"Greg Egan - Permutation City (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Egan Greg)

PROLOGUE
(Rip, tie, cut toy man)

June 2045

Paul Durham opened his eyes, blinking at the room's unexpected brightness, then lazily reached out
to place one hand in a patch of sunlight at the edge of the bed. Dust motes drifted across the
shaft of light which slanted down from a gap between the curtains, each speck appearing for all
the world to be conjured into, and out of, existence-evoking a childhood memory of the last time
he'd found this illusion so compelling, so hypnotic: He stood in the kitchen doorway, afternoon
light slicing the room; dust, flour and steam swirling in the plane of bright air. For one sleep-
addled moment, still trying to wake, to collect himself, to order his life, it seemed to make as
much sense to place these two fragments side by side-watching sunlit dust motes, forty years apart-
as it did to follow the ordinary flow of time from one instant to the next. Then he woke a little
more, and the confusion passed.


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Paul felt utterly refreshed-and utterly disinclined to give up his present state of comfort. He
couldn't think why he'd slept so late, but he didn't much care. He spread his fingers on the sun-
warmed sheet, and thought about drifting back to sleep.
He closed his eyes and let his mind grow blank-and then caught himself, suddenly uneasy, without
knowing why. He 'd done something foolish, something insane, something he was going to regret,
badly . . . but the details remained elusive, and he began to suspect that it was nothing more
than the lingering mood of a dream. He tried to recall exactly what he'd dreamed, without much
hope; unless he was catapulted awake
2
by a nightmare, his dreams were usually evanescent. And yet-
He leaped out of bed and crouched down on the carpet, fists to his eyes, face against his knees,
lips moving soundlessly. The shock of realization was a palpable thing: a red lesion behind his
eyes, pulsing with blood ... like the aftermath of a hammer blow to the thumb-and tinged with the
very same mixture of surprise, anger, humiliation and idiot bewilderment. Another childhood
memory: He held a nail to the wood, yes-but only to camouflage his true intentions. He 'd seen his
father injure himself this way-but he knew that he needed first-hand experience to understand the
mystery of pain. And he was sure that it would be worth it, right up to the moment when he swung
the hammer down-
He rocked back and forth, on the verge of laughter, trying to keep his mind blank, waiting for the
panic to subside. And eventually, it did-to be replaced by one simple, perfectly coherent thought:
/ don't want to be here.
What he'd done to himself was insane-and it had to be undone, as swiftly and painlessly as
possible. How could he have ever imagined reaching any other conclusion?
Then he began to remember the details of his preparations. He'd anticipated feeling this way. He'd
planned for it. However bad he felt, it was all part of the expected progression of responses.
Panic. Regret. Analysis. Acceptance.
Two out of four, so far, so good.
Paul uncovered his eyes. and looked around the room. Away from a few dazzling patches of direct
sunshine, everything glowed softly in the diffuse light: the matte white brick walls, the
imitation (imitation) mahogany furniture; even the posters-Bosch, Dali, Ernst, and Giger-looked