Рэй Бредбери - Золотые яблоки солнца (The Golden Apples of the Sun), 1953

• Название: Золотые яблоки солнца (The Golden Apples of the Sun), 1953
• Автор: Рэй Бредбери
• Жанр: Научная Фантастика

В этом сборнике писатель позволяет себе отойти от научной фантастики, публикуя реалистичные истории, сказки и детективы, а фантастические рассказы сводя к зарисовкам («Вышивание»). Отличная книга, в которой видны, пожалуй, все грани Брэдбери-прозаика. В 2005-м году был переиздан под названием «И грянул гром» в преддверии выхода экранизации этого рассказа.

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"How did you feel during the week?"

"The fuse lit. On the edge of the cliff. That same afternoon I did what I did at the office."

"Which was?"

"I poured a paper cup of water into the intercommunications system."

The psychiatrist wrote on his pad.

"And the system shorted?"

"Beautifully! The Fourth of July on wheels! My God, stenographers ran around looking _lost_! What an uproar!"

"Felt better temporarily, eh?"

"Fine! Then I got the idea at noon of stamping my wrist radio on the sidewalk. A shrill voice was just yelling out of it at me, 'This is People's Poll Number Nine. What did you eat for lunch?' when I kicked the Jesus out of the wrist radio!"

"Felt even _better_, eh?"

"It _grew_ on me!" Brock rubbed his hands together. "Why didn't I start a solitary revolution, deliver man from certain 'conveniences'? 'Convenient for whom?' I cried. Convenient for friends: 'Hey, Al, thought I'd call you from the locker room out here at Green Hills. Just made a sockdolager hole in one! A hole in one, Al! A _beautiful_ day. Having a shot of whiskey now. Thought you'd want to know, Al!' Convenient for my office, so when I'm in the field with my radio car there's no moment when I'm not in touch. In _touch_! _There's_ a slimy phrase. Touch, hell. _Gripped!_ Pawed, rather. Mauled and massaged and pounded by FM voices. You can't leave your car without checking in: 'Have stopped to visit gas-station men's room.' 'Okay, Brock, step on it!' 'Brock, what _took_ you so long?' 'Sorry, sir.' 'Watch it next time, Brock.' 'Yes, sir!' So, do you know what I did, Doctor? I bought a quart of French chocolate ice cream and spooned it into the car radio transmitter."

"Was there any _special_ reason for selecting French chocolate ice cream to spoon into the broadcasting unit?"

Brock thought about it and smiled. "It's my favorite flavor."

"Oh," said the doctor.

"I figured, hell, what's good enough, for me is good enough for the radio transmitter."

"What made you think of spooning _ice cream_ into the radio?"

"It was a hot day."

The doctor paused.

"And what happened next?"

"Silence happened next. God, it was _beautiful_. That car radio cackling all day. Brock go here. Brock go there. Brock check in. Brock check out, okay Brock, hour lunch, Brock, lunch over, Brock, Brock, Brock. Well, that silence was like putting ice cream in my ears."

"You seem to like ice cream a lot."

"I just rode around feeling of the silence. It's a big bolt of the nicest, softest flannel ever made. Silence. A whole hour of it. I just sat in my car, smiling, feeling of that flannel with my ears. I felt _drunk_ with Freedom!"

"Go on."

"Then I got the idea of the portable diathermy machine. I rented one, took it on the bus going home that night. There sat all the tired commuters with their wrist radios, talking to their wives, saying, 'Now I'm at Forty-third, now I am at Forty-fourth, here I am at Forty-ninth, now turning at Sixty-first.' One husband cursing, 'Well, get _out_ of that bar, damn it, and get home and get dinner started, I'm at Seventieth!' And the transitsystem radio playing 'Tales from the Vienna Woods,' a canary singing words about a first-rate wheat cereal. Then I switched on my diathermy! Static! Interference! All wives cut off from husbands grousing about a hard day at the office. All husbands cut off from wives who had just seen their children break a window! The 'Vienna Woods' chopped down, the canary mangled! _Silence!_ A terrible, unexpected silence. The bus inhabitants faced with having to converse with each other. Panic! Sheer, animal panic!"

"The police seized you?"

"The bus _had_ to stop. After all, the music _was_ being scrambled, husbands and wives _were_ out of touch with reality. Pandemonium, riot, and chaos. Squirrels chattering in cages! A trouble unit arrived, triangulated on me instantly, had me reprimanded, fined, and home, minus my diathermy machine, in jig time."

