"Gordon R. Dickson - MX Knows Best" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

MX KNOWS BEST
It is said the trouble with the world is people... they're so prone to hasty, hot-headed
judgements. So what could be better than to leave the big decisions to the cool, electronic
calculations of a logical machine? Only how can emotional and imperfect beings feed
unemotional and perfect data to any machine?
by GORDON R. DICKSON

THE BARROOM seemed to tilt a little as he walked in. "Let's get drunk, Dugie," said Allen Morg,
climbing onto a bar stool.
"This time in the morning?" Dugie peered at him from behind the bar, his smooth, round,
young-looking face seeming to bob like a balloon in the dimness. "At ten a.m.? What kind of a bad
decision did you get?"
"Give me a drink, Dugie," said Allen. The round face advanced and peered at him.
"You been drinking it up already. Maybe I should punch for a decision on eighty-sixing you."
"Give me a drink." said Allen. And then the whole room swung crazily, the ceiling came down in front
of his eyes and there was a blank space for a while.

HE CAME to in one of the private lounges, and Galt Bolver was there.
"Feel better now?" Galt asked.
"Where'd you come from?" asked Allen.
"Dugie called me. He'd have sent you home, but he didn't know where your apartment is. What's all
this business about an ax?"
"Ax?" With great effort, Allen raised his head and looked past Galt's long, friendly horse face to the
rest of the lounge. There was no ax in sight. He let his head drop back wearily. "I must have lost it,
someplace."
"You're lucky. Dugie's been checking. One place you were in last night almost put in a riot call. You
said you were going to chop up MX."
"Did I?"
"You did."
Silence descended on the lounge. After a while, Allen said, "Connie took off."
"Oh?" said Galt. He had been sitting still, shaggy and gaunt, just waiting by the side of the couch on
which Allen was stretched out.
"We were kidding one night. I said we ought to punch for a decision before getting married. She took
me up on it."
"Well?" asked Galt, after a minute.
"Negative. She took off. No forwarding address."
"When was this?" asked Galt.
Allen shrugged, gazing at the ceiling of the lounge with the bitter taste of anti-alcohol in his mouth.
"Yesterday," he said, "...or the night before."
"Your law office says you haven't been down in a week."
"Then it's a week," said Allen, expressionlessly.
Galt considered him.
"Want to do some more drinking?"
"No," said Allen. "I want my ax back."
"The man says it when he's sober."
"That's right," agreed Allen, "the man says it when he's sober."
Galt reached out and gripped his shoulder.
"Hang on a little while, buddy," he said. "I've got something better for you than an ax."
 IT TOOK some twenty-eight hours to rebuild Allen Morgs into a fair specimen of a sober human
being again. Four o'clock of the following afternoon found him and Galt on Gait's airfoil platform, flying