"Dick, Philip K - Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

УWe remember,Ф Norm Schein said sourly. The prices that the Bulero salesman had wanted. And all the time in their satellite Allen and Charlotte Faine talked up the different items so, whetting everyoneТs appetite.
УAsk the Faines,Ф HelenТs husband Tod said. УRadio them the next time the satellite passes over.Ф He glanced at his wristwatch. УIn another hour. They have all the data on authentic items; in fact that particular datum should have been included with the item itself, right in the carton.Ф It perturbed him because it had of course been his skinsЦhis and HelenТs togetherЦthat had gone to pay for the tiny figure of the human-type psychoanalyst, including the couch, desk, carpet, and bookcase of incredibly well-minned impressive books.
УYou went to the analyst when you were still on Earth,Ф Helen said to Norm Schein. УWhat was the charge?Ф
УWell, I mostly went to group therapy,Ф Norm said. УAt the Berkeley State Mental Hygiene Clinic, and they charged according to your ability to pay. And of course Perky Pat and her boyfriend go to a private analyst.Ф He walked down the length of the garden solemnly deeded to him, between the rows of jagged leaves, all of which were to some extent shredded and devoured by microscopic native pests. If he could find one healthy plant, one untouchedЦit would be enough to restore his spirits. Insecticides from Earth simply had not done the job, here; the native pests thrived. They had been waiting ten thousand years, biding their time, for someone to appear and make an attempt to raise crops.
Tod said, УYou better do some watering.Ф
УYeah,Ф Norm Schein agreed. He meandered gloomily in the direction of Chicken Pox ProspectsТ hydro-pumping system; it was attached to their now partially sand-filled irrigation network which served all the gardens of their hovel. Before watering came sand-removal, he realized. If they didnТt get the big Class-A dredge started up soon they wouldnТt be able to water even if they wanted to. But he did not particularly want to.
And yet he could not, like Sam Regan, simply turn his back on the scene up here, return below to fiddle with his layout, build or insert new items, make improvementsЕ or, as Sam proposed, actually get out a quantity of the carefully hidden Can-D and begin the communication. We have responsibilities, he realized.
To Helen he said, УAsk my wife to come up here.Ф She could direct him as he operated the dredge; Fran had a good eye.
УIТll get her,Ф Sam Regan agreed, starting back down below. УNo one wants to come along?Ф
No one followed him; Tod and Helen Morris had gone over to inspect their own garden, now, and Norm Schein was busy pulling the protective wrapper from the dredge, preparatory to starting it up.
Back below, Sam Regan hunted up Fran Schein; he found her crouched at the Perky Pat layout which the Morrises and the Scheins maintained together, intent on what she was doing.
Without looking up, Fran said, УWeТve got Perky Pat all the way downtown in her new Ford hardtop convert and parked and a dime in the meter and sheТs shopped and now sheТs in the analystТs office reading Fortune. But what does she pay?Ф She glanced up, smoothed back her long dark hair, and smiled at him. Beyond a doubt Fran was the handsomest and most dramatic person in their collective hovel; he observed this now, and not for anything like the first time.
He said, УHow can you fuss with that layout and not chewЦФ He glanced around; the two of them appeared to be alone. Bending down he said softly to her, УCome on and weТll chew some first-rate Can-D. Like you and I did before. Okay?Ф His heart labored as he waited for her to answer; recollections of the last time the two of them had been translated in unison made him feel weak.
УHelen Morris will beЦФ
УNo, theyТre cranking up the dredge, above. They wonТt be back down for an hour.Ф He took hold of Fran by the hand, led her to her feet. УWhat arrives in a plain brown wrapper,Ф he said as he steered her from the compartment out into the corridor, Уshould be used, not just buried. It gets old and stale. Loses its potency.Ф And we pay a lot for that potency, he thought morbidly. Too much to let it go to waste. Although someЦnot in this hovel-claimed that the power to insure translation did not come from the Can-D but from the accuracy of the layout. To him this was a nonsensical view, and yet it had its adherents.
As they hurriedly entered Sam ReganТs compartment Fran said, УIТll chew in unison with you, Sam, but letТs not do anything while weТre there on Terra thatЦyou know. We wouldnТt do here. I mean, just because weТre Pat and Walt and not ourselves that doesnТt give us license.Ф She gave him a warning frown, reproving him for his former conduct and for leading her to that yet unasked.
УThen you admit we really go to Earth.Ф They had argued this pointЦand it was cardinalЦmany times in the past. Fran tended to take the position that the translation was one of appearance only, of what the colonists called accidentsЦthe mere outward manifestations of the places and objects involved, not the essences.
УI believe,Ф Fran said slowly, as she disengaged her fingers from his and stood by the hall door of the compartment, Уthat whether itТs a play of imagination, of drug-induced hallucination, or an actual translation from Mars to Earth-as-it-was by an agency we know nothing ofЦФ
Again she eyed him sternly. УI think we should abstain. In order not to contaminate the experience of communication.Ф As she watched him carefully remove the metal bed from the wall and reach, with an elongated hook, into the cavity revealed, she said, УIt should be a purifying experience. We lose our fleshly bodies, our corporeality, as they say. And put on imperishable bodies instead, for a time anyhow. Or forever, if you believe as some do that itТs outside of time and space, that itТs eternal. DonТt you agree, Sam?Ф She sighed. УI know you donТt.Ф
УSpirituality,Ф he said with disgust as he fished up the packet of Can-D from its cavity beneath the compartment. УA denial of reality, and what do you get instead? Nothing.Ф
УI admit,Ф Fran said as she came closer to watch him open the packet, Уthat I canТt prove you get anything better back, due to abstention. But I do know this. What you and other sensualists among us donТt realize is that when we chew Can-D and leave our bodies we die. And by dying we lose the weight ofЦФ She hesitated.
УSay it,Ф Sam said as he opened the packet; with a knife he cut a strip from the mass of brown, tough, plant-like fibers.
Fran said, УSin.Ф
Sam Regan howled with laughter. УOkayЦat least youТre orthodox.Ф Because most colonists would agree with Fran. УBut,Ф he said, redepositing the packet back in its safe place, УthatТs not why I chew it; I donТt want to lose anythingЕ I want to gain something.Ф He shut the door of the compartment, then swiftly got out his own Perky Pat layout, spread it on the floor, and put each object in place, working at eager speed. УSomething to which weТre not normally entitled,Ф he added, as if Fran didnТt know.
Her husbandЦor his wife or both of them or everyone in the entire hovelЦcould show up while he and Fran were in the state of translation. And their two bodies would be seated at proper distance one from the other; no wrong-doing could be observed, however prurient the observers were. Legally this had been ruled on; no cohabitation could be proved, and legal experts among the ruling UN authorities on Mars and the other colonies had triedЦand failed. While translated one could commit incest, murder, anything, and it remained from a juridical standpoint a mere fantasy, an impotent wish only.
This highly interesting fact had long inured him to the use of Can-D; for him life on Mars had few blessings.
УI think,Ф Fran said, УyouТre tempting me to do wrong.Ф As she seated herself she looked sad; her eyes, large and dark, fixed futilely on a spot at the center of the layout, near Perky PatТs enormous wardrobe. Absently, Fran began to fool with a min sable coat, not speaking.
He handed her half of a strip of Can-D, then popped his own portion into his mouth and chewed greedily.
Still looking mournful, Fran also chewed.

