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

was neither handsome nor comfortable, but it was identical to the suit worn
by the stranger. Perhaps the stranger had given him a spare suit of his own,
for the jacket sleeves were too short and the trousers were baggy. But
everyone else was pleased with Maxim's appearance. The stranger mumbled his
approval. Fishface's features softened as she smoothed the shoulders and
straightened the jacket. Even Floor-lamp smiled wanly from behind the
control panel.
"Let's go," said the stranger as he moved toward the door.
"Good-bye," said Maxim to Fishface. "And thank you," he added in
Lingcos.
"Good-bye," replied Fishface. "Maxim good. Strong. Must go."
She seemed upset. Or, perhaps, concerned that the suit didn't fit too
well. Maxim waved to the pale Floorlamp and hurried after the stranger.
They passed through several rooms cluttered with bulky archaic
apparatus. They descended to the first floor in a rattling elevator and
entered the low-ceilinged vestibule where Guy had de-posited Maxim days ago.
Now, as then, he had to wait until some documents were prepared, until a
funny little man in absurd head-gear scratched something on pink cards, and
the stranger scratched something on green ones, and a girl wearing optical
amplifiers punched notches in them. Then everyone exchanged their cards and
everything got all mixed up, and finally the little man in the absurd
headgear appropriated two green cards and a pink one. And the stranger
received two pink ones, a thick blue one, and a round metal tag with an
inscription on it. And a minute later he handed all this to a burly man with
shiny buttons who was standing by the exit. When they were already outside,
the burly fellow suddenly began shouting hoarsely, and the stranger
re-turned again; it seems he had forgotten to take the blue card with him.
Maxim was seated to the right of the stranger in a ridiculously long
automobile. The stranger was furious about something. Puffing and panting,
he kept repeating Hippo's favorite expletive: Massaraksh."
The car growled, moved away gently from the curb, maneuvered through a
stationary herd of cars, rolled along the broad asphalt square in front of
the building, passed a large bed of wilted flowers, then a yellow wall,
rolled on to the highway's entrance ramp, and braked sharply.
"Massaraksh!" hissed the stranger as he turned off the engine.
An endless column of identical trucks stretched along the high-way. A
row of stationary circular objects of wet shiny metal protruded above the
side panels. The trucks moved slowly, maintaining appropriate intervals,
their engines gurgling rhythmically. They spread a terrible stench of
exhaust fumes everywhere.
Maxim studied the little door next to him, figured out how the window
worked, and raised it. Without turning toward him, the stranger uttered a
lengthy and completely incomprehensible sentence.
"I don't understand," said Maxim.
The stranger turned to him with a surprised expression and, judging
from his intonation, asked a question. Maxim shook his j head.
The stranger seemed even more surprised. He dug into his pocket, pulled
out a small flat box with little white sticks, stuck one in his mouth, and
offered the rest to Maxim. Out of courtesy, Maxim accepted the little box
and began to examine it. It was made of cardboard and smelled strongly of