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

Guy, "Every time you feel that rotten sensation coming on, sit down and
clean that gun." So he had to clean it.
Still the same Mac. If not for Mac, he would have lain down a long time
ago and died. He had pleaded with Mac: "For God's sake, don't leave me
alone. Stay with me, cure me." Mac refused. Now he must cure himself. Mac
had assured him that his illness wasn't fatal, that it would pass, but he
must fight it and cope with it himself.
"All right," thought Guy sluggishly. "I will. I'll cope with it. Yes,
still the same Mac. Neither man, nor Creator, nor god." And Mac had also
advised him: "Let yourself get good and mad! When that rotten feeling comes
on, remember where it came from, who addicted you, and why. Get damn mad and
hold onto your hatred. You'll need it soon. You're not alone. There are
forty million like you who've been turned into fools, poisoned." Massaraksh,
it was hard to believe after spending his whole life in the service, where
you always knew where you stood. Everything was simple, everyone was
together, and it was great to be like everyone else. Then Mac came along,
ruined his career, literally dragged him away from the service, and took him
off to another life that didn't make sense to him; where, massaraksh, he had
to think for himself, make his own decisions, do everything himself. Yes,
Mac had dragged him away and forced him to take a good look at his country,
his home, at everything dear to him, and had shown him a cesspool of
abominations and lies. You looked back... and, true, there was little
beauty. It was nauseating to recall how he and his Legion buddies had
behaved. And that Captain Chachu!
In a fit of anger Guy drove the bolt into place. But, again, he was
overwhelmed by inertia and apathy, and he no longer had the will to insert
the magazine. He felt utterly lost.
The squeaky warped door opened, and a small serious face poked through.
If it weren't for the bald skull and inflamed eyelids, it would be almost
likable. It was Tanga, the kid next door.
"Uncle Mac wants you on the square at once! Everyone there is waiting
for you."
He cast a sidelong glance at her, morosely; at the puny body in the
little dress of rough cloth, at the abnormally thin matchstick hands covered
with brown spots, at the bowed legs swollen at the knees; and he felt
ashamed at his revulsion. She was only a child, and who was to blame for her
condition? He turned away and said: "I'm not going. Tell him I don't feel
well. I'm sick."
The door squeaked, and when he raised his eyes again the girl was gone.
Irritated, he threw the gun down on the bed, went over to the window, and
leaned out. With amazing speed, the little girl skimmed along between the
ruins of walls, along what had once been a street. A toddler tagged along
behind her for a few steps, caught hold of her dress, fell down, raised her
head for a few seconds, and bawled in an awful bass voice. Her mother sprang
from the ruins. Guy recoiled sharply, shook his head, and returned to the
table. "I'm sorry, but I can't get used to it. I know how rotten I am. If I
ever run into the individual responsible for this, I won't miss. Why can't I
get used to it? I've seen enough in this one month for a hundred
nightmares."
Most mutants lived in small communes. Others roamed, hunted, and looked