собственно, рассказ
In 1987 it became possible in the United States of America for a
young person to sue his parents for the way he had been raised. He
could take them to court and make them pay money and even serve jail
terms for serious mistakes they made when he was just a helpless little
kid. This was not only an effort to achieve justice but to discourage
reproduction, since there wasn’t anything much to eat any more.
Abortions were free. In fact, any woman who volunteered for one got her
choice of a bathroom scale or a table lamp.
In 1989, America staged the Big Space Fuck, which was a serious effort
to make sure that human life would continue to exist somewhere in the
Universe, since it certainly couldn’t continue much longer on Earth.
Everything had turned to shit and beer cans and old automobiles and
Clorox bottles. An interesting thing happened in the Hawaiian Islands,
where they had been throwing trash down extinct volcanoes for years: a
couple of the volcanoes all of a sudden spit it all back up. And so on.
This was a period of great permissiveness in matters of language, so
even the President was saying shit and fuck and so on, without
anybody’s feeling threatened or taking offense. It was perfectly OK. He
called the Space Fuck a Space Fuck and so did everybody else. It was a
rocket ship with eight-hundred pounds of freeze dried jizzum in its
nose. It was going to fired at the Andromeda Galazy, two-million light
years away. The ship was named the Arthur C. Clarke, in honor of a
famous space pioneer.
It was to be
fired at midnight on the Fourth of July. At ten o’clock that night,
Dwayne Hooblere and his wife Grace were watching the countdown on
television in the living room of their modest home in Elk Harbor, Ohio,
on the shore of what used to be Lake Erie. Lake Erie was almost solid
sewage now. there were man-eating lampreys in there thirty-eight feet
long. Dwayne was a guard in the Ohio Adult Correctional Institution,
which was two miles away. His hobby was making birdhouses out of Clorox
bottles. He went on making them and hanging them around his yard, even
though there weren’t any birds any more.
Dwayne and Grace marveled at a film demonstration of how jizzum had
been freeze-dried for the trip. A small beaker of the stuff, which had
been contributed by the head of the Mathematics Department at the
University of Chicago, was flash-frozen. Then it was placed under a
bell jar and the air was exhausted from the jar. The air evanesced,
leaving a fine white powder. The powder certainly didn’t look like
much, and Dwayne Hoobler said so– but there were several hundred
million sperm cells in there, in suspended animation. The original
contribution, an average contribution, had been two cubic centimeters.
There was enough powder, Dwayne estimated out loud, to clog the eye of
a needle. And eight hundred pounds of the stuff would soon be on its
way to Andromeda.
“Fuck you, Andromeda,” said Dwayne, and he wasn’t being coarse. He was
echoing billboards and stickers all over town. Other signs said,
“Andromeda, We Love You,” and “Earth has the Hots for Andromeda,” and
so on.
There was a knock on the door, and an old friend of the family, the
County Sheriff, simultaneously let himself in. “How are you, you old
motherfucker?” said Dwayne.
“Can’t
complain, shitface,” said the Sheriff, and they joshed back and forth
like that for a while. Grace chuckled, enjoying their wit. She wouldn’t
have chuckled so richly, however, if she had been a little more
observant. She might have noticed that the sheriff’s jocularity was
very much on the surface. Underneath, he had something troubling on his
mind. She might have noticed, too, that he had legal papers in his hand.
“Sit down, you silly old fart,” said Dwayne, ” and watch Andromeda get the surprise of her life.”
“The
way I understand it,” the sheriff replied, “I’d have to sit there for
more than two-million years. My old lady might wonder what’s become of
me.” He was a lot smarter than Dwayne. He had jizzum on the Arthur C.
Clarke, and Dwayne didn’t. You had to have an I.Q. of over 115 to have
your jizzum accepted. there were certain exceptions to this: if you
were a good athlete or could play a musical instrument or paint
pictures, but Dwayne didn’t qualify in any of those ways, either. He
had hoped that birdhouse-makers might be entitled to special
consideration, but this turned out not to be the case. The Director of
the New York Philharmonic, on the other hand, was entitled to
contribute a whole quart, if he wanted to. he was sixty-eight years
old. Dwayne was forty-two.
There was an
old astronaut on the television now. He was saying that he sure wished
he could go where his jizzum was going. But he would sit at home
instead, with his memories and a glass of Tang. Tang used to be the
official drink of the astronauts. It was a freeze-dried orangeade.
“Maybe you haven’t got two million years,” said Dwayne, ” but you’ve got at least five minutes. Sit thee doon.”
“What I’m here for–” said the sheriff, and he let his unhappiness show, “is something I customarily do standing up.”
Dwayne and Grace were sincerely puzzled. They didn’t have the least
idea what was coming next. Here is what it was: the sheriff handed each
of them a subpoena, and he said, “It’s my sad duty to inform you that
your daughter, Wanda June, has accused you of ruining her when she was
a child.”
Dwayne
and Grace were thunderstruck. They knew that Wanda June was twenty-one
now and entitled to sue, but they certainly hadn’t expected her to do
so. She was in New York City and when they congratulated her about her
birthday on the telephone, in fact, one of the things Grace had said
was, “Well, you can sue us now, honeybunch, if you want to”. Grace was
so sure she and Dwayne had been good parents that she could laugh when
she went on, “If you want to, you can send your rotten old parents off
to jail.” Wanda June was an only child, incidentally. She had come
close to having some siblings, but Grace had had them aborted. Grace
had taken three table lamps and a bathroom scale instead.
“What does she say we did wrong?” Grace asked the sheriff.
“There’s
a seperate list of charges inside each of your subpoenas, ” he said.
