"Philip Jose Farmer - The Sliced Crosswise Only on Tuesday W" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

the field suspended all atomic and subatomic activity. He would remain in that state
forever unless the activating field came on.
He slept, and Jennie Marlowe did not come to him. Or, if she did, he did not
remember. He awoke, washed his face, went down eagerly to the stoner, where he
found the entire household standing around, getting in one last smoke, talking,
laughing. Then they would step into their cylinders, and a silence like that at the heart
of a mountain would fall.
He had often wondered what would happen if he did not go into the stoner. How
would he feel? Would he be panicked? All his life, he had known only Tuesdays.
Would Wednesday rush at him, roaring, like a tidal wave? Pick him up and hurl him
against the reefs of a strange time?
What if he made some excuse and went back upstairs and did not go back down
until the field had come on? By then, he could not enter. The door to his cylinder
would not open again until the proper time. He could still run down to the public
emergency stoners only three blocks away. But if he stayed in his room, waiting for
Wednesday?
Such things happened. If the breaker of the law did not have a reasonable excuse,
he was put on trial. It was a felony second only to murder to "break time," and the
unexcused were stonered. All felons, sane or insane, were stonered. Or ma├▒anaed, as
some said. The ma├▒anaed criminal waited in immobility and unconsciousness,
preserved unharmed until science had techniques to cure the insane, the neurotic, the
criminal, the sick. Ma├▒ana.
"What was it like in Wednesday?" Tom had asked a man who had been
unavoidably left behind because of an accident.
"How would I know? I was knocked out except for about fifteen minutes. I was in
the same city, and I had never seen the faces of the ambulance men, of course, but
then I've never seen them here. They stonered me and left me in the hospital for
Tuesday to take care of."
He must have it bad, he thought. Bad. Even to think of such a thing was crazy.
Getting into Wednesday was almost impossible. Almost. But it could be done. It
would take time and patience, but it could be done.
He stood in front of his stoner for a moment. The others said, "See you! So long!
Next Tuesday!" Mabel called, "Good night, lover!"
"Good night," he muttered.
"What?" she shouted.
"Good night!"
He glanced at the beautiful face behind the door. Then he smiled. He had been
afraid that she might hear him say good night to a woman who called him lover.
He had ten minutes yet. The intercom alarms were whooping. Get going,
everybody! Time to take the six-day trip! Run! Remember the penalties!
He remembered, but he wanted to leave a message. The recorder was on a table. He
activated it, and said, "Dear Miss Jennie Marlowe. My name is Tom Pym, and my
stoner is next to yours. I am an actor, too; in fact, I work at the same studio as you. I
know this is presumptuous of me, but I have never seen anybody so beautiful. Do you
have a talent to match your beauty? I would like to see some run-offs of your shows.
Would you please leave some in room five? I'm sure the occupant won't mind. Yours,
Tom Pym."
He ran it back. It was certainly bald enough, and that might be just what was
needed. Too flowery or too pressing would have made her leery. He had commented
on her beauty twice but not overstressed it. And the appeal to her pride in her acting