"Dick,_Philip_K._The World Jones Made" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

THE WORLD
JONES MADE

PHILIP K. DICK

ACE BOOKS, INC.
1120 Avenue of the Americas
New York, N.Y. 10036


DESTINY WAS IN HIS HANDS!

Security agent Cussick was an old hand at outwitting possible enemies of the twenty-first century government. But in the bespectacled young man named Jones he met his match.
Because Jones could call Cussick's every move - and call it in advance! For that matter Jones knew everything in advance - except the nature of the cosmic visitors who drifted down from outer space.
And yet it was around these aliens that Jones built up his drive to absolute power - a drive which was universal in scope and which no one could stop.

Because Jones knew all the answers a year ahead of time.
That is, all the answers except one.

PHILIP K. DICK, author of The World Jones Made, is a young and rising star in the science-fiction constellation. His first book, Solar Lottery, published by Ace Books in 1955, called forth much excited comment from reviewers and readers. For instance, Damon Knight writing in Infinity magazine, said of the author that "it's as if Robert Sheckley should abruptly turn into a combination of Alfred Bester, Henry and Catherine Kuttner, and A. E. Van Vogt." H. H. Holmes, writing in the New York Herald-Tribune, called the book "as elaborately exciting as vintage Van Vogt - with an added touch of C. M. Kornbluth's social satire." However, we think that Philip K. Dick is not just a combination of others, but a really new great writer on his own merits. And we think that his latest novel, this one, will prove it.


THE WORLD JONES MADE

Copyright (c), 1956, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

To
Eph Konigsberg
who talked fast and
talked very well

Printed in U.S.A.


CHAPTER ONE

THE TEMPERATURE of the Refuge varied from 99 degrees Fahrenheit to 101 degrees Fahrenheit. Steam lay perennially in the air, drifting and billowing sluggishly. Geysers of hot water spurted, and the "ground" was a shifting surface of warm slime, compounded from water, dissolved minerals, and fungoid pulp. The remains of lichens and protozoa colored and thickened the scum of moisture that dripped everywhere, over the wet rocks and sponge-like shrubbery, the various utilitarian installations. A careful backdrop had been painted, a long plateau rising from a heavy ocean.
Beyond doubt, the Refuge was modeled after the womb. The semblance couldn't be denied - and nobody had denied it.
Bending down, Louis moodily picked up a pale green fungus growing near his feet and broke it apart. Under its moist organic skin was a mesh of man-made plastic; the fungus was artificial.
"We could be worse off," Frank said, watching him hurl the fungus away. "We might have to pay for all this. It must have cost Fedgov billions of dollars to set up this place."
"Stage scenery," Louis said bitterly. "What for? Why were we born this way?"
Grinning, Frank said: "We're superior mutants, remember? Isn't that what we decided years ago?" He pointed at the world visible beyond the wall of the Refuge. "We're too pure for that."
Outside lay San Francisco, the nocturnal city half-asleep in its blanket of chill fog. Occasional cars crept here and there; pockets of commuters emerged like complicated segmented worms from underground monorail terminals. Infrequent office lights glowed sparsely... Louis turned his back on the sight. It hurt too much to see it, to know that he was in here, trapped, caught within the closed circle of the group. To realize that nothing existed for them but the sitting and staring, the empty years of the Refuge.
"There must be a purpose," he said. "A reason for us."
Frank shrugged fatalistically. "War-time sports, generated by radiation pools. Damage to the genes. An accident... like Jones."
"But they're keeping us alive," Irma said, from behind them. "All these years, maintaining us, caring for us. They must get something out of it. They must have something in mind."
"Destiny?" Frank asked mockingly. "Our cosmic goal?"
The Refuge was a murky, steamy bowl that imprisoned the seven of them. Its atmosphere was a mixture of ammonia, oxygen, freon, and traces of methane, heavily laden with water vapor, lacking carbon dioxide. The Refuge had been constructed twenty-five years ago, in 1977, and the older members of the group had memories of a prior life in separate mechanical incubators. The original workmanship had been superior, and from time to time improvements were made. Normal human workmen, protected by sealed suits, periodically entered the Refuge, dragging their maintenance equipment after them. Usually it was the mobile fauna that went out of order and needed repairs.
"If they had a purpose for us," Frank said, "they'd tell us." He, personally, trusted the Fedgov authorities who operated the Refuge. "Doctor Rafferty would tell us; you know that."