"Jeffrey Thomas - The Hate Machines" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thomas Jeffrey)

The Hate Machines
a short story by Jeffrey Thomas

Cardiff owned two similar hate receptacles made by two different
companies: his Whipping Boy at home, which he'd possessed for six months
now, and this newly purchased Scapegoat, sitting before him on his desk at
work. His cubicle with its padded partitions was mostly undecorated
otherwise save for a calendar his daughter Lena, who was sixteen, had
given him as a Christmas present. Each month presented a photograph of
their family ... either herself from infancy to the present, or their cat,
likewise at various points of its life, or himself, looking embarrassed to
be photographed (and he was embarrassed to display himself in such a way
for a whole month at a time), or his wife, whom he was proud to display,
as he often received compliments about how attractive she was.
His supervisor, Ruth, frowned on overly ornamented cubicles, and had told
several of her crew to remove such things as movie posters and humorous
print-outs taken off the net. One day Cardiff had found that one of his
few photos tacked to the cubicle's gray padding had been removed and then
pinned to face the wall. The objectionable photo, which he had only
brought in because Halloween had been near, showed Lena as a baby
blissfully gnawing on the stump of a fake rubber hand. He had hidden the
photo away in his drawer.
But Ruth could not forbid him from keeping the Scapegoat on his desk, as
such devices were recognized as a therapeutic rather than trivial personal
possession. And so the hate machine watched Cardiff now as he worked, his
headset on and his mind linked with his computer, speeding through tunnels
and corridors lined with information files like limitless morgue drawers,
storing boxes crammed with dusty numbers in one virtual attic or other,
opening up and visiting virtual offices (he was not permitted to put any
decorations whatsoever on those walls).
His hands, left behind as his mind labored, fiddled with a rubber band. He
twisted it around and around his left thumb until the end of it glowed
red, as if it might suddenly erupt bloodily.
But his eyes gravitated -- inevitably -- to the Scapegoat, because of its
newness. It was a foot in height -- a little smaller than the Whipping Boy
-- and a fake tarnished silvery color whereas the other had a faux patina
of pale green verdigris. The Scapegoat's circular translucent face was
subtly lit by a dim bulb behind it so that it glowed a dark orange-gold
color, either meant to look like an anthropomorphic moon or sun -- he
couldn't tell which. It had a broad smile, chubby cheeks, amused squinting
eyes. Cardiff had never seen a more mocking, annoying face in his life ...
unless, of course, that was the smirking phosphorescent green jester face
of his Whipping Boy.
Glaring at those smug, obnoxious features, Cardiff felt a temptation to
turn the device around to face the wall, as Ruth had reversed his photo of
the baby Lena, but he knew that would defeat the purpose. The hate machine
was designed to inspire his contempt. More importantly, it was designed to
intercept, to redirect his loathing. It had been linked to his mind, much
in the way he linked with his computer, so that it could bend his anger,
his frustration away from other targets, valiantly bringing these dark