"Mr. Brock, may I suggest that so far your whole pattern here is not very-practical? If you didn't like transit radios or office radios or car business radios, why didn't you join a fraternity of radio haters, start petitions, get legal and constitutional rulings? After all, this _is_ a democracy."

"And I," said Brock, "am that thing called a minority. I _did_ join fraternities, picket, pass petitions, take it to court. Year after year I protested. Everyone laughed. Everyone else _loved_ bus radios and commercials. _I_ was out of step."

"Then you should have taken it like a good soldier, don't you think? The majority rules."

"But they went too far. If a little music and 'keeping in touch' was charming, they figured a lot would be ten times as charming. I went _wild!_ I got home to find my wife hysterical. _Why?_ Because she had been completely out of touch with me for half a day. Remember, I did a dance on my wrist radio? Well, that night I laid plans to murder my house."

"Are you _sure_ that's how you want me to write it down?"

"That's semantically accurate. Kill it dead. It's one of those talking, singing, humming, weather-reporting, poetry-reading, novel-reciting, jingle-jangling, rockaby-crooning-when-you-go-to-bed houses. A house that screams opera to you in the shower and teaches you Spanish in your sleep. One of those blathering caves where all kinds of electronic Oracles make you feel a trifle larger than a thimble, with stoves that say, "I'm apricot pie, and I'm _done_.' or 'I'm prime roast beef, so _haste_ me!' and other nursery gibberish like that. With beds that rock you to sleep and _shake_ you awake. A house that _barely_ tolerates humans, I tell you. A front door that barks: 'You've mud on your feet, sir!' And an electronic vacuum hound that snuffles around after you from room to room, inhaling every fingernail or ash you drop. Jesus God, _I_ say, Jesus God!"

"Quietly," suggested the psychiatrist.

"Remember that Gilbert and Sullivan song – _I've Got It on My List, It Never Will Be Missed_? all night I listed grievances. Next morning early I bought a pistol. I _purposely_ muddied my feet. I stood at our front door. The front door shrilled, 'Dirty feet, muddy feet! Wipe your feet! Please be _neat_!' I shot the damn thing in its keyhole. I ran to the kitchen, where the stove was just whining, 'Turn me _over_!' In the middle of a mechanical omelet I did the stove to death. Oh, how it sizzled and screamed, 'I'm _shorted_!' Then the telephone rang like a spoiled brat. I shoved it down the Insinkerator. I must state here and now I have _nothing_ whatever against the Insinkerator; it was an innocent bystander. I feel sorry for it now, a practical device indeed, which never said a word, purred like a sleepy lion most of the time, and digested our leftovers. I'll have it restored. Then I went in and shot the televisor, that insidious beast, that Medusa, which freezes a billion people to stone every night, staring fixedly, that Siren which called and sang and promised so much and gave, after all, so little, but myself always going back, going back, hoping and waiting until-bang! Like a headless turkey, gobbling, my wife whooped out the front door. The police came. Here I _am_!"

He sat back happily and lit a cigarette.

"And did you realize, in committing these crimes, that the wrist radio, the broadcasting transmitter, the phone, the bus radio, the office intercoms, all were rented or were someone else's property?"

"I would do it all over again, so help me God."

The psychiatrist sat there in the sunshine of that beatific smile.

"You don't want any further help from the Office of Mental Health? You're ready to take the consequences?"

"This is only the beginning," said Mr. Brock. "I'm the vanguard of the small public which is tired of noise and being taken advantage of and pushed around and yelled at, every moment music, every moment in touch with some voice somewhere, do this, do that, quick, quick, now here, now there. You'll see. The revolt begins. My name will go down in history!"

"Mmm." The psychiatrist seemed to be thinking.

"It'll take time, of course. It was all so enchanting at first. The very _idea_ of these things, the practical uses, was wonderful. They were almost toys, to be played with, but the people got too involved, went too far, and got wrapped up in a pattern of social behavior and couldn't get out, couldn't admit they were _in_, even. So they rationalized their nerves as something else. 'Our modern age,' they said. 'Conditions,' they said. 'Highstrung,' they said. But mark my words, the seed has been sown. I got world-wide coverage on TV, radio, films, _there's_ an irony for you. That was five days ago. A billion people know about me. Check your financial columns. Any day now. Maybe today. Watch for a sudden spurt, a rise in sales for French chocolate ice cream!"

"I see," said the psychiatrist.

"Can I go back to my nice private cell now, where I can be alone and quiet for six months?"

"Yes," said the psychiatrist quietly.

"Don't worry about me," said Mr. Brock, rising. "I'm just going to sit around for a long time stuffing that nice soft bolt of quiet material in both ears."

"Mmm," said the psychiatrist, going to the door.

