"Bishop, Michael - Philip K Dick is Dead, Alas v30" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

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Acknowledgments

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аааааааааааThis novel grew out of my respect and affection for the novels of the late Philip K. Dick. The best, to my mind, remainsThe Man in the High Castle, but I also admireTime Out of Joint, Martian Time-Slip, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Ubik, A Scanner Darkly, Valis, andThe Transmigration of Timothy Archer. I think it important -- even if more or less redundant -- to note that the influence of these novels, and of many other Dick titles, pervades this literary homage.

аааааааааааOn the other hand, I do not meanPhilip K. Dick is Dead, Alas as a slavish pastiche of Dick's work. Yes, I use many of Dick's favorite literary techniques (for instance, multiple third-person point-of-view narration) and some of those quintessentially Dickian science fictional "elements" (for instance, the reality breakdown) to structure the novel, but I do not always deploy them as Dick would have. My failure to do so may or may not be lamentable, but it isnot an accident.

аааааааааааThese books proved particularly helpful in the writing of my novel:Only Apparently Real by Paul Williams,Philip K. Dick: The Last Testament by Gregg Rickman,The Novels of Philip K. Dick by Kim Stanley Robinson,Real Peace andNo More Vietnams by Richard Nixon,People of the Lie by M. Scott Peck, MD,The Demonologist by Gerard Brittle,Engines of Creation by K. Eric Drexler, and two titles that satirically depict the political personality of Richard Nixon,Our Gang by Philip Roth andThe Public Burning by Robert Coover. I thank the authors.

аааааааааааFinally, I acknowledge the signal contribution of Geoffrey A. Landis, whom I met in July 1985 while teaching a week of the Clarion SF & Fantasy Writing Workshop at Michigan State University in East Lansing. Through a subsequent correspondence, Geoff gave me pages of good material -- drawings, tables, personal speculations, etc. -- about the likely evolution of the American space program if our country had achieved a military victory in Vietnam in 1974. I have never been known as a writer of "hard" -- that is, technologically and/or scientifically knowledgeable -- science fiction, and Geoff is largely responsible for whatever accuracy and/or verisimilitude the Von Braunville segments of my narrative may possess. On the other hand, no one should blame him for my surrealistic lapses in these same passages. Once again, Geoff, my gratitude.

Michael Bishop

Pine Mountain, Georgia

January 14 to May 19, 1986

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Prelude

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аааааааааааThe alien pink Moon peers into Philip K. Dick's apartment in Santa Ana, California. The year is 1982 (although maybe not the 1982 of most history books), and Dick himself has just suffered a debilitating stroke.

аааааааааааThe Moon pins him to the floor in a circle of pink light. It projects -- weirdly -- an arc of lunar surface onto his back. Craters, maria, and bays ripple across the jacket that he was wearing when the stroke felled him. He is still wearing it as, subconsciously conscious, he lies waiting for someone -- a friend, neighbor, the police -- to find him and dispatch him to the hospital.

аааааааааааA hefty tomcat stalks into this ring of pink light, sits down beside the stricken man. The cat meows once, nuzzles Dick's brow, grates his cheek with a tongue like wet Velcro. After a while, the cat gingerly mounts its owner's jacket, pads across the shadowy map of the Moon, and settles down in the clammy swale of the small of Dick's back for a winter snooze.

аааааааааааFebruary, thinks the quasi-conscious stroke victim, is a fucking horrible time to die. . .

аааааааааааSoon, tiny machines in the fallen writer's blood begin to build a half-substantive, half-astral simulacrum to warehouse his mind and memories.

аааааааааааHalf-assed's more like it, thinks Dick, noting the buzz in his veins. This is weird. This is all-fired fuckingweird.

аааааааааааHis second self is a sort of material ghost, which rises buck-naked and shimmering from the mortal body of the stricken man. So swiftly, silently, and imperceptibly is Philip K. Dick2lifted out of Philip K. Dick1that Harvey Wallbanger, the cat, doesn't even stir. The other cats in the apartment are equally unaffected.

аааааааааааIt feels to Dick2as if someone has left a freezer door open somewhere, and he looks upon his fallen self with astonished pity. "You poor bastard," he says. "Crazy shit like this always happens to you. It's happened again."