"Philip Jose Farmer - Dayworld" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

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twenty-three cylinders and coffin-shaped boxes, the "stoners." Twenty frozen faces were framed by
the round windows. Twelve seniors (adults) in the vertical cylinders. Eight juniors, young
children, lying horizontally in the boxes and facing the ceiling.
A few seconds after he had left his stoner, a woman stepped out of hers. Ozma Fillmore
Wang was short, slender, fullbreasted, and long-legged. Her cheekbones were broad and high on her
heart-shaped face. Her large black eyes had slight epicanthic folds. Her long hair was straight,
black, and glossy. Large white teeth shone when she flashed a wide-lipped smile.
She wore nothing except her ID disc-star, lipstick, eye shadow, and a great green
grasshopper painted on her body. It was standing up on its back legs, and her black-painted
nipples formed the centers of the black staring eyes. Sometimes, when Jeff was making love to his
wife, he had the feeling that he was coupled with an insect.
She came to him, and they kissed. "Good morning, Jeff."
"Good morning, Ozma."
She turned and led him into the next room. He reached out to pat her egg-shaped buttock,
then withdrew his hand. The slightest encouragement would inflame her. She would want to make love
on the carpet in front of the unseeing witnesses in the cylinders. He thought that it was childish
to do this, but she was, in some ways, childish. She preferred to call herself childlike. OK. All
good artists were childlike. To them every second birthed a new world, each more astonishing and
awesome than the previous. However . . . was Ozma a good artist?
What did he care? He loved her for herself, whatever that meant.
The other room contained chairs, sofas, tables, a Ping-Pong table, an exercising machine,
a pool table, TV wall strips, a door to a bathroom, and a door to the utility room. Ozma turned
just outside this door and went up the steps to a hail. On their left was the kitchen. They turned
right, went down a short hall, and turned right to the steps. The upstairs held four bedrooms,
each with a bathroom. Ozma preceded him into the nearest bedroom, which lit up as they entered.
At one end of the large room, by some shuttered windows, was a king-size bed. At another
wall, by a large round window,
was a table with a large mirror. Nearby were shelves holding big plastic boxes containing brushes,
combs, and cosmetics. Each box bore the name of its owner.
Along one wall was a series of doors with name-plaques. Jeff inserted a point of his ID
star into a hole in the door bearing his name and Ozma's. It slid open, and a light came on,
revealing shelves holding their personal-property clothing. From a shelf at eye level, he picked
out a crumpled ball of cloth, turned, placed a section between his thumb and first finger, and
snapped the ball. It unrolled with a crack of electrical sparks from its hem and became a long,
smooth Kelly-green robe. He put it on and tied a belt around his waist. From another shelf he took
two socks and a pair of shoes. After putting these on, he sealed the tops of the shoes with a firm
pressure of fingers.
Ozma straightened up from her inspection of the bedclothes.
"Clean and done according to specifications," she said.
"Monday's always been good about house duties. We're luckier than some I know. I only hope
Monday doesn't move to another house."
She spoke a codeword. A wall sprang into light and life, a three-dimensional view of a
jungle composed of gigantic grass blades. Presently, some blades bent, and a thing with bulging
black insect eyes looked at the two humans. Its antennae quivered. A hind leg raised and rubbed
against a protruding vein. Grasshopper stridulations rang through the room.
"For God's sake," Jeff said. "Tone it down."
"It soothes me to sleep," she said. "Not that I feel like sleeping just now."
"I'd like to wait until we've had a good rest. It's always better then."