"George Alec Effinger - All the Last Wars at Once" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

that were diverted from the Producers' use were as good as thrown into the garbage.
The Producers worked harder and harder and got back less and less. Well then,
what could you expect to happen? Everything was bound to get worse for
everybody.
The men cheered. It was about time that they got rid of the parasites. No one
complained when you burned off a leech. And no one could complain when you
snuffed out the leechlike elements of normal, organized, Productive society.
Larry finished reading the sheet and asked for questions and comments. Several
men started talking, but Larry ignored them and went on speaking himself.
"Now, this doesn't mean," he said, "that we gotta get everybody that doesn't
work regular hours like we do. You see that some of the people are hard to tell
whether they're Producers like us or just lousy addict Artists. Like the people that
make TV. We can use them. But we have to be careful, because there's a lot of
Artists around who are trying to make us think that they're really Producers. Just
remember: If you can use it, it's not Art."
The crowd cheered again, and then it began to break up. Some of the men stood
around arguing. One of the small groups of Producers that was slowly walking to the
parking lot was deeply involved in debating the boundaries separating Artists and
Producers.
"I mean, where are we going to stop?" said one. "I don't like the way this
divisioning is going. Pretty soon there won't be any groups left to belong to. We'll all
be locked up in our homes, afraid to see anybody at all."
"It's not doing us any good," agreed another. "If you go out and get what you
want, I mean, take something from a store or something, why, everybody knows you
got it when you bring it home. Then you're the target. I got less now than when this
all started."
A third man watched the first two grimly. He pulled out a factsheet of his own
from the pocket of his jacket. "That's commie talk," he said. "You're missing the
point of the whole thing. Let me ask you a question. Are you right- or left-handed?"
The first man looked up from the factsheet, puzzled. "I don't see that it makes any
difference. I mean, I'm basically left-handed, but I write with my right hand."
The third man stared angrily, in disbelief.
Bang.


YANG and YIN: Male and female. Hot and cold. Mass and energy. Smooth and
crunchy. Odd and even. Sun and moon. Silence and noise. Space and time. Slave
and master. Fast and slow. Large and small. Land and sea. Good and evil. On and
off. Black and white. Strong and weak. Regular and filter king. Young and old. Light
and shade. Fire and ice. Sickness and health. Hard and soft. Life and death.
If there is a plot, shouldn't you know about it?
One more hour.
Millions of people hid in their holes, waiting out the last minutes of the wars.
Hardly anyone was out on the streets yet. No one shouted his drunken celebrations
that little bit ahead of schedule. In the night darkness Stevie could still hear the
ragged crackings of guns in the distance. Some suckers getting it only an hour from
homefree.
The time passed. Warily, people came out into the fresher air, still hiding
themselves in shadows, not used yet to walking in the open. Guns of the enthusiasts
popped; they would never get a chance like this again, and there were only fifteen