"Egan, Greg - Demon's Passage, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

inanimate objects, and behaviour patterns in general suggesting a fairly high
level of curiosity about the universe, humans didn't really know what the fuck
they were doing. Humans didn't even realise that rats were alive, let alone
conscious. Humans didn't worship the demon Spinecrusher, they didn't even know
it was a demon. They thought they were playing with it, they thought it was a
toy. Humans didn't know about right and wrong; they were as innocent, and as
foolish, as sightless babies.
"And soon, like any unsupervised children, they'll blunder into something
dangerous that they don't understand, and that will be the end of them."
I "got through" thirty-seven rats. After that I was too big, so they started me
on rabbits. They cut away a section of the skull to expose the host's brain,
then link up my circulatory system (bits of which I have plundered from dozens
of different hosts over my lifetime) to that of the host. As a brain without a
body of my own to babysit, I have no portions wasted on motor control, the five
traditional senses, hormone regulation, or any such trivia. I don't need to keep
a heart pumping, lungs bellowing, stomach satisfied, bowels moving, genitals
propagating. I have no task but thought. What a life! I hear you mumbling
enviously. What a life.
Free from mundane responsibilities, free from needs and noises, I have developed
my one special skill: I can read the minds of every creature on the planet (to
some degree or other); but it is to you, people, to you alone that I direct my
plea.
But how many of you are listening? Nobody in this huge white kindergarten pays
me any attention at all, however often I try to sneak between their dreary
thoughts of publication and promotion, however frequently I colour their
nightmares with my invisible bile. Even the gentlest of the keepers, those who
treat my hosts like beloved pets, almost like children, have a sudden core of
iron when I probe their minds for mercy. The Experiment is God, and the shutters
of unquestioning faith slam down (leaving not a ripple of emotion leaking
through) at the slightest hint of any other point of view. And yet they all
freely admit, giggling with the very mildest embarrassment, or, more often,
wearily nonchalant, that The Experiment is a whore, that the figures are always
cooked, weighted, filtered, or just plain fabricated. Everyone here would die
for the sake of truth. Everyone here lies constantly for the tiniest chance of
personal gain. This is what it means to be a scientist.
Ah, but you are not scientists, are you, my heaving masses, my darling, drooling
ocean of ignorance and fear! So where are you? Where is the tidal wave smashing
down the doors of this shrine to evil? I've given you blood-lust, I've given you
revulsion, what more do you need? What is it? What's holding you back?
I know. You still trust the white coats. Deep down you still think they're a
uniform of honour. God help you all, indoctrinated by doctors since before you
were born, your weary mothers' swollen legs spread before the serious,
raster-lined faces of Ben Casey and Dr Kildare.
And, sure, you care about cruelty, but this isn't shampoo in the eyes of cuddly
bunnies for greed and vanity alone, this is Medical Research: humanitarian,
noble, dedicated to the betterment of telegenic crippled children who glance up
shyly and then smile the smile that breaks your heart and floods the hotlines
with tax-deductible pledges. Sure, some animals might have to be bred to suffer
and die, but the suffering or death of a million rats and rabbits will all be
justified when a single human life is saved.