And he couldn’t look his wretched old friends in the eye, so he looked
at the television instead. A scientist there was explaining why
Andromeda had been selected as a target. There were at least
eighty-seven chrono-synclastic infundibulae, time warps, between Earth
and the Andromeda Galaxy. If the Arthur C. Clarke passed through any
one of them, the ship and its load would be multiplied a trillion
times, and would appear everywhere throughout space and time.
“If there’s any fecundity anywhere in the Universe, ” the scientist promised, “our seed will find it and bloom.”
One of the most depressing things about the space program so far, of
course, was that it had demonstrated that fecundity was one hell of a
long way off, if anywhere.
Dumb people like Dwayne and Grace, and even fairly smart people like
the sheriff, had been encouraged to believe that there was hospitality
out there, and that Earth was just a piece of shit to use as a
launching platform.
Now Earth really
was a piece of shit, and it was beginning to dawn on even dumb people
that it might be the only inhabitable planet human beings would ever
find.
Grace was in tears over being
sued by her daughter, and the list of charges she was reading was
broken into multiple images by the tears. “Oh God, oh God, oh God—” she
said, “she’s talking about things I forgot all about, but she never
forgot a thing. She’s talking about something that happened when she
was only four years old.”
Dwayne was
reading charges against himself, so he didn’t ask Grace what awful
thing she was supposed to have done when Wanda June was only four, but
here it was: Poor little Wanda June drew pretty pictures with a crayon
all over the new living-room wallpaper to make her mother happy. Her
mother blew up and spanked her instead. Since that day, Wanda June
claimed, she had not been able to look at any sort of art materials
without trembling like a leaf and break-ing out into cold sweats. “Thus
was I deprived,” Wanda June’s lawyer had her say, “of a brilliant and
lucrative career in the arts.”
Dwayne
meanwhile was learning that he had ruined his daughter’s opportunities
for what her lawyer called an “ad-vantageous marriage and the comfort
and love therefrom.” Dwayne had done this, supposedly, by being half in
the bag whenever a suitor came to call. Also, he was often stripped to
the waist when he answered the door, but still had on his cartridge
belt and his revolver. She was even able to name a lover her father had
lost for her: John L. Newcomb, who had finally married somebody else.
He had a very good job now. He was in command of the security force at
an arsenal out in South Dakota, where they stockpiled cholera and
bubonic plague.
The sheriff had still
more bad news to deliver, and he knew he would have an opportunity to
deliver it soon enough. Poor Dwayne and Grace were bound to ask him,
“What made her do this to us?” The answer to that question would be
more bad news, which was that Wanda June was in jail, charged with
being the head of a shoplifting ring. The only way she could avoid
prison was to prove that everything she was and did was her parents’
fault.
Meanwhile, Senator Flem Snopes
of Mississippi, Chair-man of the Senate Space Committee, had appeared
on the television screen. He was very happy about the Big Space Fuck,
and he said it had been what the American space program had been aiming
toward all along. He was proud, he said, that the United States had
seen fit to locate the biggest jizzum-freezing plant in his “l’il ol’
home town,” which was Mayhew.
The word
“jizzum” had an interesting history, by the way. It was as old as
“fuck” and “shit” and so on, but it continued to be excluded from
dictionaries, long after the others were let in. This was because so
many people wanted it to remain a truly magic word—the only one left.
And
when the United States announced that it was going to do a truly
magical thing, was going to fire sperm at the Andromeda Galaxy, the
populace corrected its government. Their collective unconscious
announced that it was time for the last magic word to come into the
open. They insisted that sperm was nothing to fire at another galaxy.
Only jizzum would do. So the Government began using that word, and it
did something that had never been done before, either: it standardized
the way the word was spelled.
The man
who was interviewing Senator Snopes asked him to stand up so everybody
could get a good look at his cod-piece, which the Senator did.
Codpieces were very much in fashion, and many men were wearing
codpieces in the shape of rocket ships, in honor of the Big Space Fuck.
These cus-tomarily had the letters “ U.S.A.” embroidered on the shaft.
Senator Snopes’ shaft, however, bore the Stars and Bars of the
Confederacy.
This led the conversation
into the area of heraldry in general, and the interviewer reminded the
Senator of his campaign to eliminate the bald eagle as the national
bird. The Senator explained that he didn’t like to have his country
represented by a creature that obviously hadn’t been able to cut the
mustard in modern times.
Asked to name
a creature that had been able to cut the mustard, the Senator did
better than that: he named two—the lamprey and the bloodworm. And,
unbeknownst to him or to anybody, lampreys were finding the Great Lakes
too vile and noxious even for them. While all the human beings were in
their houses, watching the Big Space Fuck, lam-preys were squirming out
of the ooze and onto land. Some of them were nearly as long and thick
as the Arthur C. Clarke.
And Grace
Hoobler tore her wet eyes from what she had been reading, and she asked
the sheriff the question he had been dreading to hear: “What made her
do this to us?”
The sheriff told her,
and then he cried out against cruel Fate, too. “This is the most
horrible duty I ever had to carry out—” he said brokenly, “to deliver
news this heartbreaking to friends as close as you two are—On a night
that’s supposed to be the most joyful night in the history of mankind.”
He
left sobbing, and stumbled right into the mouth of a lamprey. The
lamprey ate him immediately, but not before he screamed. Dwayne and
Grace Hoobler rushed outside to see what the screaming was about, and
the lamprey ate them, too.
It was
ironical that their television set continued to report the countdown,
even though they weren’t around any more to see or hear or care.
“Nine!” said a voice. And then, “Eight!” And then, “Seven!” And so on.
всё, после этого рассказа я наконец-то готов к трудовым подвигом. сижу и смеюсь вот уже полчаса. и перечитываю. и представляю, как снял бы это ммммм Бёртон. или ммммм Гильям. Впрочем, Гильям бы снял