Please, no, Don."
Don Taylor picked up his newspaper sullenly. "All right, but there isn't a hell of a lot else to do. And don't forget, _their_ cities are getting it even worse."
She nodded. Taylor turned the rough, thin sheets of newspaper. His good mood had soured on him. Why did she have to fret all the time? They were pretty well off, as things went. You couldn't expect to have everything perfect, living undersurface, with an artificial sun and artificial food. Naturally it was a strain, not seeing the sky or being able to go anyplace or see anything other than metal walls, great roaring factories, the plant-yards, barracks. But it was better than being on surface. And some day it would end and they could return. Nobody _wanted_ to live this way, but it was necessary.
He turned the page angrily and the poor paper ripped. Damn it, the paper was getting worse quality all the time, bad print, yellow tint--
Well, they needed everything for the war program. He ought to know that. Wasn't he one of the planners?
He excused himself and went into the other room. The bed was still unmade. They had better get it in shape before the seventh hour inspection. There was a one unit fine--
The vidphone rang. He halted. Who would it be? He went over and clicked it on.
"Taylor?" the face said, forming into place. It was an old face, gray and grim. "This is Moss. I'm sorry to bother you during Rest Period, but this thing has come up." He rattled papers. "I want you to hurry over here."