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

strain of coping with boredom and insects. All were smoking.
"I'll probably get through here, too, without any fuss," thought Maxim.
"This is the end of the world, and they don't give a damn about anything."
He was wrong. The soldiers stopped waving away the insects and stared at the
tank. One of them, a gaunt fellow who looked very familiar, straightened his
helmet, walked out to the middle of the road, and raised his hand. "You're
wasting your time, buddy," thought Maxim. "I've made up my mind to get
through here, and nothing's going to stop me." He slid down toward the
controls, made himself more comfortable, and put his foot on the
accelerator. The soldier continued to stand in the road with his hand
raised. "Now I'll give it the gas," thought Maxim. "Let out a good, loud
roar and scare him out of the way. If he doesn't move - well, war is war."
Suddenly he recognized the soldier. It was Guy. Thin, hollow-cheeked,
in baggy army fatigues.
"Oh, my God," mumbled Maxim.
He slid his foot off the accelerator and switched off the ignition. The
tank slowed down and stopped. Guy dropped his hand and walked toward him
slowly. Maxim began to laugh: everything had turned out well after all. He
turned on the ignition again and steadied himself.
"Hey," shouted Guy, tapping the armor with his gun butt. "Who are you?"
Maxim did not respond.
"Is anyone in there?" A note of doubt had crept into Guy's voice.
His hobnailed boots clanked along the armor, the hatch opened from the
left, and Guy thrust his head into the compartment. When he saw Maxim, his
mouth dropped open. Maxim grabbed him by his fatigues, pulled him inside,
pushed him down on the branches beneath his feet, and stepped on the
accelerator. The tank roared and leaped forward. "I'll ruin the engine,"
thought Maxim. Guy twisted and turned; his helmet had ridden down over his
face; he could see nothing and kicked blindly, trying to pull out his gun
from under him. Suddenly the thunder and clatter of guns filled the
compartment: machine-gun fire was hitting the real of the tank. It was safe
inside, but most unpleasant, and Maxim watched impatiently as the forest's
walls advanced toward them. Closer and closer they came. At last, the first
bushes. A checkered figure recoiled from the road. Now he was surrounded by
forest; the clatter of bullets against the armor had ceased, and the road
ahead was clear for hundreds of miles.
Finally, Guy managed to pull out the gun; at the same time, Maxim tore
off Guy's helmet and saw his sweaty, snarling face. He laughed when the
rage, terror, and thirst to kill dissolved first into bewilderment, then
amazement, and finally joy. Guy's lips moved, forming "massaraksh!"
Maxim left the controls and embraced him. Holding him by the shoulder,
he said: "Guy, buddy, am I glad to see you!"
It was impossible to hear through the noise of the engine. Maxim looked
through the peephole. The road ahead was straight, so he set the manual
accelerator again, climbed out of the compartment, and pulled Guy after him.
"Massaraksh!" said the bedraggled Guy. "It's you again!"
"Am I glad to see you!" repeated Maxim.
"What's this all about?" shouted Guy. His initial joy had already
subsided, and he looked around him anxiously. "Where an you going? Why?"
"To the South," said Maxim. "I've had enough of your hospitable