"John Varley - The Ophiuchi Hotline" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varley John)

artificially inducing mutations in said material. The State further alleges that defendant did produce
human blastocysts and embryos reflecting potential structures atypical of the permitted spectrum of
Humanity, in violation of the Unified Code of the Eight Worlds Confederation, Article Three (Crimes
Against Humanity) Section Seven (Genetic Crimes). The State asks the penalty of permanent death.
(Class I read-rating)
The file was started on Lilo when CCR computers noticed she had been dealing with Ophiuchi
Hotline data tagged by analysis as probably related to human DNA. Crimcon agents obtained a
warrant to investigate her subscription records and use-charts with StarLine, Inc., principal broker for
processed Hotline data. The grand jury data bank authorized further surveillance both by computer
model projection and human operatives. A warrant was granted 11/10/567 pertaining to her home,
places of work, and personal property, including her body.
(Class II read-rating)
Crimcon G-cops will tell you, "Lilo was tough. Crafty. Thought we'd struck ice when we broke down
the door at Biosystems Research. No joy. We were punching holos. Tapes, notes, all wiped clean
when we touched them. Code crackers at CCR chewed and split: Zip. Phi. Nothing. Rerun that for
her house; we were chewing vac. But she had money. Ten years back, gene patents on Banana-meat
Trees ┬й. Made a bundle. Checked her travel records. Access! Five trips to Janus. Hopped a 3gee tank-
tripper and busted down the door, lasers ready. Nobody home, but one of her booby traps fritzed.
Came home with two grams of mutated meat. Her ass was in the recycler now. X rays were pure no-
go, but we opened her anyway and what do you think we found? A billion and one bits of data
wrapped around her spinal cord! Eat death, gene trasher! The Hole waits!" Crimson G-cops will tell
you, crime does not pay.
(Illiterate read-rating)
Photocomics and holotapes attached.

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The Ophiuchi Hotline by John Varley




Prisons are not what they used to be. I did a little reading on the subject when it occurred to me that
my work might cause me to see the inside of one. Some of the prisons of Old Earth were pretty
barbaric.
My cell was nothing like that. It was better than the average run of workers' warren apartments.
There were three rooms, well furnished. I had a vidphone, if I didn't mind the warden listening in. I
didn't use it.
What the cell had in common with old prisons was the most basic thing of all: The door would not
open to my command. Beyond that door were dozens of others, all closed to me. There was a camera
in each room that followed my movements.
I was in the Terminal Institute for Enemies of Humanity, three kilometers beneath Ptolemaeus, on the
Nearside. I had been there just over a year. Six month's of that was consumed in the gathering of
evidence against me. The trial was held in a few milliseconds of computer time one morning while I
was still asleep. I was told of the resultsтАФno surprisesтАФand scheduled for execution the following
morning. Then my lawyer got a six-month stay.
I had no illusions. The stay had been granted, most likely, because my execution was to come before
the end of the semester. The Institute was running short on Enemies of Humanity, and there were
theses to be completed. Twice a day one of the walls of my cell changed color and began to glow. On
the other side of the wall a professor was lecturing a psych class. If I put my face up close I could see
ranks of students sitting in the lecture hall. But I quickly tired of looking.