"Philip E. High - These Savage Futurians" - читать интересную книгу автора (High Phillip E)

showing." Then, more gently: "Look, its an experimental culture. It is
housed, clothed, medically examined and controlled. This culture, if it is to
succeed, cannot afford variants. Four generations of psycho-genetic
control cannot be done in for the sake of one lousy variant. God, man! All
the specimens are well-treated, well-fed, literate, within limitations. All we
do is guide."

Matheson shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder—I wonder if it will ever
mature. A few hundred thousand villages dotting the coastlines of the
world—will they ever form the basis of a new and stable civilization?"

Hobart spread his hands. "The cultures inland are not permitted to
exist for nothing but for comparison purposes, so let's do a little
comparing, eh? What have we got inland? A host of blasted savages that
almost go back to the Stone Age. It is true that some possess a few ancient
fire-arms but the picture is there for anyone to see. These savages are
divided into groups or, more correctly, tribes. These tribes fight wars, hold
superstitious rites, and entertain forms of government that go right back
to the cave-dweller. Absolute dictatorship under a king or paranoic leader,
they employ witch-doctors, medicine men and morally and hygienically
they are so many beasts."

Matheson nodded but was still obviously dubious. "This man"—he
glanced at the message again—"this man Ventnor is heading for the wild
areas—why do I have to endorse his execution? They'll kill him—if not the
savages it will be something else. He can't survive."

"Orders are orders, my friend. We make dead sure."

"I suppose so." Matheson nodded then endorsed the order with a
peculiar suggestion of savagery. "You're right, everyone is right,
nonetheless I cannot escape the feeling that we think we're omnipotent…"

Ventnor walked stiffly onwards. Strangely, for a virtual primitive, he
was a realist almost to the point of fatalism. He could add it up on his
fingers. If they said they would stop him from going back, they would stop
him. If he did not go back, his absence would be reported and his very
presence in forbidden territory would ensure his execution.

Ventnor did not want to die but he was fully aware of the fact that he
was going to. He was resigned, bitterly resigned; he hadn't done anything,
not deliberately.

He shrugged. Might as well go on, what difference did it make? He had
about three days before they sent a marker—if this hostile territory
permitted him to live that long.

Lengthening shadows reminded him that darkness was coming and he
realized suddenly that he was tired to the point of exhaustion.