"H. L. Gold - At the Post" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gold H. L)

"There are more nuts in the brain rackets than labor chumps."
"Intellectual activity increases the area of conflict."
"There are less in the sticks than in the cities, and practically none among the savages. I mean real
savages," Clocker told Han-dy Sam, "not marks for con mer-chants."
"I was wondering," Handy Sam admitted.
"Complex civilization creates psychic insecurity," said Doc.
"When these catatonics pull out, they don't remember much or maybe nothing," Clocker went on,
referring to his charts.
Doc nodded his shaggy white head. "Protective amnesia."
"I seen hundreds of these men-tal gimps. They work harder and longer at what they're doing, even
just laying down and doing nothing, than they ever did when they were regular citizens."
"Concentration of psychic en-ergy, of course."
"And they don't get a damn cent for it."

DOC hesitated, put down his half-filled tumbler. "I beg your pardon?"
"I say they're getting stiffed," Clocker stated. "Anybody who works that hard ought to get paid. I
don't mean it's got to be money, although that's the only kind of pay Zelda'd work for. Right, Arnold?"
"Well, sure," said Arnold Wil-son Wyle wonderingly. "I never thought of it like that. Zelda do-ing
time-steps for nothing ten-fifteen hours a dayтАФthat ain't Zelda."
"If you ask me, she likes her job," Clocker said. "Same with the other catatonics I seen. But for no
pay?"
Doc surprisingly pushed his drink away, something that only a serious medical puzzle could ever
accomplish. "I don't under-stand what you're getting at."
"I don't know these other cata-characters, but I do know Zelda," said Arnold Wilson Wyle. "She's
got to get something out of all that work. Clocker says it's the same with the others and I take his word.
What are they knock-ing theirself out for if it's for free?"
"They gain some obscure form of emotional release or repetitive gratification," Doc explained.
"Zelda?" exploded Clocker. "You offer her a deal like that for a club date and she'd get rup-tured
laughing."
"I tell her top billing," Oil Pocket agreed, "plenty ads, plen-ty publicity, whole show built around her.
Wampum, she says; save money on ads and publicity, give it to her. Zelda don't count coups."
Doc Hawkins called over the waiter, ordered five fingers in-stead of his customary three. "Let us not
bicker," he told Clocker. "Continue."

CLOCKER looked at his charts again. "There ain't a line that ain't represented, even the heavy
rackets and short grifts. It's a regular human steeplechase. And these sour apples do mostly whatever
they did for a livingтАФdraw pictures, sell shoes, do lab experiments, sew clothes, Zelda with her
time-steps. By the hour! In the air!"
"In the air?" Handy Sam re-peated. "Flying?"
"Imaginary functioning," Doc elaborated for him. "They have nothing in their hands. Pure
hal-lucination. Systematic delusion."
"Sign language?" Oil Pocket suggested.
"That," said Clocker, before Doc Hawkins could reject the notion, "is on the schnoz, Injun.
Buttonhole says I'm like doping races. He's right. I'm working out what some numbers-runner tells me is
probabilities. I got it all here," he rapped the charts, "and it's the same thing all these flop-ears got in
common. Not their age, not their jobs, not their тАФyou should pardon the expres-sionтАФsex. They're
teaching."
Buttonhole looked baffled. He almost let go of Doc's lapel.
 Handy Sam scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully with a big toe. "Teaching, Clocker? Who?
You said they're kept in solitary."