"Dick, Philip K - We Can Build You - txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

"No. I told him the truth."
"About _refighting the Civil War with robots?_"
"Yes. He said it had flair."
"Jesus Christ," I said. "They're all crazy."
"All," Pris said, reaching out and ruffling my hair, "but you, buddy boy. Right?"
I could say nothing.
"You take things so seriously," Pris drawled. "Relax and enjoy life. You're an anal type. Duty bound. You ought to let those old sphincter muscles let go for once . . . see how it feels. You want to be bad; that's the secret desire of the anal type. They feel they must do their duty, though; that's why they're so pedantic and given to having doubts all the time. Like this; you have doubts about this."
"I don't have doubts. I just have a yawning sense of absolute dread."
Pris laughed, rumpled my hair.
"It's funny," I said. "My overwhelming fear."
"It's not an overwhelming fear you feel," Pris said matterof-factly. "It's simply a little bit of natural carnal earthly lust. Some for me. Some for loot. Some for power. Some for fame." She indicated, with her thumb and first finger, a small amount. "About that much in total. That's the size of your great big overwhelming emotions." Lazily, she glanced at me, enjoying herself.
We drove on.


In Boise, at my family's home, we picked up the simulacrum, re-wrapped it in newspapers, and lugged it to the car. We returned to Ontario and Pris let me off at the office. There was little conversation between us on the return trip; Pris was withdrawn and I smoldered with anxiety and resentment toward her. My attitude seemed to amuse her. I was wise enough, however, to keep my mouth closed.
When I entered the office I found a short, plump, darkhaired woman waiting for me. She wore a heavy coat and carried a briefcase. "Mr. Rosen?"
"Yeah," I said, wondering if she was a process server.
"I'm Colleen Nild. From Mr. Barrows' office. Mr. Barrows asked me to drop by here and speak to you, if you have a moment." She had a low, rather uncertain voice, and looked, I thought, like someone's niece.
"What does Mr. Barrows want?" I asked guardedly, showing her to a chair. I seated myself facing her.
"Mr. Barrows had me make a carbon of a letter he has prepared for Miss Pris Frauenzimmer, a carbon for you." She held out three thin sheets, onion-skin, in fact; I saw somewhat blurred, dimmed, but obviously very correctly-typed business correspondence. "You're the Rosen family from Boise, aren't you? The people who propose to manufacture the simulacra?"
Scanning the letter, I saw the word _Stanton_ pop up again and again; Barrows was answering a letter from Pris having to do with it. But I could not get the hang of Barrows' thoughts; it was all too diffuse.
Then all at once I got the drift.
Barrows had obviously misunderstood Pris. He thought the idea of refighting the Civil War with electronic simulacra, manufactured at our factory in Boise, was a civic enterprise, a do-gooding patriotic effort along the lines of improving the schools and reclaiming the deserts, not a business proposition at all. That's what she gets, I said to myself. Yes, I was right; Barrows was thanking her for her idea, for thinking of him in connection with it . . . but, he said, he received requests of this sort daily, and already had his hands full with worthy efforts. For instance a good deal of his time was spent in fighting condemnation of a war-time housing tract somewhere in Oregon . . . the letter became so vague, at that point, that I lost the thread completely.
"Can I keep this?" I asked Miss Nild.
"Please do. And if you'd like to comment, I'm sure Mr. Barrows would be interested in anything you have to say."
I said, "How long have you worked for Mr. Barrows?"
"Eight years, Mr. Rosen." She sounded happy about it.
"Is he a billionaire, like the papers say?"
"I suppose so, Mr. Rosen." Her brown eyes twinkled, enlarged by her glasses.
"Does he treat his employees good?"
She smiled without answering.
"What's this housing project, this Green Peach Hat, that Barrows is talking about in the letter?"
"That's a term for Gracious Prospect Heights, one of the greatest multiple-unit housing developments in the Pacific Northwest. Mr. Barrows always calls it that, although originally it was a term of derision. The people who want to tear it down invented the term and Mr. Barrows took it over-- the term, I mean--to protect the people who live there, so they won't feel spat upon. They appreciate that. They got up a petition thanking him for his help in blocking condemnation proceedings; there were almost two thousand signatures."
"Then the people who live there don't want it torn down?"
"Oh no. They're fiercely loyal to it. A group of do-gooders have taken it upon themselves to meddle, housewives and some society people who want to increase their own property values. They want to see the land used for a country club or something on that order. Their group is called the Northwest Citizens' Committee for Better Housing. A Mrs. Devorac heads it."
I recalled having read about her in the Oregon papers; she was quite up in the fashionable circles, always involved in causes. Her picture appeared on the first page of section two regularly.
"Why does Mr. Barrows want to save this housing tract?" I asked.
"He is incensed at the idea of American citizens deprived of their rights. Most of them are poorer people. They'd have no place to go. Mr. Barrows understands how they feel because he lived in rooming houses for years . . . you know that his family had no more money than anyone else? That he made his money on his own, through his own hard work and efforts?"
"Yes," I said. She seemed to be waiting for me to go on, so I said, "It's nice he still is able to identify with the working class, even though he's now a billionaire."
"Since most of Mr. Barrows' money was made in real estate, he has an acute awareness of the problems people face in their struggle to obtain decent housing. To society ladies such as Silvia Devorac, Green Peach Hat is merely an unsightly conglomeration of old buildings; none of them have gone inside--it would never occur to them to do so."
"You know," I said, "hearing this about Mr. Barrows goes a long way to make me feel that our civilization isn't declining."
She smiled her informal, warm smile at me.
"What do you know about this Stanton electronic simulacrum?" I asked her.
"I know that one has been built. Miss Frauenzimmer mentioned that in her communications both by mail and over the phone to Mr. Barrows. I believe Mr. Barrows also told me that Miss Frauenzimmer wanted to put the Stanton electronic simulacrum onto a Greyhound bus and have it ride unaccompanied to Seattle, where Mr. Barrows is currently. That would be her way of demonstrating graphically its ability to merge with humans and be unnoticed."
"Except for its funny split beard and old-fashioned vest."
"I was unaware of those factors."
"Possibly the simulacrum could argue with a cab driver as to the shortest route from the bus terminal to Mr. Barrows' office," I said. "That would be an additional proof of its humanness."
Colleen Nild said, "I'll mention that to Mr. Barrows."
"Do you know the Rosen electronic organ, or possibly our spinet pianos?"
"I'm not sure."