"Radio Free Albemuth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

The two agents exchanged glances and then presented Nicholas with their identification. Nicholas was filled with rage and terror. He started telling the two FBI agents, in a stammering voice, a joke he had read in Talk of the Town' in The New Yorker about two FBI agents who were checking up on a man, and, while interviewing a neighbor, the neighbor had said that the man listened to symphonies, and the agents asked suspiciously what language the symphonies were in.
The two agents standing on Nicholas's front porch; on hearing his garbled version of the story, did not find it funny.
That wasn't our office,' one of them said.
'Why don't you talk to meT Nicholas demanded, protecting his wife.
Again the two FBI agents exchanged glances, nodded, and entered the house. Nicholas, in a state of terror, sat facing them, trying to quell his shaking.
'As you know,' the agent with the greater double chin explained, 'it is our job to protect the liberties of American citizens from totalitarian intrusion. We never investigate legitimate political parties such as the Democratic or Republican parties, which are bona fide political parties under American law.' He then began to talk about the Socialist Workers Party, which, he explained to Nicholas, was not a legitimate political party but a Communist organization devoted to violent revolution at the expense of American liberties.
Nicholas knew all that. He kept silent, however.
'And your wife,' the other agent said, 'could be of use to us, since she belongs to the student corps of the SWP, in reporting who attends their meetings and what is said there.' Both agents looked expectantly at Nicholas.
Til have to discuss this with Rachel,' Nicholas said. 'When she comes home.'
'Are you engaged in political activity, Mr Brady?' the agent with the greater double chin asked him. He had a notebook before him and a fountain pen. The two agents had propped one of their briefcases between Nicholas and them; he saw a square object bulging within it and knew he was being taped.
'No,' Nicholas said, truthfully. All he did was listen to exotic rare foreign vocal records, especially those of Tiana Lemnitz, Erna Berger, and Gerhard Husch.
'Would you like to be?' the lesser agent asked.
'Um,' Nicholas said.
'You're familiar with the International People's Party,' the greater agent said. 'Had you ever considered attending meetings of it? They hold them about a block from here, on the other side of San Pablo Avenue.'
'We could use someone in there at the local group meeting,' the lesser agent said. 'Are you interested?'
'We can finance you,' his colleague added.
Nicholas blinked, gulped, and then gave the first speech of his life. The agents were not pleased, but they listened.

Later on that day, after the agents had left, Rachel arrived home, loaded down with textbooks and looking cross.
'Guess who was here today looking for you,' Nicholas said. He told her who.
'Bastards!' Rachel cried out. 'Bastards!'
It was two nights later that Nicholas had his mystical experience.
He and Rachel lay in bed, asleep. Nicholas was on the left, nearer the door of their bedroom. Still disturbed by the recent visit of the FBI agents, he slept lightly, tossing a lot, having vague dreams of an unpleasant nature. Toward dawn, just when the first false white light was beginning to fill the room, he lay back on a nerve, awoke from the pain, and opened his eyes.
A figure stood silently beside the bed, gazing down at him. The figure and Nicholas regarded each other; Nicholas grunted in amazement and sat up. At once Rachel awoke and began to scream
'Ich bin's!' Nicholas told her reassuringly (he had taken German in high school). What he meant to tell her was that the figure was himself, 'Ich bin's' being the German idiom for that. However, in his excitement he did not realize he was speaking a foreign language, albeit one Mrs Altecca had taught him in the twelfth grade. Rachel could not understand him. Nicholas began to pat her, but he kept on repeating himself in German. Rachel was confused and frightened. She kept on screaming. Meanwhile, the figure disappeared.
Later on, when she was fully awake, Rachel was uncertain whether or not she had seen the figure or just reacted to his start of surprise. It had all been so sudden.
'It was myself,' Nicholas said, 'standing beside the bed gazing down at me. I recognized myself.'

'What was it doing there?' Rachel said.
'Guarding me,' Nicholas said. He knew it. He could tell from having seen the expression on the figure's face. So there was nothing to be afraid of. He had the impression that the figure, himself, had come back from the future, perhaps from a point vastly far ahead, to make certain that he, his prior self, was doing okay at a critical time in his life. The impression was distinct and strong and he could not rid himself of it.
Going into the living room, he got his German dictionary and checked the idiom that he had used. Sure enough, it was correct. It meant, literally, 'I am it.'
He and Rachel sat together in the living room, drinking instant coffee, in their pajamas.
'I wish I was sure if I saw it,' Rachel kept repeating. 'Something sure scared me. Did you hear me scream? I didn't know I could scream like that. I don't think I ever screamed like that before in my life. I wonder if the neighbors heard. I hope they don't call the police. I'll bet I woke them up. What time is it? It's getting light; it must be dawn.'
'I never had anything like that happen before in my life,' Nicholas said. 'Boy, was I surprised, opening my eyes like I did and seeing it - me - standing there. What a shock. I wonder if anybody else ever had that happen to them. Boy.'
'We're so near the neighbors,' Rachel said. 'I hope I didn't wake them.'
The next day Nicholas came around to my place to tell me about his mystical experience and get my opinion. He was not exactly candid about it, however; initially he told it to me not as a personal experience but as a science fiction idea for a story. That was so if it sounded nutty the onus wouldn't be on him.

'I thought,' he said, 'as a science fiction writer you could explain it. Was it time travel? Is there such a thing as time travel? Or maybe an alternate universe.'
I told him it was himself from an alternate universe. The proof was that he recognized himself. Had it been a future self he would not have recognized it, since it would have been altered from the features he saw in the mirror. No one could ever recognize his own future self. I had written about that in a story, once. In the story the man's future self came back to warn him just as he, the protagonist, was about to do something foolish. The protaganist, not recognizing his future self, had killed it. I had yet to market the story, but my hopes were good. My agent, Scott Meredith, had sold everything else I had written.
'Can you use the idea?' Nicholas asked.
'No,' I told him. 'It's too ordinary.'
'Ordinary!' He looked upset. 'It didn't seem ordinary to me that night. I think it had a message for me, and it was beaming the message at me telepathically, but I woke up and that ended the transmission.'
I explained to him that if you encountered your self from an alternate universe - or from the future, for that matter - you would hardly need to employ telepathy. That wasn't logical, since there would be no linguistic barrier. Telepathy was used when contact between members of different races, such as from other star systems, took place.
'Oh,'Nicholas said, nodding.
'It was benign?' I asked.
'Sure it was; it was me. I'm benign. You know, Phil, in some ways my whole life is a waste. What am I doing at my age, working as a clerk in a record shop? Look what you're doing - you're a full-time writer. Why the hell
can't I do something like that? Something meaningful. I'm a clerk! The lowest of the low!' And Rachel is going to be a full professor some day, when she's through school. I should never have dropped out; I should have gotten my BA.'
I said, 'You sacrificed your academic career for a noble cause, your opposition to war.'
'I broke my gun. There was no cause; I was just inept the day we had to take apart our gun and put it back together. I lost the trigger down inside the works. That's all.'
I explained to him how his subconscious was wiser than his conscious mind, and how he ought to take credit for its vision, its sense of higher values. After all, it was part of him.