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Amber Kell Planetary Submissi Amber Kell
Dick Philip K., Zelazny Roger ( Do Androids Dream Of Electric S
Carr Philippa Corki Anglii 01 Czas na milczenie
Athans Philip Wrota Baldura Cienie Amnu
Aries Philippe Saint Pierre oder die Susse des
Suenan los androides con ovejas Philip K. Dick
[ICI][PL] Vandenberg Philip Spisek Sykstynski
DICK PHILIP K Trzy stygmaty Pa
DICK PHILIP K Radio wolne Albe
Dickens, barbe a papa Philippe Delerm

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.Scanned and proofed by unsung heroes.Additional, proofing and formatting by Highroller.Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.The Butterfly Planet by Philip E.HighONETHERE was no high drama, no intuitive awareness and certainly no danger signal.It appeared to Maynard that he merely changed his mind.One minute the hot dinner he had been about to order seemed worthwhile and, the next, he was no longer hungry.He re-pocketed his coins, shrugged and began to shoulder his way unhurriedly out of the eatateria.Dinner at noon was habit, but not always a necessity.Today, the thought of the menu-serve regurgitating a plateful of food had taken away his appetite.Again, there were the crowds, no matter where one went to eat, there were always crowds.He became suddenly aware, as he approached the exit, that there was a man on either side of him.They looked straight ahead, apparently unaware of his existence, but somehow they were too close for comfort.They were also too determined to keep level.Maynard hated being crowded, he also hated people walking too close behind him.Automatically he slowed his pace and began fumbling in his pockets as if searching for something.It was then that something hard pressed into the small of his back and a low voice said: "Just keep walking, friend, make it casual."Outside there was a low, waspish but luxurious vehicle and he was almost ushered into it—but for the unchanging pressure in his back.The men took positions on either side of him and the vehicle whispered away."Where are we going?" On subsequent reflection, it seemed a futile sort of question but he realized he had asked it to relieve his growing alarm."You'll find out.""That I could figure out myself.What are you—police?""Spare us, please.Do we look like police?""Then clearly you have made some sort of mistake.I'm a nobody, I'm a second-class technician named—""Maynard.We're familiar with your name and background.Incidentally, you appear to be a reasonably sensible man, you obeyed our orders.Continue to do so, that was a congealer we had pressed into your back."Maynard said nothing, aware only of a remote faintness.A congealer caused blood-clotting with an immediate and invariably fatal heart attack.Had his warders chosen to use the weapon, they would have got clean away with it.Only a post-mortem would reveal the true cause of death which was of no consolation whatever.The car stopped and he was ushered out.The men guided him to a tall building and they were whisked upwards in the gravity shaft to almost the highest floor."This way."He found himself in a high, wide room dominated by a huge ornate desk."Sit down." A fat, brown-faced man sat behind the desk, resting his chin on his hands as if brooding."You heard.Sit down !" Someone pushed a chair against the back of his knees and he sat rather heavily.The fat man said: "That's better, I prefer the minor courtesies, don't you?" He removed his chin from his hands and showed small white teeth, briefly."For identification purposes, you may refer to me as Smith— Mr.Smith.You are Peter Maynard, aged thirty years, two months and ten days.You are a second-class technician employed by Allied Electronics."He paused and looked at the other directly."A third-class technician holding on to a second-class ticket with his finger nails.You don't rate second-class, not really, you wear it because of a naïve honesty.So far, you have ‘lost' nothing, disposed of nothing or acquired anything for your personal use.Honest techs are rare and your employers appreciate it."He smiled again, the eyes remaining cold and calculating."You are a nobody, Maynard, and I expect you are wondering why we bothered to pick you up.The answer is brief, you are a deviant.Before you get big ideas about that, permit me to cut you down to size.The word ‘deviant' is an official label denoting minor psychological variations.Actors, artists, musicians and various other creatives are thus bracketed.Occasionally, however, someone crops up who is a little different.They may possess some minor asset which could prove profitable and we like to get hold of them first."Maynard said: "Presumably you have gained access to the psychological tapes in the Institute of Psychiatry.The information contained on those tapes is supposed to be private."The fat man laughed."What an engaging little innocent you are." He looked beyond Maynard and said: "Difficult to believe that such can exist even in the ranks of the neutrals."He looked again at Maynard."We are a large organization, employing experts.You will be passed on to these same experts for routine tests.Should these tests reveal something useful, you will be enrolled in the organization at ten times the salary you are now receiving.""With or without my consent!""Thank you for saving me the trouble of explaining, that is exactly the position." He leaned back and nodded briefly."Take him away."Hands descended on Maynard's shoulders."Come along, friend."Once more he was led to the gravity shaft, this time, however, there was no pressure in his back and he was less dazed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]