"Pohl, Frederik - The Midas Plague (txt)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pohl Frederick)

There was a secondТs pause; then the questions began.
It was half an hour before the receptionist came in and announced that time was up.
In that half hour, Morey had got over his trembling and lost his wild, momentary passion, but he had remembered what for thirteen years he had forgotten.
He hated robots.

The surprising thing was not that young Morey had hated robots. It was that the Robot Riots, the ultimate violent outbreak of flesh against metal, the battle to the death between mankind and its machine heirs . . . never happened. A little boy hated robots, but the man he became worked with them hand in hand.
And yet, always and always before, the new worker, the competitor for the job, was at once and inevitably outside the law. The waves swelled inЧthe Irish, the Negroes, the Jews, the Italians. They were squeezed into their ghettoes, where they encysted, seethed and struck out, until the burgeoning generations became indistinguishable.
For the robots, that genetic relief was not in sight. And still the conflict never came. The feed-back circuits aimed the anti-aircraft guns and, reshaped and newly planned, found a place in a new sort of machineЧtogether with a miraculous trail of cams and levers, an indestructible and potent power source and a hundred thousand parts and sub-assemblies.
And the first robot clanked off the bench.
Its mission was its own destruction; but from the scavenged wreck of its pilot body, a hundred better robots drew their inspiration. And the hundred went to work, and hundreds more, until there were millions upon untold millions.
And still the riots never happened.
For the robots came bearing a gift and the name of it was УPlenty.Ф
And by the time the gift had shown its own unguessed ills the time for a Robot Riot was past. Plenty is a habit-forming drug. You do not cut the dosage down. You kick it if you can; you stop the dose entirely. But the convulsions that follow may wfeck the body once and for all.
The addict craves the grainy white powder; he doesnТt hate it, or the runner who sells it to him. And if Morey as a little boy could hate the robot that had deprived him of his pup, Morey the man was perfectly aware that the robots were his servants and his friends.
But the little Morey inside the manЧhe had never been convinced.

