"Greg Egan - The Moral Virologist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

magazine, every rock song, still sanctioned promiscuity and perversion,
making them out to be normal and good? The fear of AIDS might have saved
millions of sinners, but millions more still ignored it, absurdly
convinced that their chosen partners could never be infected, or trusting
in condoms to frustrate the will of God! The trouble was, vast
segments of the population had, in spite of their wantonness, remained
uninfected, and the use of condoms, according to the studies he'd read,
did seem to reduce the risk of transmission. These facts disturbed
Shawcross a great deal. Why would an omnipotent God create an imperfect
tool? Was it a matter of divine mercy? That was possible, he conceded,
but it struck him as rather distasteful: sexual Russian roulette was
hardly a fitting image of the Lord's capacity for forgiveness. Or -
Shawcross tingled all over as the possibility crystalised in his brain
- might AIDS be no more than a mere prophetic shadow, hinting at a
future plague a thousand times more terrible? A warning to the wicked to
change their ways while they still had time? An example to the righteous
as to how they might do His will? Shawcross broke into a sweat. The
sinners next door moaned as if already in Hell, the thin dividing wall
vibrated, the wind rose up to shake the dark trees and rattle his
window. What was this wild idea in his head? A true message from God,
or the product of his own imperfect understanding? He needed guidance!
He switched on his reading lamp and picked up his Bible from the
bedside table. With his eyes closed, he opened the book at random.
He recognised the passage at the very first glance. He ought to have;
he'd read it and reread it a hundred times, and knew it almost by heart.
The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. At first, he tried to deny his
destiny: He was unworthy! A sinner himself! An ignorant child! But
everyone was unworthy, everyone was a sinner, everyone was an ignorant
child in God's eyes. It was pride, not humility, that spoke against
God's choice of him. By morning, not a trace of doubt remained.
Dropping paleontology was a great relief; defending Creationism with any
conviction required a certain, very special, way of thinking, and he had
never been quite sure that he could master it. Biochemistry, on the other
hand, he mastered with ease (confirmation, if any was needed, that he'd
made the right decision). He topped his classes every year, and went on to
do a PhD in Molecular Biology at Harvard, then postdoctoral work at the
NIH, and fellowships in Canada and France. He lived for his work, pushing
himself mercilessly, but always taking care not to be too conspicuous in
his achievements. He published very little, usually as a modest third or
fourth co-author, and when at last he flew home from France, nobody in his
field knew, or would have much cared, that John Shawcross had returned,
ready to begin his real work. Shawcross worked alone in the
gleaming white building that served as both laboratory and home. He
couldn't risk taking on employees, no matter how closely their beliefs
might have matched his own. He hadn't even let his parents in on the
secret; he told them he was engaged in theoretical molecular genetics,
which was a lie of omission only - and he had no need to beg his father
for money week by week since, for tax reasons, twenty-five percent of
the Shawcross empire's massive profit was routinely payed into accounts
in his name. His lab was filled with shiny grey boxes, from which