"Mike Resnick & David Gerrold - Jellyfish" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

from the place that had once been called Tryllifandillor. “These creatures
are too full of their own selves. They are hard to con-trol.”

Purple Rippling said, “Apparently, they cannot control their own
thoughts—a fact that had been known to editors and readers for
decades—there-fore neither can we control them.”

Vaguely Inconsistent, one of the oldest and wis-est monitors,
suggested: “If they start to think about us, we could be affected.”

“These are science fiction writers. Everyone knows they don’t think,”
replied Cute Puce.

“Ah, but there’s one who does,” transmitted Small Brown. “In fact, he
just typed this sentence.”

****

FINK PULLED HIS hands away from the laptop, shuddering with a sudden
chill. Reluctantly, as if he was afraid that the machine would bite him again,
he reached over and pressed the Control key and the S key at the same
time. There, the file was saved. Whatever it was.

****

HAVE A CARE, Filk. You’re forgetting which part of this is the fictional
narrative. Just show what’s happening to the writers/Jellyfish and the
moni-tors. Don’t show us the thought processes that go into it—and
especially not in italics.

****

I’LL SHOW WHATEVER I want to show, dammit.

For the first time in his life, Dillon K. Filk spoke back to the voices.
Angrily.

I’m in charge of this story! You’ll do what I say. So don’t bug me.

There are no bugs in this story. Except for Bug McWhorter, and he
was mentioned just once in passing and doesn’t really count.

So don’t hassle me.
 ****

FILK SLAMMED THE door behind him. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes
(which shall remain gener-ic, since none of the companies he wrote to were
willing to part with a product placement fee), struck a match with his thumb,
and inhaled a thick gray stream of nicotine-infused smoke. He stood on the
front porch, shivering and shaking, staring at a space that didn’t exist—at