"Lem - Seventh Voyage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lem Stanislaw)

Table of Contents

Part 1. This is Idiotic.
Part 2. The Tuesday Me.
Part 3. The Wednesday Me.
Part 4. The Thursday Me.
Part 5. The Friday Me.
Part 6. The Sunday Me.
Part 7. A Committee of Me.
Part 8. The Best of Me.

Part 1. This is Idiotic

It was on a Monday, April second--I was cruising in the vicinity of
Betelgeuse--when a meteor no larger than a lima bean pierced the
hull, shattered the drive regulator and part of the rudder, as a
result of which the rocket lost all maneuverability. I put on my
spacesuit, went outside and tried to fix the mechanism, but found I
couldn't possibly attach the spare rudder--which I'd had the
foresight to bring along--without the help of another man. The
constructors had foolishly designed the rocket in such a way, that
it took one person to hold the head of the bolt in place with a
wrench, and another to tighten the nut. I didn't realize this at
first and spent several hours trying to grip the wrench with my feet
while using both hands to screw on the nut at the other end. But I
was getting nowhere, and had already missed lunch. Then finally,
just as I almost succeeded, the wrench popped out from under my feet
and went flying off into space. So not only had I accomplished
nothing, but lost a valuable tool besides; I watched helplessly as
it sailed away, growing smaller and smaller against the starry sky.
After a while the wrench returned in an elongated ellipse, but
though it had now become a satellite of the rocket, it never got
close enough for me to retrieve it. I went back inside and, sitting
down to a modest supper, considered how best to extricate myself
from this stupid situation. Meanwhile the ship flew on, straight
ahead, its velocity steadily increasing, since my drive regulator
too had been knocked out by that blasted meteor. It's true there
were no heavenly bodies on course, but this headlong flight could
hardly continue indefinitely. For a while I contained my anger, but
then discovered, when starting to wash the dinner dishes, that the
now-overheated atomic pile had ruined my very best cut of sirloin
(I'd been keeping it in the freezer for Sunday). I momentarily lost
my usually level head, burst into a volley of the vilest oaths and
smashed a few plates. This did give me a certain satisfaction, but
was hardly practical. In addition, the sirloin which I threw
overboard, instead of drifting off into the void, didn't seem to
want to leave the rocket and revolved about it, a second artificial