"Gordon R. Dickson - The Pritcher Mass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

ethic-concerned than others. In his
six-by-eight-by-seven-foot condominium apartment in the
Upper Dells, he had a meditation corner like everyone else;
its small tray of dark, sterilized earth hand-raked carefully,
morning and evening. In addition, however, he had a
potassium ferrocyanide crystal growing in nutrient solution,
in a flask on the tray. Each morning, and evening as well, he
spent a half-hour seated in front of that crystal in meditative
concentration. But his particular concern during these times
was not world sin; or that he be lucky in avoiding an accident
that could expose him to the rot. He meditated with the
spiritual grunt and sweat of a man digging a ditch.
He concentrated to develop whatever talent he had for
Heisenbergian chain-perception, so that he could pass the
test for work on the Pritcher Mass. So he could get his hands
at last on a chance to do something about the situation that
had cowed and was pushing to extinction his huddled people.
The idea of humbly accepting his share of humanity's sins
had never worked for him. He was built to fight back, even if
the fight was hopeless.
If there was indeed such a thing as the chain-perception
talent, he had decided some time ago, he was going to
produce it in himself. And in fact, he felt that he now had.
But for some reason he could not seem to make it operate
during an examination for work on the Mass. This afternoon
he had failed for the sixth time; and it had been a simple test.
The examiner had spilled a hundred grains of rice, each dyed
in one of five different colors, on a table in front of him; and
given him achromatic glasses to put on.
With the glasses on, the grains had all become one solid,
uniform gray—together with the desk, the room, and Mr. Alex
Waka, the examiner. Waka had hid the grains for a second
with a sheet of cardboard while he stirred them about. Then
he had taken the cardboard away, leaving Chaz to see if he
could separate out all the grains of any one color.
 Chaz had worked, lining up the grains he selected, so that
it would be possible to know afterwards where he had gone
right, or wrong. But, when he took the glasses off he had only
seventeen of the twenty red-colored grains in line before him.
Of the last three grains he had selected, the first two were
blue, the last yellow. Strong evidence of paranormal
talent—but not proof.
"Damn it!" Chaz had snapped, as close to losing his temper
as he ever let himself come nowadays. "I could feel something
getting in my way on those last three choices."
Waka nodded.
"No doubt. I don't doubt you feel you did." he answered,
sweeping the colored grains back into their box. He was a
small, round-bodied man dressed in a sand-brown jumpsuit,
a three-inch fringe haircut drooping over the low forehead of