"Arkady & Boris Strugatsky - The Ugly Swans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Strugatski Arkady)

and as never before, and there shall be no weeds among the grain. But we won't be around to enjoy it."
 "If only he didn't have those gray bags under his eyes," Victor thought, "and that soft sagging belly. If
only his great Semitic nose looked a little less like a topographical map. Only, if you think for a minute,
prophets have always been drunkards, because it's so depressing: you know everything, and nobody
believes you. If we made a government position out of it, then our state prophet would have to have a rank
no less than Secret Councillor in order to strengthen his authority. And still it probably wouldn't help."
"For his systematic pessimism," Victor said aloud, "which has subverted professional discipline and
undermined faith in a rational future, I hereby order Secret Councillor Golem to be stoned in the executing
chamber."
The Ugly Swans 21

Golem snorted.
"I'm only a collegiate councillor," he said. "And then, what kind of prophets do we have nowadays? I
don't know a single one. A lot of false prophets and not a single real one. In our times you can't predict the
futureтАФit's a linguistic impossi-bility. What would you say if you saw in Shakespeare some-thing like
'predict the present? Can you predict a bureau in your own bedroom? But I believe that's my inspector
coming. How are you this evening, inspector?"
"Wonderful," said Pavor, taking a seat. "Waiter, a double cognac! Our artist is in the lobby surrounded by
four big men. They're trying to tell him where the entrance to the restaurant is. I decided not to intrude. He
doesn't believe anyone and he's in a fighting mood. But what bureaus were you talking about?"
He was dry, elegant, fresh; he smelled of cologne.
"We were speaking about the future," said Golem.
"What sense does it make to talk about the future?" ob-jected Pavor. "The future isn't talked about, the
future is made. Here's a glass of cognac. The glass is full. I will make it empty. Like this. A wise man
once said that you can only invent the future, you can't predict it."
"Another wise man," observed Victor, "said that the future doesn't exist, there's only the present."
"I don't like nineteenth-century philosophy," said Pavor. "Those people couldn't and wouldn't do anything.
They just liked to sit around and reason, in the same way as Golem likes to sit around and drink. The future
is just a thoroughly cleaned-up present."
"I always feel funny," said Golem, "when I hear a civilian reasoning like a soldier."
"Soldiers don't reason," objected Pavor. "All they have are reflexes and a little bit of emotion."
"You could say the same thing about most civilians," said Victor, stroking the back of his head.
"Right now nobody has time for reasoning," said Pavor. "Nei-
22 The Ugly Swans

ther soldiers nor civilians. We barely have time to cope. If you're interested in the future, then invent it
quickly, on the run, according to your reflexes and emotions."
"The hell with inventors," said Victor. He felt drunk and a little giddy. Everything was as it should be. He
didn't want to go anywhere, he wanted to stay where he was, in the half-darkness of this empty, not quite
dilapidated hall, with its stained walls, loose floorboards, and kitchen smells. Especially since it was raining
outside, raining over the whole world, over the cobblestoned pavements and the peaked roofs, over the hills
and valleys. "Someday the rain will wash everything away, but that won't happen for a while . . . although,
if you think about it, you can't say that it would be very long either. Yes, my friends, the time is long past
when the future was nothing but a repetition of the present and changes hovered on a far horizon. Golem's
right: there's no future anymore, it's merged with the present, and now you can't tell the difference."
"Raped by a slimy," said Pavor maliciously.
Dr. R. Quadriga appeared at the restaurant door. For a few seconds he stood in place, staring heavily at
the rows of empty tables. Then his face brightened. In a sudden burst of speed, he made for his seat.
"Why do you call them slimies?" asked Victor. "Did they get moldy from all the rain?"
"Why not?" said Pavor. "What would you prefer?"