"Walter M. Miller - The Soul Empty Ones" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

THE SOUL-EMPTY ONES
Walter M. Miller, Jr.


Miller, to my mind, is a writer of exceptional power. He is the author of what may be my all-time favorite story,
"Vengeance for Nikolai," and the novel A Canticle for Leibowitz. When-ever / see his name on fiction, I know it will stir
me. The pres-ent entry is not his best, for reasons explained in the introduction to this volume, but I remember it
across three de-cades as a good, solid adventure. What distinguishes man from animal, apart from intelligence? Is it
his soul? If so, what is the status of an androidтАФthat is, a creature crafted in the laborato-ryтАФwho is made in the
complete image of man, feelings and all? Fast action plus a good thematic questionтАФthis, to me, is the essence of
conventional science fiction.
тАФPA

Miller had a sensational career beginning in 1951, published stunning novellas and short stories in the magazines
("The Darfstellar," Astounding 1/55, won a Hugo), topped it off with the 1959 A Canticle for Leibowitz, considered by
many to be the single finest science-fiction novel ever published (it is in everyone's top ten), and then utterly ceased
to publish. No one knows why. A mysterious, emblematic figure of science fic-tion's most ambitious (and
emblematic) decade, Miller lives in a southern state in virtual isolation from the genre to which he gave so much;
there are vague rumors of a novel in progress. "The Soul-Empty Ones," a characteristic story and apparently Miller's
only unreprinted shorter work, appeared in Astound-ing in 1952, incited praise from fames Blish (collected in his
volume of criticism, The Issue At Hand), and has not been read by other than collectors and specialists in the last
quarter of a century. Until now.

They heard the mournful bleat of his ramshorn in the night, warn-ing them that he was friend, asking the sentries not to unleash the
avalanches upon the mountain trail where he rode. They returned to their stools and huddled about the lamplight, waitingтАФtwo
war-riors and a woman. The woman was watching the window; and to-ward the valley, bright bonfires yellowed the darkness.
"He should never have gone," the girl said tonelessly.
The warriors, father and son, made no answer. They were val-ley men, from the sea, and guests in the house of Daner. The
youn-ger one looked at his sire and shook his head slowly. The father clenched his jaw stubbornly. "I could not let you go to
blas-pheme," he growled defensively. "The invaders are the sons of men. If Daner wishes to attack them, he is our host, and we
cannot prevent it. But we shall not violate that which is written of the in-vaders. They have come to save us."
"Even if they kill us, and take our meat?" muttered the blond youth.
"Even so. We are their servants, for the sons of men created our fathers out of the flesh of beasts, and gave them the appearance
of men." The old one's eyes glowed with the passionate light of con-viction.
The young one inclined his head gravely and submissively, for such was the way of the valley people toward their parents.
The girl spoke coldly. "At first, I thought you were cowardly, old man. Now I think your whole tribe is cowardly."
Without a change of expression, the gray-haired one lifted his arms into the lamplight. His battles were written upon them in a
crisscross of white knife scars. He lowered them silently without speaking.
"It's in the mind that you are cowardly," said the girl. "We of the Natani fight our enemies. If our enemies be gods, then we shall
fight gods."
"Men are not gods," said the young one, whose name was Falon.
His father slapped him sharply across the back of the neck. "That is sacrilege," he warned. "When you speak of the invad-ers.
They are men and gods."
The girl watched them with contempt. "Among the Natani, when a man loses his manhood by age, he goes into the forest with
his war knife and does not return. And if he neglects to go will-
ingly, his sons escort him and see that he uses the knife. When a man is so old that his mind is dull, it is better for him to die."
The old warrior glowered at his hostess, but remained polite. "Your people have strange ways," he said acidly.

Suddenly a man came in out of the blackness and stood swaying in the doorway. He clutched his dogskin jacket against his
bleed-ing chest as a sponge. He was panting softly. The three occupants of the small stone hut came slowly to their feet, and the