"Arcady And Boris Strugatsky. Prisoners of Power" - читать интересную книгу автораturned 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 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, |
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