Роберт Шекли / Robert Sheckley
Citizen in Spase. Stories / Гражданин в Космосе. Рассказы. Книга для чтения на английском языке
Подготовка текста, комментарии и словарь К.Ю. Михно
© КАРО, 2010
Об авторе
Роберт Шекли, один из популярнейших в России писателей-фантастов, родился в 1928 году в Бруклине (Нью-Йорк). После службы в армии в Корее учился в техническом колледже, а по окончании учебы пошел работать на металлургический завод.
С 1951 года Шекли начинает профессиональную деятельность писателя. Неудивительно, что, будучи поклонником Брэдбери и Каттнера, он стал писать полные юмора фантастические рассказы. Первые же публикации в научно-фантастических журналах принесли ему любовь читателей и большую заинтересованность издательств в его творчестве. «Я куплю все, что вы напишете, потому что я продам все, что вы напишете», как-то сказал ему один из издателей. По словам Шекли, это были самые счастливые годы в его жизни. Он снимал маленькую квартирку в тихом центре Нью-Йорка, сочинял по несколько рассказов в неделю, сам печатал их на машинке и развозил по редакциям.
В 1954 году Шекли стал лауреатом премии «Лучший дебют» престижной премии в области фантастики. Маститые коллеги по перу и критики признали его лучшим фантастом 19501960-х годов.
Впоследствии Шекли, следуя требованиям рынка, пробует себя и в больших литературных формах, не столь успешно в не столь любимом для себя жанре. Его перу принадлежат также несколько детективных рассказов, написанные, в основном, под псевдонимами.
Одно из самых известных, любимых читателями и наиболее высоко отмеченных критиками крупных произведений Шекли повесть «Координаты чудес» (1968) о Томе Кармоди, первом и единственном из землян, кто вследствие ошибки интергалактического компьютера выиграл в галактической лотерее приз. На обратном пути из Галактического центра на Землю Кармоди ждут невероятные встречи со всевозможными богами, которые помогают ему по мере сил, в обмен прося у него обычного человека помощи в решении проблем божественных. В этой повести проявились неисчерпаемая фантазия Шекли, уникальная философия, он представил оригинальные версии создания мира и науки и поиска смысла жизни, переосмыслил понятия добра и зла.
Несмотря на то что произведения Шекли постоянно публиковались, его известность на родине не была особенно широка, зато он приобрел необычайную популярность в СССР в те годы самой читающей стране в мире. Во времена «железного занавеса» любая переводная литература воспринималась читающей публикой как глоток свободы, а фирменный стиль Шекли яркий интригующий сюжет, подчас парадоксальный юмор и неожиданная ударная концовка способствовал его славе. В конце 1990-х годов в Петербурге ему вручили премию «Странник» за сатиру в научной фантастике.
Весной 2005 года Шекли поехал на Украину для участия в литературном конвенте «Портал». Вследствие простуды и усталости он заболел, так и не смог оправиться от болезни и 9 декабря того же года скончался после неудачно проведенной операции в городе Покипси, штат Нью-Йорк.
The Mountain Without a Name
When Morrison left headquarters tent, Dengue the observer was asleep with his mouth open, sprawled loosely in a canvas chair. Morrison took care not to awaken him. He had enough trouble on his hands.
He had to see a deputation of natives, the same idiots who had been drumming from the cliffs. And then he had to supervise the destruction of the mountain without a name. His assistant, Ed Lerner, was there now. But first, he had to check the most recent accident.
It was noon when he walked through the work camp, and the men were taking their lunch break, leaning against their gigantic machines as they ate sandwiches and sipped coffee. It looked normal enough, but Morrison had been bossing planetary construction long enough to know the bad signs. No one kidded him, no one griped. They simply sat on the dusty ground in the shade of their big machines, waiting for something else to happen.
A big Owens Landmover had been damaged this time. It sagged on its broken axle where the wrecking gang had left it. The two drivers were sitting in the cab, waiting for him.
How did it happen? Morrison asked.
I dont know, the chief driver said, wiping perspiration from his eyes. Felt the road lift out. Spun sideways, sorta.
Morrison grunted and kicked the Owens gigantic front wheel. A Landmover could drop twenty feet onto rock and come up without a scratched fender. They were the toughest machines built. Five of his were out of commission now.
Nothings going right on this job, the assistant driver said, as though that explained everything.
Youre getting careless, Morrison said. You cant wheel that rig like you were on Earth. How fast were you going?
We were doing fifteen miles an hour, the chief driver said.
Sure you were, Morrison said.
Its the truth! The road sorta dropped out
Yeah, Morrison said. When will you guys get it through your thick skulls you arent driving the Indianapolis speedway. Im docking you both a half-days wages.[1]
He turned and walked away. They were angry at him now. Good enough, if it helped take their superstitious minds off the planet.
He was starting toward the mountain without a name when the radio operator leaned out of his shack and called, For you, Morrie. Earth.
Morrison took the call. At full amplification he could just recognize the voice of Mr. Shotwell, chairman of the board of Transterran Steel. He was saying, Whats holding things up?
Accidents, Morrison said.
More accidents?
Im afraid so, sir.
There was a moments silence. Mr. Shotwell said, But why, Morrison? Its a soft planet on the specs[2]. Isnt it?
Yes sir, Morrison admitted unwillingly. Weve had a run of bad luck. But well roll.[3]
I hope so, Mr. Shotwell said. I certainly hope so. Youve been there nearly a month, and you havent built a single city, or port, or even a highway! Our first advertisements have appeared. Inquiries are rolling in. There are people who want to settle there, Morrison! Businesses and service industries to move in.
