"Philip Jose Farmer - Dayworld rebel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

"You have to be nuts," he muttered. "Here you~are, you've gotten what you wanted, and yet you're
feeling panicky."
Conditioning, he thought. He'd been conditioned to feel that he was safe as long as the government
was watching him and making sure he didn't harm himself or anyone else.
There was no time to ponder the implications of the irra


tional. He began the hard and heavy work needed to get him out of this room-if indeed he could get
out of it.
The cylinders were paper-thin because they were made from paper. They, too, had been subjected to
stoning power, and their molecules were also slowed in their motions. Hence, they were heavy. He
uncoupled the power connection to the cable coming up from the wall behind Wednesday's cylinder,
and he began wrestling it toward the big round window. He had to reach up and grip the edge of the
top and lean it toward him. Not too far because then it would topple, and he would have to jump
out of the way before it crushed him. Once it was lying on its side on the floor, he could not
lift it upright again.
He rolled the tilted cylinder a few inches to his right on the edge of its round base. Then he
rolled it a few inches to the left. Each maneuver got the cylinder about one inch toward his goal.
Roll this way. Roll that way. Meanwhile, the wall chronometer flashed ever-increasing digits.
Time, he thought, while he grunted and groaned, sweat coating him. Time was the greatest of the
inevitables. Also the most indifferent of the indifferents. Perhaps Time, capital time, was the
real God. In which case, it should be worshiped, even though it would be ignorant of that and
uncaring if it knew.
At last, panting, eyes stinging with salt, he settled the cylinder on its base. He walked away
from it to the end of the room. Now he could see where its end would strike if it were to be
toppled eastward. He cursed. Its arc, the curve described by the top of the cylinder, would not
strike the center of the window. Cursing because he had cursed and so wasted breath he needed, he
ran to the cylinder, got behind it, pushed until it was tilted slightly toward the wall, worked
around it, got his shoulder under, gripped with both arms and rolled it slightly. His muscles
yelled at him to take it easier. He puffed and panted but got the cylinder a few inches forward.
Another run to the southern wall got him the perspective he needed. He smiled, though wearily.
Ten minutes left before the city came to life.


Actually, Manhattan was not entirely asleep.' There were a few civil servants, police personnel,
fire fighters, ambulance drivers, and others who were authorized to be destoned earlier than the
rest of the city. These, however, would be few and not near, and they would not know that an
outlaw daybreaker was on the loose.
On the loose!
His smile reflected his knowledge that he was not as yet free. And, if he did get out of this
place, he might not stay long out of
it.
Though he needed to rest, he had no time for it. After going to the west wall, he set his back to
it, against the area in front of which Wednesday's cylinder had been. Then he crouched like a
runner, his right heel against the base of the wall.
The starter's pistol went off in his head, and he was up and running. A few strides and he leaped
high, his torso falling back. Both his feet struck the back of the cylinder near its top. He
shouted at the same time as if his expressed wish would somehow aid his weight to topple the
cylinder.
He fell back, rolled, and landed on all fours.