"Arcady And Boris Strugatsky. Prisoners of Power" - читать интересную книгу автора

turned away and carefully glued a cigarette with his tongue. "I hope you
make it," said Maxim, turning to the levers.
Rumbling and clanging, its treads crunching, the tank began to roll
forward.
Driving the tank was difficult. There was no seat for the driver, and
the pile of branches and grass that Maxim had arranged at night fell apart
very quickly. Visibility was terrible, and the tank wouldn't pick up speed.
At twenty miles an hour, something in the engine began to rumble and
sputter, and it was burning oil. But the tank's ability to negotiate any
terrain was still excellent. Road or no road - it didn't matter: it tore
calmly through bushes, rolled over shallow ruts, and crushed fallen trees.
It ignored saplings growing through the shattered pavement, and it snorted
with pleasure as it crossed over a deep hole filled with black water. It
held its course beautifully, but turning it was difficult.
Since the road was quite straight and it was dirty and stuffy in the
compartment, Maxim finally set the manual gas lever, climbed out, and
settled himself comfortably on the edge of the hatch, beneath the rocket's
latticed mount. The tank forged ahead as if this were the route it had
originally been programmed for. There was something smug and simple about
its behavior, and Maxim, who loved machines, patted its armor
affectionately.
Ah, life could be pleasant! To the right and left the forest slipped
away, the engine rumbled, the radiation above was negligible, and the
comparatively clean breeze felt good on his hot skin. Maxim raised his head
and glanced at the rocket's swaying nose. He must get rid of it: it was
excess weight. No, it wouldn't explode - it had been inoperative for a long
time: he had checked it out last night. But it weighed some ten tons and
there was no point in dragging it along.
As the tank crawled forward, Maxim climbed along the rocket mount to
look for a release device. He found it, but it was badly rusted, and he had
to work on it for some time. While he was busy, the tank turned off the road
twice, howling indignantly and knocking down trees. Each time Maxim had to
rush back to the controls, calm down the iron fool, and maneuver it back
onto the road. Finally the release device was repaired, and the rocket
reeled heavily, crashed to the pavement, and rolled ponderously into the
drainage ditch. The tank moved more easily. At that moment, Maxim spotted
the first outpost.
At the edge of the forest stood two large tents and a van. Smoke curled
above a field kitchen. Two legionnaires, stripped to the waist, were washing
- one was pouring water over the other from a mess tin. A sentry in a black
cape stood in the middle of the road and looked at the tank. On the right
were two columns joined by a crossbar; something long and white, almost
touching the ground, hung from it. Maxim dropped down into the compartment
so his checkered prison uniform would not be visible and thrust his head
through the hatch. The sentry gaped at the tank, withdrew to the shoulder,
and looked around absentmindedly at the van. The half-naked legionnaires
stopped washing and stared at the tank. Several more men, attracted by the
tank's rumbling, came running from the tents and van. One wore an officer's
uniform. They were surprised but not alarmed. The officer pointed to the
tank, made a remark, and everyone laughed. When Maxim reached the sentry,