"Kurt Vonnegut - The Sirens of Titan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vonnegut Kurt)

million dollars out of his own pocket for it — that was style.
When the governments of the earth suspended all space exploration because of the chrono-
synclastic infundibula, and Rumfoord announced that he was going to Mars — that was style.
When Rumfoord announced that he was taking a perfectly tremendous dog along, as though a
space ship were nothing more than a sophisticated sports car, as though a trip to Mars were little
more than a spin down the Connecticut Turnpike — that was style.
When it was unknown what would happen if a space ship went into a chrono-synclastic
infundibulum, and Rumfoord steered a course straight for the middle of one — that was gallantry
indeed.

To contrast Malachi Constant of Hollywood with Winston Niles Rumfoord of Newport and
Eternity:
Everything Rumfoord did he did with style, making all mankind look good.
Everything Constant did he did in style — aggressively, loudly, childishly, wastefully —
making himself and mankind look bad.
Constant bristled with courage — but it was anything but un-neurotic. Every courageous thing
he had ever done had been motivated by spitefulness and by goads from childhood that made
fear seem puny indeed.

Constant, having just heard from Rumfoord that he was to be mated to Rumfoord's wife on
Mars, looked away from Rumfoord to the museum of remains along one wall. Constant's hands
were clasped together, tightening on each other pulsingly.
Constant cleared his throat several times. Then he whistled thinly between his tongue and the
roof of his mouth. In all, he was behaving like a man who was waiting for a terrible pain to pass.
He closed his eyes and sucked in air between his teeth. "Loo dee doo, Mr. Rumfoord," he said
softly. He opened his eyes. "Mars?" be said.
"Mars," said Rumfoord. "Of course, that isn't your ultimate destination — or Mercury either."
"Mercury?" said Constant. He made an unbecoming quack of that lovely name.
"Your destination is Titan," said Rumfoord, "but you visit Mars, Mercury, and Earth again
before you get there."

It is crucial to understand at what point in the history of punctual space exploration it was that
Malachi Constant received the news of his prospective visits to Mars, Mercury, Earth, and Titan.
The state of mind on Earth with regard to space exploration was much like the state of mind in
Europe with regard to exploration of the Atlantic before Christopher Columbus set out.
There were these important differences, however: the monsters between space explorers and
their goals were not imaginary, but numerous, hideous, various, and uniformly cataclysmic; the
cost of even a small expedition was enough to ruin most nations; and it was a virtual certainty
that no expedition could increase the wealth of its sponsors.
In short, on the basis of horse sense and the best scientific information, there was nothing good
to be said for the exploration of space.
The time was long past when one nation could seem more glorious than another by hurling
some heavy object into nothingness. Galactic Spacecraft, a corporation controlled by Malachi
Constant, had, as a matter of fact, received the very last order for such a showpiece, a rocket
three hundred feet high and thirty-six feet in diameter. It had actually been built, but the fire
order had never come.
The ship was called simply The Whale, and was fitted with living quarters for five passengers.
What had brought everything to such an abrupt halt was the discovery of the chrono-synclastic
infundibula. They had been discovered mathematically, on the basis of bizarre flight patterns of
unmanned ships sent out, supposedly, in advance of men.