"Mike Resnick - Death is an Acquired Trait" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

different dimensions was visited and thoroughly ransacked for a solution, but none could be found.
So we went back to our other studies, but always, just beneath the surface of our examinations,
was the ever-present desire to find a way to die. I remember that we finally got around to playing with
Time, turning it inside-out and upside-down. Ostensibly these were just mental exercises, but each of us
knew the real purpose of our endeavors: if we could just find a way to make Time flow backward to a
point a few seconds before Raxrgh Ghhouule figured out how to free us from our mortal bodies, we
might find a way to silence him and thus attain blessed oblivion.
But it was not to be. Time buckled here and there, yielded to this pressure and that, but ultimately
we were forced to admit that we could not rend its fabric and return to that fateful moment.
Then one day little Plooka Pitzm -- one of my own beloved krrtz -- wasn't there anymore. We
were at first disbelieving, then worried, and finally hopeful. Had she actually found a way to die? It was
almost too good to be true -- and indeed, it wasn't true at all. We found her, at last, in the odoriferous
universe of Blimm (it's made primarily of old Munster cheese, and is three vibratory levels removed from
this one), humming happily to herself. For a moment I feared that she had lost her mind, but she soon
became aware of our collective presence and explained that, as bored as she was with existence in
general, she was most especially bored with our company, and no longer wished to be associated with
us.
What could we do but accede to her wishes? The problem was that soon many other members
of my race decided to strike out for a solitary life, and this left even less of us to work on the problem of
ending our existence, solitary or otherwise.
Then, suddenly, Pratsch Pratsch Pratsch (he certainly does like the sound of his name!) went
stark staring mad. He began gibbering like an idiot, singing bawdy verses gathered from a trillion worlds,
and muttering obscenities to himself, interspersing all this with maniacal giggling.
For a time we debated whether or not to cure him, and finally concluded that he would be far
happier like this than returning to our unending boredom and sanity. Well, Pratsch Pratsch Pratsch ranted
and raved for almost 37 million years, when finally the madness ran its course amd he became his old self
again. It was then that we began to realize that even total insanity was at best a temporary oasis in this
vast desert of boredom.
So that's where matters stand now. About half my race has decided to cut all ties with the
remaining unit, and on any given day another tenth of us are quite mad (although, alas, only temporarily.)
We still seek our demise, as a race or as individuals, but it seems less and less likely. After all,
that's the problem with immortality: by definition, you are deathless.
My only pleasure now is to try to prevent other races from making the same horrible mistake we
made. I think I've just saved the natives of Aldebaren XII from it, and hopefully I've hindered that
chemist on Gamma Epsilon II enough that he'll never accomplish it either.
And so here I am, talking to you. You see, there's this kid in Omaha who's got a little gerrybuilt
laboratory in his basement. He's got some drycell batteries, and a few bread molds, and he seems to be
on the right track. (It's not all that hard to do once you get the knack. Ask Raxrgh Ghhouule -- he'll tell
you.)
Anyway, this kid doesn't know what he's doing, but his sister is dating a grad student from the
University of Nebraska, and this student's best friend is...
Well, you get the picture.
There is only one past; it is a fixed and immutable thing. But there are an infinite number of
futures. In most of them the secret of immortality will be safe from you, but in some it won't be -- and
believe me, it's not worth the risk.
So step in front of an oncoming train, or find some painless but lethal narcotic, or stick your head
in a gas oven.
I've seen your planet form, seen it go from a molten world to a thing of gossamer beauty. I've
watched your race crawl out of the water, stand erect, sprout thumbs, conquer fire, invent the wheel,
harness the atom. I couldn't love you more if you were my own children. I have only one wish for you.