I know that, sir.
Im sure you do. But they require a finished planet, and they need definite moving dates. If we cant give it to them, General Construction can, or Earth-Mars, or Johnson and Hearn. Planets arent that scarce. You understand that, dont you?
Morrisons temper had been uncertain since the accidents had started. Now it flared suddenly. He shouted, What in hell do you want out of me? Do you think Im stalling? You can take your lousy contract and
Now, now, Mr. Shotwell said hurriedly. I didnt mean anything personally, Morrison. We believe we know that youre the best man in planetary construction. But the stockholders
Ill do the best I can, Morrison said, and signed off.
Rough, rough, the radio operator murmured. Maybe the stockholders would like to come out here with their little shovels?
Forget it, Morrison said, and hurried off.
Lerner was waiting for him at Control Point Able, gazing somberly at the mountain. It was taller than Everest on Earth, and the snow on its upper ranges glowed pink in the afternoon sun. It had never been named.
Charges all planted? Morrison asked.
Another few hours. Lerner hesitated. Aside from being Morrisons assistant, he was an amateur conservationist, a small, careful, graying man.
Its the tallest mountain on the planet, Lerner said. Couldnt you save it?
Not a chance. This is the key location. We need an ocean port right here.
Lerner nodded, and looked regretfully at the mountain. Its a real pity. No ones ever climbed it.
Morrison turned quickly and glared at his assistant. Look, Lerner, he said. I am aware that no one has ever climbed that mountain. I recognize the symbolism inherent in destroying that mountain. But you know as well as I do that it has to go. Why rub it in?[4]
I wasnt
My job isnt to admire scenery. I hate scenery. My job is to convert this place to the specialized needs of human beings.
Youre pretty jumpy, Lerner said.
Just dont give me any more of your sly innuendoes.
All right.
Morrison wiped his sweaty hands against his pants leg. He smiled faintly, apologetically, and said, Lets get back to camp and see what that damned Dengue is up to.
They turned and walked away. Glancing back, Lerner saw the mountain without a name outlined red against the sky.
Even the planet was nameless. Its small native population called it Umgcha or Ongja, but that didnt matter. It would have no ofifcial name until the advertising staff of Transterran Steel figured out something semantically pleasing to several million potential settlers from the crowded inner planets. In the meantime, it was simply referred to as Work Order 35. Several thousand men and machines were on the planet, and at Morrisons order they would fan out, destroy mountains, build up plains, shift whole forests, redirect rivers, melt ice caps, mold continents, dig new seas, do everything to make Work Order 35 another suitable home for homo sapiens unique and demanding technological civilization.
Dozens of planets had been rearranged to the terran standard. Work Order 35 should have presented no unusual problems. It was a quiet place of gentle fields and forests, warm seas and rolling hills. But something was wrong with the tamed land. Accidents happened, past all statistical probability, and a nervous camp chain-reacted to produce more. Everyone helped. There were fights between bulldozer men and explosions men. A cook had hysterics over a tub of mashed potatoes, and the bookkeepers spaniel bit the accountants ankle. Little things led to big things.
And the job a simple job on an uncomplicated planet had barely begun.
In headquarters tent Dengue was awake, squinting judiciously at a whiskey and soda.
What ho? he called. How goes the good work?
Fine, Morrison said.
Glad to hear it, Dengue said emphatically. I like watching you lads work. Efifciency. Sureness of touch. Know-how.
Morrison had no jurisdiction over the man or his tongue. The government construction code stipulated that observers from other companies could be present at all projects. This was designed to reinforce the courts method-sharing decision in planetary construction. But practically, the observer looked, not for improved methods, but for hidden weaknesses which his own company could exploit. And if he could kid the construction boss into a state of nerves, so much the better. Dengue was an expert at that.
And what comes next? Dengue asked.
Were taking down a mountain, Lerner said.
Good! Dengue cried, sitting upright. That big one? Excellent. He leaned back and stared dreamily at the ceiling. That mountain was standing while Man was grubbing in the dirt for insects and scavenging what the saber-tooth left behind. Lord, its even older than that! Dengue laughed happily and sipped his drink. That mountain overlooked the sea when Man I refer to our noble species homo sapiens was a jellyfish, trying to make up its mind between land and sea.
All right, Morrison said, thats enough.
Dengue looked at him shrewdly. But Im proud of you, Morrison, Im proud of all of us. Weve come a long way since the jellyfish days. What nature took a million years to erect we can tear down in a single day. We can pull that dinky mountain apart and replace it with a concrete and steel city guaranteed to last a century!
Shut up, Morrison said, walking forward, his face glowing. Lerner put a restraining hand on his shoulder. Striking an observer was a good way to lose your ticket.
Dengue finished his drink and intoned sonorously, Stand aside, Mother Nature! Tremble, ye deep-rooted rocks and hills, murmur with fear, ye immemorial ocean sea, down to your blackest depths where monsters unholy glide in eternal silence! For Great Morrison has come to drain the sea and make of it a placid pond, to level the hills and build upon them twelve-lane super highways, complete with restrooms for trees, picnic tables for shrubs, diners for rocks, gas stations for caves, billboards for mountain streams, and other fanciful substitutions of the demigod Man.
Morrison arose abruptly and walked out, followed by Lerner. He felt that it would almost be worthwhile to beat Dengues face in and give up the whole crummy job. But he wouldnt do it because that was what Dengue wanted, what he was hired to accomplish.