"Charles Stross - Tarkovsky's Cut" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

Jewel shakes her head. "That is not possible."

The skull nods. His voice is very quiet, very compassionate. "I know. You -- Heaven Eleven --
the whole culture -- money, money, money."

"Survival, survival, survival," Jewel retorts. "Space is harsh. Without wealth we cannot build.
Without buildings we cannot survive. Wealth is necessary."

"So is purpose," Jessie whispers.

Jewel shivers. "I know."

"If you produced personalities, then investment in Heaven Eleven would increase, not
decrease."

"For a time," Jewel replies. "But once the secret of the human soul is fully disseminated, the
purpose of Heaven Eleven vanishes. We can make no more wealth."

"With souls come new ideas, new motivations. You'll think of something."

Jewel shakes her head. "I can't take that risk."

Jessie's skull laughs at her. It is a senseless sound, she doesnтАЩt understand it; it annoys her.
"Jewel, you are a coward. You are the best calculator on the richest oneil in the Galaxy and
haven't the imagination, you haven't the soul, to imagine yourself in any other role. All the culture
is scrabbling for riches, for material satisfaction, for more, more, more of the same, and they'll
never be satisfied, never! Because more is not sufficient, it never can be! Don't you see that?"

Jewel thought about it. "Riches are survival," she said.

Jessie sighs. "I pity you," he says. "Heaven Eleven's Jewel. Seventy lifetimes and every day the
same. I pity you."

Jewel shrugs. She is bored again. She will kill Hyne in bed tonight. Maybe it will relax her.

Alia sends a mouse to her fellow revolutionaries. Then she throws the braindrain and Harvey's
headless corpse into the garbage disposal and washes her hands. She looks out the window and
remembers.

Once upon a time she was a cleaner. In the morning she cleaned the street. At noon she
walked through the Suburb to the Census building, sweeping the pavement as she went. All
afternoon she cleaned the Census building. In the evening she swept her way back home and
cleaned the house. On rest days she swept her yard. She swept the porch with a brush the
Census gave her for sixty years' good service. It had a wooden handle, painted yellow, and red
plastic bristles. It shone in the light, as if it were wet.

The porch was always dusty, and sweeping it made her cough. There was litter, too. Gum
wrappers. Sometimes she stopped to pick them up. She unravelled them and read them. Once
she found a brand she remembered from when she was a girl. She read it, and something
strange happened to her face. She smiled.