The American Shore. Samuel R. Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ know he was marked for destruction by the second commercial. He was the defiant homesteader, the crusty senior member of a research team who understood Algol and Fortran but couldn’t read the secrets of his own heart. He was the Senator from South Carolina with his own peculiar brand of integrity but a racist nevertheless. Killing that sort was too much like one of Papa’s scripts to be a satisfying gesture of rebellion.₉₃

      But what he said, mistaking his own deeper meaning, was: “It’s because he deserves it, because we’d be doing society a favor. Don’t ask me to give reasons.”

      “Well, I won’t pretend I understand that, but do you know what I think, Little Mister Kissy Lips?” She pushed his hand away.

      “You think I’m scared.”₉₄

      “Maybe you should be scared.”

      “Maybe you should shut up and leave this to me. I said we’re going to do it. We’ll do it.”

      “To him then?”

      “Okay.₉₅ But for gosh sakes, Amparo, we’ve got to think of something to call the bastard besides ‘the dirty old man’!”₉₆

      She rolled over out of his armpit and kissed him.₉₇ They glittered all over with little beads of sweat. The summer began to shimmer with the excitement of first night. They had been waiting so long and now the curtain was rising.₉₈

      M-Day was scheduled for the first weekend in July, a patriotic holiday.₉₉ The computers would have time to tend to their own needs (which have been variously described as “confession,” “dreaming,” and “throwing up”),₁₀₀ and the Battery would be as empty as it ever gets.

      Meanwhile their problem was the same as any kids face anywhere during summer vacation, how to fill the time.₁₀₁

      There were books, there were the Shakespeare puppets if you were willing to queue up for that long, there was always teevee,₁₀₂ and when you couldn’t stand sitting any longer there were the obstacle courses in Central Park, but the density there was at lemming level. The Battery, because it didn’t try to meet anyone’s needs, seldom got so overpopulated.₁₀₃ If there had been more Alexandrians and all willing to fight for the space, they might have played ball.₁₀₄ Well, another summer …

      What else?₁₀₅ There were marches for the political, and religions at various energy levels for the apolitical. There would have been dancing, but the Lowen School had spoiled them for most amateur events around the city.₁₀₆

      As for the supreme pastime of sex, for all of them except Little Mister Kissy Lips and Amparo (and even for them, when it came right down to orgasm)₁₀₇ this was still something that happened on a screen, a wonderful hypothesis that lacked empirical proof.₁₀₈

      One way or another it was all consumership, everything they might have done, and they were tired, who isn’t, of being passive.₁₀₉ They were twelve years old, or eleven, or ten, and they couldn’t wait any longer. For what? they wanted to know.₁₁₀

      So, except when they were just loafing around solo, all these putative resources, the books, the puppets, the sports, arts, politics, and religions, were in the same category of usefulness as merit badges or weekends in Calcutta,₁₁₁ which is a name you can still find on a few old maps of India.₁₁₂ Their lives were not enhanced, and their summer passed as summers have passed immemorially. They slumped and moped and lounged about and teased each other and complained.₁₁₃ They acted out desultory, shy fantasies and had long pointless arguments about the more peripheral facts of existence—the habits of jungle animals or how bricks had been made₁₁₄ or the history of World War II.₁₁₅

      One day they added up all the names on the monoliths set up for the soldiers, sailors, and airmen.₁₁₆ The final figure they got was 4,800.

      “Wow,” said Tancred.

      “But that can’t be all of them,” MaryJane insisted, speaking for the rest. Even that “wow” had sounded half ironic.₁₁₇

      “Why not?” asked Tancred, who could never resist disagreeing. “They came from every different state and every branch of the service. It has to be complete or the people who had relatives left off would have protested.”₁₁₈

      “But so few? It wouldn’t be possible to have fought more than one battle at that rate.”₁₁₉

      “Maybe …” Sniffles began quietly. But he was seldom listened to.₁₂₀

      “Wars were different then,” Tancred explained with the authority of a prime-time news analyst. “In those days more people were killed by their own automobiles than in wars. It’s a fact.”₁₂₁

      “Four thousand, eight hundred?”

      “… a lottery?”₁₂₂

      Celeste waved away everything Sniffles had said or would ever say.₁₂₃ “MaryJane is right, Tancred. It’s simply a ludicrous number. Why, in that same war the Germans gassed seven million Jews.”

      “Six million Jews,” Little Mister Kissy Lips corrected. “But it’s the same idea.₁₂₄ Maybe the ones here got killed in a particular campaign.”

      “Then it would say so.”₁₂₅ Tancred was adamant, and he even got them to admit at last that 4,800 was an impressive figure, especially with every name spelled out in stone letters.₁₂₆

      One other amazing statistic was commemorated in the park: over a thirty-three-year period Castle Clinton had processed 7.7 million₁₂₇ immigrants into the United States.₁₂₈

      Little Mister Kissy Lips sat down and figured out that₁₂₉ it would take 12,800 stone slabs the size of the ones listing the soldiers, sailors, and airmen in order to write out all the immigrants’ names,₁₃₀ with country of origin,₁₃₁ and an area of five square miles to set that many slabs up in, or all of Manhattan from here to 28th Street.₁₃₂ But would it be worth the trouble, after all? Would it be that much different from the way things were already?₁₃₃

      Alyona Ivanovna:₁₃₄

      An archipelago of irregular brown islands were mapped on the tan sea of his bald head. The mainlands of his hair were marble outcroppings, especially his beard, white and crisp and coiling.₁₃₅ The teeth were standard MODICUM issue; clothes, as clean as any fabric that old can be. Nor did he smell, particularly. And yet ….

      Had he bathed every morning you’d still have looked at him and thought he was filthy, the way floorboards in old brownstones seem to need cleaning moments after they’ve been scrubbed. The dirt had been bonded to the wrinkled flesh and the wrinkled clothes,₁₃₆ and nothing less than surgery or burning would get it out.₁₃₇

      His habits were as orderly as a polka dot napkin.₁₃₈ He lived at a Chelsea dorm for the elderly, a discovery they owed to a rainstorm that had forced him to take the subway home one day instead of, as usual, walking.₁₃₉ On the hottest nights he might sleep over in the park, nesting in one of the Castle windows.₁₄₀ He bought his lunches from a Water Street specialty shop, Dumas Fils: cheeses, imported fruit, smoked fish, bottles of cream, СКАЧАТЬ