"Cheers," said Mr. Brock.

"Yes," said the psychiatrist.

He pressed a code signal on a hidden button, the door opened, he stepped out, the door shut and locked. Alone, he moved in the offices and corridors. The first twenty yards of his walk were accompanied by _Tambourine Chinois_. Then it was _Tzigane_, Bach's _Passacaglia_ and Fugue in something Minor, _Tiger Rag, Love Is Like a Cigarette_. He took his broken wrist radio from his pocket like a dead praying mantis. He turned in at his office. A bell sounded, a voice came out of the ceiling, "Doctor?"

"Just finished with Brock," said the psychiatrist.

"Diagnosis?"

"Seems completely disorientated, but convivial. Refuses to accept the simplest realities of his environment and work _with_ them."

"Prognosis?"

"Indefinite. Left him enjoying a piece of invisible material."

Three phones rang. A duplicate wrist radio in his desk drawer buzzed like a wounded grasshopper. The intercom flashed a pink light and click-clicked. Three phones rang. The drawer buzzed. Music blew in through the open door. The psychiatrist, humming quietly, fitted the new wrist radio to his wrist, flipped the intercom, talked a moment, picked up one telephone, talked, picked up another telephone, talked, picked up the third telephone, talked, touched the wrist-radio button, talked calmly and quietly, his face cool and serene, in the middle of the music and the lights flashing, the two phones ringing again, and his hands moving, and his wrist radio buzzing, and the intercoms talking, and voices speaking from the ceiling. And he went on quietly this way through the remainder of a cool, air-conditioned, and long afternoon, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wirst radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio….

The Murderer 1953 (Убийца)

Переводчик: Нора Галь

Музыка гналась за ним по белым коридорам. Из-за одной двери слышался вальс из "Веселой вдовы". Из-за другой – "Послеполуденный отдых фавна". Из-за третьей – "Поцелуй еще разок!". Он повернул за угол, "Танец с саблями" захлестнул его шквалом цимбал, барабанов, кастрюль и сковородок, ножей и вилок, жестяными громами и молниями. Все это схлынуло, когда он чуть не бегом вбежал в приемную, где расположилась, секретарша, блаженно ошалевшая от Пятой симфонии Бетховена. Он шагнул вправо, потом влево, словно рукой помахал у нее перед глазами, но она так его и не заметила.

Негромко зажужжал радиобраслет.

– Слушаю.

– Пап, это я, Ли. Ты не забыл? Мне нужны деньги.

– Да, да, сынок. Сейчас я занят.

– Я только хотел напомнить, пап, – сказал браслет.

Голос сына потонул в увертюре Чайковского к "Ромео и Джульетте", она вдруг затопила длинные коридоры.

Психиатр шел по улью, где лепились друг к другу лаборатории и кабинеты, и со всех сторон на него сыпалась цветочная пыльца мелодий. Стравинский мешался с Бахом, Гайдн безуспешно отбивался от Рахманинова, Шуберт погибал под ударами Дюка Эллингтона. Секретарши мурлыкали себе под нос, врачи насвистывали – все по-утреннему бодро принимались за работу, психиатр на ходу кивал им. У себя в кабинете он просмотрел кое-какие бумаги со стенографисткой, которая все время что-то напевала, потом позвонил по телефону наверх, полицейскому капитану. Несколько минут спустя замигала красная лампочка и с потолка раздался голос:

– Арестованный доставлен для беседы в кабинет номер девять.

Он отпер дверь и вошел, позади щелкнул замок.

– Только вас не хватало, – сказал арестант и улыбнулся.

Эта улыбка ошеломила психиатра. Такая она была сияющая, лучезарная, она вдруг осветила и согрела комнату. Она была точно утренняя заря в темных горах, эта улыбка. Точно полуденное солнце внезапно проглянуло среди ночи. А над этой хвастливой выставкой ослепительных зубов спокойно и весело блестели голубые глаза.

– Я пришел вам помочь, – сказал психиатр.

И нахмурился. Что-то в комнате не так. Он ощутил это еще с порога. Неуверенно огляделся. Арестант засмеялся:

– Удивились, что тут так тихо? Просто я кокнул радио.

"Буйный", – подумал врач.

Арестант прочел его мысли, улыбнулся и успокоительно поднял руку:

– Нет-нет, я так только с машинками, которые тявкают.

На сером ковре валялись осколки ламп и клочки проводов от сорванного со стены радио. Не глядя на них, чувствуя, как его обдает теплом этой улыбки, психиатр уселся напротив пациента; необычная тишина давила, словно перед грозой.