"Jack Vance -- Abercrombie Station" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vance Jack)

Abercrombie Station
Jack Vance
Thrilling Wonder Stories
February, 1952

The idea behind this story is highly ingenious and novel; in fact I'll go so far as to say
"inspired." I wish only that I had formulated it myself. In point of fact the concept was
generated somewhere within the hyperdimensional recesses of Damon Knight's intellect.
This is how I happened to write the story. During the time that Damon edited the
maga-zine World's Beyond , I sold him two stories: "The New Prime" and "The Secret." One
day in casual conversation he outlined the idea upon which "Abercrombie Station" is built,
and in effect commissioned the story.
I produced the required verbiage, but just as I imprinted the final period, World's
Be-yond folded and I sold the story elsewhere. A year or two later I saw Damon, who by this
time had forgotten the entire transaction. He paid me a generous if rather wistful
com-pliment upon the theme of the story. "Oddly enough," said Damon, "at one time I had a
very similar notion, but never got around to writing the story."
I finally inquired, "Damon, don't you re-member when you tossed me this idea and
ordered it written up for World's Beyond? "
Damon was and is much too polite to contradict me, and I take this occasion to
acknowledge his contribution to the story which follows.
An interesting footnote to my connection with World's Beyond concerns "The Secret,"
the second story I sold Damon. When World's Beyond folded it carried with it into limbo the
still unpublished story which thereupon mysteri-ously vanished and was seen no more.
About five years later I rewrote the story, using the same title. Again "The Secret"
disappeared, somewhere after leaving Scott Meredith's office, but before finding a market. I
have searched high and low for carbons to these stories without success; both versions
have vanished without a trace. I can surmise only that I brushed upon an elemental verity,
most truly secret indeed, and that one or another of the Upper Forces saw fit to expunge the
dangerous knowledge before it gained currency. I will not attempt a third version; I value my
life and sanity, and can take a hint.

I

The doorkeeper was a big hard-looking man with an unwholesome horse-face, a skin like corroded zinc.
Two girls spoke to him, asking arch questions.
Jean saw him grunt noncommittally. "Just stick around; I can't give out no dope."
He motioned to the girl sitting beside Jean, a blond girl, very smartly turned out. She rose to her feet;
the door-keeper slid back the door. The blond girl walked swiftly through into the inner room; the door
closed behind her.
She moved tentatively forward, stopped short.
A man sat quietly on an old-fashioned leather couch, watching through half-closed eyes.
Nothing frightening here, was her initial impression. He was young—twenty-four or twenty-five.
Mediocre, she thought, neither tall nor short, stocky nor lean. His hair was nondescript, his features
without distinction, his clothes unobtrusive and neutral.
 He shifted his position, opened his eyes a flicker. The blond girl felt a quick pang. Perhaps she had
been mistaken.
"How old are you?"
"I'm—twenty."
"Take off your clothes."