"C M Kornbluth and Frederik Pohl - Wolfbane UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kornbluth C M)

She sniffled and scuffed the bright strap over her open-toed sandal.
Then she met his eyes.
It was the after-effect of the quarrel, of course; Glenn Tropile knew just how heavily he could count on the after-spiral of a quarrel. She was submitting.
She glanced furtively at Citizen Boyne and lowered her voice. "What do I have to do?" she whispered.
In five minutes she was gone, but that was more than enough time; Tropile had at least thirty minutes left. They would take Boyne first, he had seen to that. And once Boyne was gone-
Tropile wrenched a leg off his three-legged stool, and sat precariously balanced on the other two. He tossed the loose leg clattering into a corner.
The Keeper of the House of the Five Regulations ambled slack-bodied by and glanced into the room. "Wolf, what happened to your stool?"
Tropile made a left-handed sign: no importance. "It doesn't matter. Except it is hard to meditate, sitting on this thing, with every muscle tensing and fighting against every other to keep my balance. ..."
The Keeper made an overruling sign: please-let-me-help. "It's your last half hour, Wolf," he reminded Tropile. "I'll fix the stool for you." He entered and slammed and banged it together, and left with an expression of mild concern. Even a Son of the Wolf was entitled to the fullest appreciation of that unique opportunity for meditation, the last half hour before a Donation.
In five minutes he was back, looking solemn and yet glad, like a bearer of serious but welcome tidings. "It is the time for the first Donation," he announced. "Which of you-"
"Him," said Tropile quickly, pointing. Boyne opened his eyes calmly and nodded. He got to his feet, made a formal leavetaking bow to Tropile, and followed the Keeper toward his Donation and his death. As they were going out Tropile coughed a minor supplication. The Keeper paused. "What is it, Wolf?"
Tropile showed him the empty water pitcher-empty, all right; he had emptied it out the window.
"My apologies," the Keeper said, blushing, and hurried Boyne along. He came back almost at once to fill it. He didn't even wait to watch the ceremonial Donation.
Tropile stood watching him, his sub-adrenals beginning to pound like the rolling boil of Well-Aged Water. The Keeper was at a disadvantage. He had been neglectful of his charge- a broken stool; no water in the pitcher. And a Citizen, brought up in a Citizen's mores of consideration and tact, could not help but be humiliated, seek to make amends.
Tropile pressed his advantage home. "Wait," he said winsomely to the Keeper. "I'd like to talk to you."
The Keeper hesitated, torn. "The Donation-"
"Damn the Donation," Tropile said calmly.
"After all, what is it but sticking a pipe into a
man's backbone and sucking out the juice that
keeps him alive? It's killing, that's all."
Crash, crash, crash. The Keeper turned literally white. Tropile was speaking blasphemy, and he wasn't stopping.
"I want to tell you about my wife," Tropile went on, assuming a confidential air. "You know, there's a real woman. Not one of those frozen-up Citizenesses, you know? Why, she and I used to-" He hesitated. "You're a man of the world, aren't you?" he demanded. "I mean, you've seen life."
"I-suppose so," the Keeper said faintly.
"Then you won't be shocked, I know," Tropile lied. "Well, let me tell you, there's a lot to women that these stuffed-shirt Citizens don't know about. Boy! Ever see a woman's knee?" He sniggered. "Ever kiss one, with-" He winked-"with the light on? Ever sit in a big arm-chair, say, with a woman in your lap? -all soft and heavy, and kind of warm, and slumped up against your chest, you know, and-" He stopped and swallowed; he was almost making himself retch; it was hard to say these things. But he forced himself to go on: "Well, she and I used to do those things. Plenty. All the time. That's what I call a real woman,"
He stopped-warned by the Keeper's sudden change of expression, glazed eyes, strangling breath. He had gone too far. He had only wanted to paralyze the man, revolt him, put him out of commission; but he was overdoing it; he jumped forward and caught the Keeper as he fell, fainting.
Callously Tropile emptied the water pitcher over the man.
The Keeper sneezed and sat up groggily.
He focused his eyes on Tropile, and abruptly blushed.
Tropile said harshly: "I wish to see the new sun from the street."
The request was incredible! The Keeper could not possibly allow dangerous liberties to a guest; that was not Citizenship, since the job of a Keeper was to Keep. But Tropile's filthy mouth had unsettled Citizen Harmane.
He floundered, choking on the obscenities he had heard. He was torn between two courses of action, both all but obligatory, both all but impossible. Tropile was in detention regarding the Fifth Regulation. That was all there was to it-looked at from one point of view. Such persons were not to be released from their quarters: the Keeper knew it, the world knew it, Tropile knew it.
It was an obscenity almost greater than the lurid tales of perverted lust, for Tropile had asked something which was impossible! No one ever asked anything that was impossible to grant-for no one could ever refuse anything; that was utterly graceless, unthinkable.
One could only attempt to compromise. The Keeper stammeringly said: "May I-May I let you see the new sun from the corridor?" And even that was wretchedly wrong; but he had to offer something. One always offered something. The Keeper had never since babyhood given a flat "no" to anybody about anything. No Citizen had. A flat "no" led to hard feelings, strong words-imaginably, even blows.
The only flat "no" conceivable was the enormous, terminal "no" of an amok. Short of that-
One offered. One split the difference. One was invariably filled with tepid pleasure when, invariably, the offer was accepted, the difference was split, both parties were satisfied.
"That will do for a start," Tropile snarled. "Open, man, open! Don't make me wait."
The Keeper reeled and unlatched the door to the corridor.
"Now the street!"
"I can't!" burst in an anguished cry from the Keeper. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob, hopelessly incapacitated.
"The street!" Tropile said remorselessly. He felt himself wrenchingly ill; he was going against custom that had ruled his own life as surely as the Keeper's.
But he was Wolf. "I will be Wolf," he growled, and advanced upon the Keeper. "My wife," he said, "I didn't finish telling you. Sometimes she used to put her arm around me and just snuggle up and-I remember one time-she kissed my ear. Broad daylight. It felt funny and warm, I can't describe it."
Whimpering, the Keeper flung the keys at Tropile and tottered brokenly away.
He was out of the action. Tropile himself was nearly as badly off; the difference was that he continued to function. The words coming from him seared like acid in his throat. "They call me Wolf," he said aloud, reeling against the wall. "I will be one."
He unlocked the outer door and his wife
was waiting, the things he had asked her to bring in her arms.
Tropile said strangely to her: I am steel and fire. I am Wolf, full of the old moxie.'
She wailed: "Glenn, are you sure I'm doing the right thing?" He laughed unsteadily and led her by the arm through the deserted streets.
_______5_______
Citizen Germyn, as was his right by position and status as a connoisseur, helped prepare Citizen Boyne for his Donation. There was nothing much that needed to be done, actually. This made it an elaborate and lengthy task, according to the ethic of the Citizens; it had to be protracted, each step was surrounded by fullest dress of ritual.
It was done in the broad daylight of the new Sun, and as many of the three hundred citizens of Wheeling as could manage it were in the courtyard of the old Federal Building to watch.