"Pohl, Frederick - Second Comming" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pohl Frederick)by Frederik Pohl Version 1.0
All the good science-fiction editors I knew when I was
trying to learn the trade spent a lot of their time thinking
of tricks, devices, and subtle manipulations designed
to get writers to write stories for them that might not
otherwise have got written. You might think they didn't
have to do that. After all, writers are in the business of
writing; why not just let them get on with it and take
what comes as it comes? Because they might be
spending their time writing something unsuitable, for
one reason. Because they might be writing it for Someone Else
is the other. So John Campbell, Horace Gold,
Bob Lowndes, Don Wollheim-and I-would pass out
story ideas, mail off Xeroxes of covers that needed
stories written around them, dream up "theme'
issues-anything at all that would prod a lazy writer into
producing a story instead of whatever else he had
planned to do with his time that day. The art has not
been lost. Ellen Datlow, fiction editor of Omni, wasn't
even born when John Campbell began practicing that
art, but she has thought of devices even the Master
never knew. Not long ago, for instance, she called up
half a dozen of her favorite writers to announce that
she was going to publish a special fiction issue
containing a story by each of them, all limited to a maximum
of five hundred words. Five hundred words! It takes me
five hundred words to answer the phone! However,
these little behavior-modification tricks do work their
magic, and so I sat down to try. I tried at least half a
dozen story ideas without luck, because after the first
page and a half each one of them convinced me that
it wanted to be a full-sized story if not indeed a
three volume novel sequence. Then my son, Fred the Fourth,
out of the kindness of his heart, gave me an opening
sentence, and the other 469 words followed easily after.
I guess, just as with the Kennedy assassination,
everybody can remember exactly where he was and what
he was doing on the day the space people brought Jesus
back to Earth.
I was aboard Air Force One with the President-I'm
Secret Service-and when Major Manley radioed the
unbelievable message from the orbiting space shuttle we
turned right around and headed straight for California.
Beat the shuttle down, and waited, parked at the end of
the landing strip, watching TV.
Of course, business had stopped all over the world.
Everybody was watching the pictures from the big telescope
on Mauna Kea-what a brute that spaceship was,
half a mile long!-and listening to replays of Manley's
message.
Well, the shuttle made its turn and came down, and
they got the crew out and into Air Force One while the
ground people were still purging the fuel vapors. "You
sure it's Jesus? the President demanded.
"That's what they say, Mr. President. I took a picture
of Him-see for yourself. And he passed over a Polaroid.
The President winced. "I didn't think He'd look like
that.
"They don't look at it that way, Mr. President. He was
not in very good shape. They figured we were through
with Him. So they took Him to their planet, where they
have a place to keep specimens of life forms from all over
the galaxy-
"They put Jesus in a zoo? Manley shrugged. "What's
He doing now? the President asked.
"They say He's watching TV mostly. Doesn't much
like what He sees, they say, but I didn't talk to Him
myself-I don't speak Aramaic. Anyway, I was glad to
get out of there, because that ship's pretty scary. You
just wouldn't believe all the nasty kinds of weapons they've
got!
The President's eyes gleamed, and the secretary of
defense exulted. "New weapons! What a bargaining chip!
The President glanced around the room, and the
expressions of delight were unanimous. There remained
only one thing to do. He crooked a finger and his secretary
turned on her recorder. "Take a decree, Mabel. I, the
President, and so on, do hereby proclaim that Jesus Christ
is come again, and-uh-
"And He's ours! the secretary finished. And then,
raptly, "Thank God.
It looked pretty good there. Of course, the other countries were screeching their heads off. Pravda raged. The
Chicoms canceled a trip by their soccer team, and the
Israeli ambassador practically had a heart attack trying
to argue that He was, after all, one of their nationals by
birth. That didn't matter; we were first, and NASA cleared
the Canaveral runways for His landing. But He requested
all three networks to provide thirty minutes for a primetime
telecast, and that was when it all went sour. Never
mind He didn't look right. Never mind He spoke in Aramaic,
which practically nobody understood. It was what
He said that was the bad part-that, and the fact that
before we got the translation, there was a priority call
from the Mauna Kea telescope people to say the ship was
breaking out of orbit and heading back out into space.
"But what did He say? moaned the President, and the
translator, sweating, shook his head.
"Something about He doesn't like the way we've spoiled
His planet, he croaked. "Says He told us what to do,
and we haven't done it-we've messed everything up-
"Hell, shouted the President, "we can fix that up. Call
Him back. We can make a deal. We'll give Him His own
TV station so He can preach to the multitudes, let pilgrims
come visit Him-anything He wants!