He was Walt. He owned a Jaguar XXB sports ship with a flat-out velocity of fifteen thousand miles an hour. His shirts came from Italy and his shoes were made in England. As he opened his eyes he looked for the little G.E. clock TV set by his bed; it would be on automatically, tuned to the morning show of the great newsclown Jim Briskin. In his flaming red wig Briskin was already forming on the screen. Walt sat up, touched a button which swung his bed, altered to support him in a sitting position, and lay back to watch for a moment the program in progress.
УIТm standing here at the corner of Van Ness and Market in downtown San Francisco,Ф Briskin said pleasantly, Уand weТre just about to view the opening of the exciting new subsurface conapt building Sir Francis Drake, the first to be entirely underground. With us, to dedicate the building, standing right by me is that enchanting female of ballad andЦФ
Walt shut off the TV, rose, and walked barefoot to the window; he drew the shades, saw out then onto the warm, sparkling early-morning San Francisco street, the hills and white houses. This was Saturday morning and he did not have to go to his job down in Palo Alto at Ampex Corporation; insteadЦand this rang nicely in his mindЦhe had a date with his girl, Pat Christensen, who had a modern little apt over on Potrero Hill.
It was always Saturday.
In the bathroom he splashed his face with water, then squirted on shave cream, and began to shave. And, while he shaved, staring into the mirror at his familiar features, he saw a note tacked up, in his own hand.

THIS IS AN ILLUSION. YOU ARE SAM REGAN, A
COLONIST ON MARS. MAKE USE OF YOUR TIME OF
TRANSLATION, BUDDY BOY. CALL UP PAT PRONTO!

And the note was signed Sam Regan.
An illusion, he thought, pausing in his shaving. In what way? He tried to think back; Sam Regan and Mars, a dreary colonistsТ hovelЕ yes, he could dimly make the image out, but it seemed remote and vitiated and not convincing. Shrugging, he resumed shaving, puzzled, now, and a little depressed. All right, suppose the note was correct; maybe he did remember that other world, that gloomy quasi-life of involuntary expatriation in an unnatural environment. So what? Why did he have to wreck this? Reaching, he yanked down the note, crumpled it and dropped it into the bathroom disposal chute.
As soon as he had finished shaving he vidphoned Pat.
УListen,Ф she said at once, cool and crisp; on the screen her blonde hair shimmered: she had been drying it. УI donТt want to see you, Walt. Please. Because I know what you have in mind and IТm just not interested; do you understand?Ф Her blue-gray eyes were cold.
УHmm,Ф he said, shaken, trying to think of an answer. УBut itТs a terrific dayЦwe ought to get outdoors. Visit Golden Gate Park, maybe.Ф
УItТs going to be too hot to go outdoors.Ф
УNo,Ф he disagreed, nettled. УThatТs later. Hey, we could walk along the beach, splash around in the waves. Okay?Ф
She wavered, visibly. УBut that conversation we had just beforeЦФ
УThere was no conversation. I havenТt seen you in a week, not since last Saturday.Ф He made his tone as firm and full of conviction as possible. УIТll drop by your place in half an hour and pick you up. Wear your swimsuit, you know, the yellow one. The Spanish one that has a halter.Ф
УOh,Ф she said disdainfully, УthatТs completely out of fash now. I have a new one from Sweden; you havenТt seen it. IТll wear that, if itТs permitted. The girl at A & F wasnТt sure.Ф