"James E. Gunn - The Burning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gunn James E)

He knew the people that formed this mob, their fears, their passions. He knew the savagery that moved
them, the frustrations that demanded a scapegoat, the consciousness of guilt, of wrongdoing, of failure
that cried out for an external soul to punish, that created one on demand.

They were unable to face the realization of тАЬI was wrong. I made a mistake. LetтАЩs try a new lineтАЭ that
every scientist, every creative thinker must face daily. They needed the age-old, pain-killing drug of тАЬHe
did it, the Other Guy. HeтАЩs Evil. He made me Fail.тАЭ

And yet, knowing them so well, he did not know enough to stop them. He was five years, perhaps ten
years away from the knowledge that he could take down the hill with him into their midst and find the
right words and the right actions to make them stop, to turn them back into sane human beings.

The intuitive psychologists like the Senator were more capable than the scientists. But it is always easier
to drive men insane than to lead them into sanity.

As he turned his face away from the scene of wanton murder and destruction, the knowledge that he was
helpless was acid in his throat. A boy ran past, scarcely into high school, surely. He had a .22 rifle
swinging in his hand. тАЬAm I too late?тАЭ he shouted.

He didnтАЩt wait for an answer. Seeing the burning buildings and the black figures that ran between them,
he swung his rifle to his shoulder and snapped off a shot. тАЬGot one!тАЭ he exulted, his voice breaking with
excitement. тАЬEgghead!тАЭ

And John Wilson, egghead, slipped away. As soon as he had passed the fireтАЩs reflection, he hugged the
shadows and made his way cautiously down the hill. He didnтАЩt go near his car. When he reached level
ground, he walked briskly toward town.

Downtown was a half-dozen blocks of Massachusetts Street. It was deserted. Stores and restaurants
and theaters were closed, their doors and windows protected behind metal gratings. The streets and
sidewalks were cracked and rough; they hadnтАЩt been repaired for a long time.

Wilson reached the broad driveway of the bus depot. An old bus, its top battered, windows cracked,
paint peeling, waited empty beside a side entrance.

The bus door was open; Wilson climbed aboard and slumped wearily into a back seat. Behind the
driverтАЩs seat, the flat television screen was on. In the background was a picture of a university burning,
Harvard or Cal Tech. As the camera shifted positions, Wilson saw that it was Harvard.

Senator Bartlett was superimposed on the flames. He was in his uniform, a worn, old, gray suit, a ragged
blue shirt open at the throat. His unruly hair tumbled down over his forehead, and he brushed it back with
a boyish gesture.

The burning university behind him gave him an aura of power to which he had only pretended until now.
He seemed like an Old Testament prophet, as if he commanded the thunderbolt of the Lord and had
directed it to strike here and there, to cleanse with fire the citadels of treason and immorality.

тАЬMy friends,тАЭ said the Senator, sincerity ringing in his voice, the flames behind him like a halo, тАЬnews
reaches us within the hour of another university in flames, and I say to you it is a regrettable thing. It is a
tragedy. It is a fearful decision that has been forced upon this nation.