"The World Jones Made" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

FREE MEN'S MINDS!


Another version flashed by his car


DISBAND THE TERRORIST THOUGHT-
CONTROL SECRET POLICE

END CONCENTRATION SLAVE LABOR
CAMPS

RESTORE FREEDOM AND LIBERTY!


Simpler slogans . . . and the most effective:


ON TO THE STARS


The illuminated banners flashed everywhere; he couldn't help being thrilled. There was a wild excitement about it, a furious festive sense of meaning in the idea of breaking out of the system, reaching the stars, the other systems, the endless other suns. He wasn't exempt; he wanted it, too.

Utopia. The Golden Age. They had not found it on Earth; the last war had made them see it was never coming. From Earth they had turned to the other planets; they had built up romantic fiction, told themselves pleasant lies. The other planets, they said, were green, fertile worlds, water-sparkling valleys, thick-wooded hills, Paradise: the ancient, eternal hope. But the other planets were nightmares of frozen methane gas, miles of stark rock. Without life or sound, only the blowing death of rocks and gas and empty darkness.

But the followers of Jones had not given up; they had a dream, a vision. They were sure the Second Earth existed. Somehow, somebody had contrived to keep it from them: there was a conspiracy going on. It was Fedgov on Earth; Relativism was stifling them. Beyond Earth, it was the drifters. Once Fedgov was gone, once the drifters had been destroyed . . . the old story. Green pastures, beyond the very next hill.

Yet, it was not disgust that Cussick felt for the dreaming, racing figures. It was admiration. They were idealists. He, on the other hand, was only a realist. And he was ashamed.

On every street corner loomed a brightly-lit table with projecting sign. At each table an organization worker sat with a petition, collecting names from the lines of waiting people.


UNIVERSAL REFERENDUM, DEMAND
FEDGOV STEP ASIDE AND APPOINT
JONES SUPREME COMMANDER TO DEAL
WITH THE PRESENT CRISIS


That was the chilling sight: the lines of tired people, worn out from a long hard day of work, willing to stand patiently in line. Not the enthusiastic faces of the dedicated followers, but these drab, ordinary citizens desiring to abolish their legal government, wishing to end a government of law and to create in its place an authority of absolute will: the unqualified whim of an individual person.

As he climbed the steps to his apartment, Cussick made out a faint high-pitched squeal. His mind, leaden and sunk in despondency, failed to react; it wasn't until he had the front door unlocked and was turning on the light that he identified the alarm signal of the vidphone.

When he snapped the set on, a visual tape-image appeared with a brief recorded message. Director Pearson's face, stern and harsh, rose up and confronted him "I want you back at the office," Pearson stated. "Get over here immediately; this cancels everything else." The image clicked, then resumed. Once more Pearson's withered mouth opened and words came out. "I want you back at the office. Get over here immediately; this cancels everything else." It was beginning a third time when Cussick cut it savagely off and allowed the set to die.

At first he was blindly annoyed. He was tired; he wanted to eat dinner and go to bed. And there was the possibility, discussed in general, abstract terms, of taking Tyler out to a show. For an instant he considered ignoring the message; Pearson had no way to check up--he might not get home for hours.

Thinking about it, Cussick stepped into the empty, deserted kitchen and began fixing himself a sandwich. By the time he had finished he had made up his mind. Hurrying back out of the apartment, he strode down the stairs to the garage and rapidly back out his car. Eating his sandwich on the way, he drove at high speed back to the police buildings. Something Tyler had said, something that seemed unimportant at the time, all at once made terrifying sense.

Pearson admitted him immediately. "Here's the situation," he explained. "Your pal Kaminski, at three-thirty this afternoon, packed up his reports, stuffed as much classified material into his briefcase as he could, and skipped."