"Robert Reed - Due" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

ROBERT REEDDUEWE REACH HIM TOO LATE, pulling him out of the curing pond,
nothing left but amelted body and a pain-twisted face. For a moment or two, we
talk about the deadexpeditor, how he was good and why he wasn't perfect, and
why he killedhimself-- because he was imperfect, but noble is why. Then we
wash his face andkiss him, as is customary, and I deliver the body to
Scrap.Our plant manager needs a report, but she doesn't want stories of
anothersuicide. She tells me that she doesn't. So I describe it as an
accident, anothermisstep from the high corundum mesh, and maybe we should
repair those railingsduring the next down cycle. But she doesn't want to hear
that, either. "Nocycles but up." She is delivering a threat. "We're too far
behind as it is,Jusk."I nod. I smile. Then I ask, "When can I have a new
expeditor?""Three shifts," she warns. Which means ten shifts, or more. Then
she gives me ahard stare, eyes and silence informing me that it would be so
lovely if thislittle problem vanished on its own.I step outside.Traffic is
scarce in the main corridor. I walk exactly as far as I can withoutleaving
home, waving at the passing birth wagons until one pulls off. The drivershows
me his cargo, but only one of the newborn is large enough to do the job. Iask
what it will take for that big one to be lost during delivery, and thedriver
says, "I can't." He says, "That's a special rush order, that one."A lie, most
likely."Wait," I tell him. I go inside, then return with a piece of raw
Memory. Memoryhas no color and very little mass, and of course it is
incomplete. It's salvage.That's the only kind of Memory that's ever traded.
Laying it flush against hisforehead, the driver sighs and grows an erection,
then says, "Deal." It's theMemory of one of His long-ago lovers -- a popular
commodity. The driver is evenwilling to help carry the newborn through the
closest door, he's so eager. ThenI give him a look, asking where he got that
Memory."I found it," he says. "I don't remember where.""Good," I say.My crew
is at work. Standing in the main aisle, I can see our entire line -- bugovens
and the furnace; the curing pond and finishers-- and I see the tiny facesthat
look over at me, curious and eager."Keep working," I tell them. Then, "Thank
you."With laser shears, I cut the newborn out of its sack. It's a big worker,
allright: shiny and slick and stinking of lubricants and newness. I unfold
thelong, long limbs, then engage its systems. There's no way to be certain
what jobit is meant to do, but anyone can be anything, if needed. All that
matters isthat we serve Him.I kick the newborn in its smooth crotch.With a
flutter, its eyes open, absorbing light for the first time."My name is Jusk,"
I tell it. "I'm your superior. This is my right hand. Shakeit with your right
hand, please."It obeys, without hesitation."Stand," I say. Then after it
succeeds, on its first attempt, I tell it, "Walkwith me. This is your
introductory tour. Pay close attention.""I shall.""What is my name?""Jusk.""On
your left is a stack of crates. Look at them. And now look at me. How
manycrates did you see?""Fifteen.""What are the dimensions of the
third-largest crate?""Point one by point one by point four standard.""Now,
without looking, tell me the serial number on the top crate."The newborn
recites twenty-three digits before I lift my hand, stopping it."Good," I say.
"You're integrating nicely."The mouth can't yet smile, but I sense pleasure.
Pride. "What do you make here?"my new expeditor inquires."Bone."Its eyes are
simple black discs, yet by some trick of the light, they seemastonished. Or
disappointed, perhaps."It's not a glamorous product," I concede, "but bone is
vital." What would He bewithout a skeleton? Without His handsome, most perfect