"Harlan Ellison - Paingod & Other Delusions" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ellison Harlan)

bastards who own the corporations. They wanta kill all of you, all of us, everyone of us. They want us to say, ‘Hey!
C’mon, make love to my sister, to my wife, do all the dirty things that’ll pollute my pure race!’ That’s what the Commies
in public office, misusing our public trust, say to us. And what do we say in return, back to them, we say, ‘No dice,
dirty spicks, lousy kikes, Puerto bastards, black men that want to steal our pure heritage!’ We say, go to hell to them,
go straight to hell, you dirty rotten sonsuh-”
At which point the policemen moved quietly through the crowd, fascinated and silent like cobras at a
mongoose convention, and arrested the thick-bodied orator.
As they took him away, Colin Marshack turned and moved out of the milling group. Why is such
hideousness allowed to exist, he thought bitterly, fearfully. He walked down the path and out of Pershing Square
(“Pershing Square is where they have a fence up so the fruits can’t pick the people.”) and did not even realize the
rheumy-eyed old man was following him till he was six blocks away.
Then he turned, and the old man almost ran into him...Something I can do for you?” Colin Marshack asked.
The old man grinned feebly, his pale gums exposing themselves above gap-toothed ruin. “Nosir, nuh-nosir,
I’ve just, uh, I was just follerin’ along to see maybe I could tap yah for a couple cents ‘tuh get some chick’n noodle
soup. It’s kinda cold...’n I thought, maybe...”
Colin Marshack’s wide, somehow humorous face settled into understanding lines. “You’re right, old man, it’s
cold, and it’s windy, and it’s miserable, and I think you’re entitled to some goddam chicken noodle soup. God knows
someone’s entitled.” He paused a beat, added, “Maybe me.”
He took the old man by the arm, seemingly unaware of the rancid, rotting condition of the cloth. They walked
along the street outside the park, and turned into one of the many side routes littered with one-arm beaneries and
40¢-a-night flophouses.
“And possibly a hot roast beef sandwich with gravy allover the French fries,” Colin added, steering the
wine-smelling old derelict into a restaurant.
Over coffee and a bear claw, Colin Marshack stared at the old man. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Pieter Koslek,” the old man murmured, hot vapors from the thick white coffee mug rising up before his
watery eyes. “I’ve, uh, been kinda sick, y’know....”
“Too much sauce, old man,” said Colin Marshack. “Too much sauce does it for a lot of us. My father and
mother both. Nice folk, loved each other, they went to the old alky’s home hand in hand. It was touching. “
“You’re kinda feelin’ sorry for y’self, ain’tcha?” said Pieter Koslek. And looked down at his coffee hurriedly.
Colin stared across angrily. Had he sunk that low, that quickly, that even the seediest cockroach-ridden bum
in the gutter could snipe at him, talk up to him, see his sad and sorry state? He tried to lift his coffee cup, and the
cream-laced liquid sloshed over the rim, over his wrist. He yipped and set the cup down quickly.
“Your hands shake worse’n mine, mister,” Pieter Koslek noted. It was a curious tone, somehow devoid of
feeling or concern-more a statement of observation.
“Yeah, my hands shake, Mr. Koslek, sir. They shake because I make my living cutting things out of stone,
and for the past two years I’ve been unable to get anything from stone but tidy piles of rock dust.”
Koslek spoke around a mouthful of cruller. “You, uh, you’re one’a them statue makers, what I mean a
sculpt’r.”
“That is precisely what I am, Mr. Koslek, sir. I am a capturer of exquisite beauty in rock and plaster and quartz
and marble. The only trouble is, I’m no damned good, and I was never ever really very good, but at least I made a
decent living selling a piece here and there, and conning myself into thinking I was great and building a career, and
Canaday in the Times said a few nice things about me. But even that’s turned to rust now. I can’t make a chisel do
what I want it to do, I can’t sand and I can’t chip and I can’t carve dirty words on sidewalks if I try.”
Pieter Koslek stared across at Colin Marshack, and there was a banked fire down in those rheumy, sad old
eyes. He watched and looked and saw the hands shaking uncontrollably, saw them wring one against another like mad
things, and even when interlocked, they still trembled hideously.
And...
Trente, locked within an alien shell, comprehended a small something. This creature of puny carbon atoms
and other substances that could not exist for an instant in the rigorous arena of space, was dying. Inside, it was
ending its life cycle, because of the misery Trente had sent down. Trente had been responsible for the quivering pain