"Martin H. Greenberg & Mark Tier - Give Me Liberty" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenberg Martin H)

Ah, but you might respond, if there's no government wouldn't society collapse into barbarism?
I suggest you read Eric Frank Russell's classic "And Then There Were None"—my favorite story in a
book full of favorites. If you've never read this story before (and quite likely you haven't as it's been out
of print for far too long) I envy you. I've re-read this story many times, but there's no time like the first
time.
The possibilities that Russell offers in just a few thousand words is mind-boggling.
Then there's Vernor Vinge's neglected gem, "The Ungoverned." As the "Republic" of New Mexico
invades the peaceful anarchy of Kansas where can your heart lie but with the truly free people—the
ungoverned?
Do you sometimes think that bureaucrats should be strangled with their own red tape? Then you'll love
Russell's "And Then There Were None." Do you feel like dancing with joy when a ruthless dictatorship
collapses? Then you'll cheer along with Murray Leinster in "Historical Note." And shouldn't petty
tyrants get their just deserts? They have no choice but to surrender in "Gadget vs. Trend" by Christopher
Anvil—and are delightfully defenseless in van Vogt's "The Weapon Shop."
I feel sure you can't fail to be inspired by these wonderful stories about the ultimate freedom. Whether
I'm right about that, I know you're in for a lot of fun in the following pages.




file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...rg%20&%20Mark%20Tier%20-%20Give%20Me%20Liberty.html (7 of 203)22-2-2006 0:37:25
 Give Me Liberty




MONUMENT
Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

I

It came to O'Brien quite suddenly that he was dying.
He was lying in a sturdy woven-vine hammock, almost within reach of the flying spray where the waves
broke in on the point. The caressing warmth of the sun filtered through the ragged sao trees. The shouts
of the boys spearing fish off the point reached him fitfully on playful gusts of fragrant wind. A full
gourd hung at his elbow. He had been half-dozing in a drowsy state of peaceful contentment when the
realization snapped coldly across his idle thoughts and roused him to icy wakefulness.
He was dying.
The fact of death disturbed him less than the realization that he should have thought of it sooner. Death
was inevitable from the instant of birth, and O'Brien was a long lifetime from babyhood. He wondered,
sometimes, just how old he might be. Certainly a hundred, perhaps even a hundred and fifty. In this
dreamy land, where there were no seasons, where the nights were moist and the days warm and sunny,
where men measured age by wisdom, it was difficult to keep an alert finger on the elusive pulse of time.
It was impossible.
But O'Brien did not need a calendar to tell him he was an old man. The flaming-red hair of his youth had
faded to a rusty gray. His limbs were stiff each morning from the night's dampness. The solitary hut he
had built on the lovely rise of ground above the point had grown to a sprawling village, as his sons, and
grandsons and great-grandsons, and now great-great grandsons, brought home their wives. It was the
village of langru, the village of fire-topped men, already famous, already a legend. Maidens were eager
to mate with the young men of fire, whether their hair was red or the native blond. The sturdiest youths