But the translator was shaking his head again. "He
doesn't want that. He says He's going back with the space
people. They've got a better-class zoo.
by Frederik Pohl Version 1.0
All the good science-fiction editors I knew when I was
trying to learn the trade spent a lot of their time thinking
of tricks, devices, and subtle manipulations designed
to get writers to write stories for them that might not
otherwise have got written. You might think they didn't
have to do that. After all, writers are in the business of
writing; why not just let them get on with it and take
what comes as it comes? Because they might be
spending their time writing something unsuitable, for
one reason. Because they might be writing it for Someone Else
is the other. So John Campbell, Horace Gold,
Bob Lowndes, Don Wollheim-and I-would pass out
story ideas, mail off Xeroxes of covers that needed
stories written around them, dream up "theme'
issues-anything at all that would prod a lazy writer into
producing a story instead of whatever else he had
planned to do with his time that day. The art has not
been lost. Ellen Datlow, fiction editor of Omni, wasn't
even born when John Campbell began practicing that
art, but she has thought of devices even the Master
never knew. Not long ago, for instance, she called up
half a dozen of her favorite writers to announce that
she was going to publish a special fiction issue
containing a story by each of them, all limited to a maximum
of five hundred words. Five hundred words! It takes me
five hundred words to answer the phone! However,
these little behavior-modification tricks do work their
magic, and so I sat down to try. I tried at least half a
dozen story ideas without luck, because after the first
page and a half each one of them convinced me that
it wanted to be a full-sized story if not indeed a
three volume novel sequence. Then my son, Fred the Fourth,
out of the kindness of his heart, gave me an opening
sentence, and the other 469 words followed easily after.
I guess, just as with the Kennedy assassination,
everybody can remember exactly where he was and what
he was doing on the day the space people brought Jesus
back to Earth.
I was aboard Air Force One with the President-I'm
Secret Service-and when Major Manley radioed the
unbelievable message from the orbiting space shuttle we
turned right around and headed straight for California.
Beat the shuttle down, and waited, parked at the end of
the landing strip, watching TV.
Of course, business had stopped all over the world.
Everybody was watching the pictures from the big telescope
on Mauna Kea-what a brute that spaceship was,
half a mile long!-and listening to replays of Manley's
message.
Well, the shuttle made its turn and came down, and
they got the crew out and into Air Force One while the
ground people were still purging the fuel vapors. "You
sure it's Jesus? the President demanded.
"That's what they say, Mr. President. I took a picture
of Him-see for yourself. And he passed over a Polaroid.
The President winced. "I didn't think He'd look like
that.
"They don't look at it that way, Mr. President. He was
not in very good shape. They figured we were through
with Him. So they took Him to their planet, where they
have a place to keep specimens of life forms from all over
the galaxy-
"They put Jesus in a zoo? Manley shrugged. "What's
He doing now? the President asked.
"They say He's watching TV mostly. Doesn't much
like what He sees, they say, but I didn't talk to Him
myself-I don't speak Aramaic. Anyway, I was glad to
get out of there, because that ship's pretty scary. You
just wouldn't believe all the nasty kinds of weapons they've
got!
The President's eyes gleamed, and the secretary of
defense exulted. "New weapons! What a bargaining chip!
The President glanced around the room, and the
expressions of delight were unanimous. There remained
only one thing to do. He crooked a finger and his secretary
turned on her recorder. "Take a decree, Mabel. I, the
President, and so on, do hereby proclaim that Jesus Christ
is come again, and-uh-
"And He's ours! the secretary finished. And then,
raptly, "Thank God.
It looked pretty good there. Of course, the other countries were screeching their heads off. Pravda raged. The
Chicoms canceled a trip by their soccer team, and the
Israeli ambassador practically had a heart attack trying
to argue that He was, after all, one of their nationals by
birth. That didn't matter; we were first, and NASA cleared
the Canaveral runways for His landing. But He requested
all three networks to provide thirty minutes for a primetime
telecast, and that was when it all went sour. Never
mind He didn't look right. Never mind He spoke in Aramaic,
which practically nobody understood. It was what
He said that was the bad part-that, and the fact that
before we got the translation, there was a priority call
from the Mauna Kea telescope people to say the ship was
breaking out of orbit and heading back out into space.
"But what did He say? moaned the President, and the
translator, sweating, shook his head.
"Something about He doesn't like the way we've spoiled
His planet, he croaked. "Says He told us what to do,
and we haven't done it-we've messed everything up-
"Hell, shouted the President, "we can fix that up. Call
Him back. We can make a deal. We'll give Him His own
TV station so He can preach to the multitudes, let pilgrims
come visit Him-anything He wants!
But the translator was shaking his head again. "He
doesn't want that. He says He's going back with the space
people. They've got a better-class zoo.
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