Morey ordinarily looked forward to his work. The one day a week at which he did anything was a wonderful change from the dreary consume, consume, consume grind. He entered the bright-lit drafting room of the Bradmoor Amusements Company with a feeling of uplift.
But as he was changing from street garb to his drafting smock, Howland from Procurement came over with a knowing look. УWainwrightТs been looking for you,Ф Howland whispered. УBetter get right in there:Ф
Morey nervously thanked him and got. WainwnightТs office was the size of a phone booth and as bare as Antarctic ice. Every time Morey saw it, he felt his insides churn with envy. Think of a desk with nothing on it but work surfaceЧno calendar-clock, no twelve-color pen rack, no dictating machines!
He squeezed himself in and sat down while Wainwright finished a phone call. He mentally reviewed the possible reasons why Wainwright would want to talk to him in person instead of over the phone, or by dropping a word to him as he passed through the drafting room.
Very few of them were good.
Wainwright put down the phone and Morey straightened up. УYou sent for me?Ф he asked.
Wainwright in a chubby world was aristocratically lean. As General Superintendent of the Design & Development Section of the Bradmoor Amusements Company, he ranked high in the upper section of the well-to-do. He rasped, УI certainly did. Fry, just what the hell do you think youТre up to now?Ф
УI donТt know what you m-mean, Mr. Wainwright,Ф Morey stammered, crossing off the list of possible reasons for the interview all of the good ones.
Wainwright snorted. УI guess you donТt. Not because you werenТt
told, but because you donТt want to know. Think back a whole week. What did I have you on the carpet for then?Ф
Morey said sickly, УMy ration book. Look, Mr. Wainwright, I know IТm running a little bit behind, butЧФ
УBut nothing! How do you think it looks to the Committee, Fry? They got a complaint from the Ration Board about you. Naturally they passed it on to me. And naturally IТm going to pass it right along to you. The question is, what are you going to do about it? Good God, man, look at these figuresЧtextiles, fifty-one per cent; food, sixty-seven per cent; amusements and entertainment, thirty per cent! You havenТt come up to your ration in anything for months!Ф
Morey stared at the card miserably. УWeЧthat is, my wife and IЧ just had a long talk about that last night, Mr. Wainwnight. And, believe me, weТre going to do better. WeТre going to buckle right down and get to work andЧuhЧdo better,Ф he finished weakly.
Wainwright nodded, and for the first time there was a note of sympathy in his voice. УYour wife. Judge ElonТs daughter, isnТt she? Good family. IТve met the Judge many times.Ф Then, gruffly, УWell, nevertheless, Fry, IТm warning you. I donТt care how you straighten this out, but donТt let the Committee mention this to me again.Ф
УNo, sir.Ф
УAll right. Finished with the schematics on the new K-50?Ф
Morey brightened. УJust about, sir! IТm putting the first section on tape today. IТm very pleased with it, Mr. Wainwright, honestly I am. IТve got more than eighteen thousand moving parts in it now, and thatТs withoutЧФ
УGood. Good.Ф Wainwright glanced down at his desk. УGet back to it. And straighten out this other thing. You can do it, Fry. Consuming is everybodyТs duty. Just keep that in mind.Ф
Howland followed Morey out of the drafting room, down to the spotless shops. УBad time?Ф he inquired solicitously. Morey grunted. It was none of HowlandТs business.
Howland looked over his shoulder as he was setting up the programing panel. Morey studied the matrices silently, then got busy reading the summary tapes, checking them back against the schematics, setting up the instructions on the programing board. Howland kept quiet as Morey completed the setup and ran off a test tape. It checked perfectly; Morey stepped back to light a cigarette in celebration before pushing the start button.
Howland said, УGo on, run it. I canТt go until you put it in the works.Ф
Morey grinned and pushed the button. The board lighted up;
within it, a tiny metronomic beep began to pulse. That was all. At the other end of the quarter-mile shed, Morey knew, the automatic sorters and conveyers were fingering through the copper reels and steel ingots, measuring hoppers of plastic powdGr and colors, setting up an intricate weaving path for the thousands of individual components that would make up BradmoorТs new K-50 Spin-a-Game. But from where they stood, in the elaborately muraled programing room, nothing showed. Bradmoor was an ultra-modernized plant; in the manufacturing end, even robots had been dispensed with in favor of machines that guided themselves.
Morey glanced at his watch and logged in the starting time while Howland quickly counter-checked MoreyТs raw-material flow program.
УChecks out,Ф Howland said solemnly, slapping him on the back. УCalls for a celebration. Anyway, itТs your first design, isnТt it?Ф
УYes. First all by myself, at any rate.Ф
Howland was already fishing in his private locker for the bottle he kept against emergency needs. He poured with a flourish. УTo Morey Fry,Ф -he said, Уour most favorite designer, in whom we are much pleased.Ф
Morey drank. It went down easily enough. Morey had conscientiously used his liquor rations for years, but he had never gone beyond the minimum, so that although liquor was no new experience to him, the single drink immediately warmed him. It warmed his mouth, his throat, the hollows of his chest; and it settled down with a warm glow inside him. Howland, exerting himself to be nice, complimented Morey fatuously on the design and poured another drink. Morey didnТt utter any protest at all.
Howland drained his glass. УYou may wonder,Ф he said formally, Уwhy I am so pleased with you, Morey Fry. I will tell you why this is.Ф
Morey grinned. УPlease do.Ф
Howland nodded. УI will. ItТs because I am pleased with the world, Morey. My wife left me last night.Ф
Morey was as shocked as only a recent bridegroom can be by the news of a crumbling marriage. УThatТs too baЧI mean is that a fact?Ф
УYes, she left my beds and board and five robots, and IТm happy to see her go.Ф He poured another drink for both of them. УWomen. CanТt live with them and canТt live without them. First you sigh and pant and chase after СemЧyou like poetry?Ф he demanded suddenly.
Morey said cautiously, УSome poetry.Ф