"Arcady And Boris Strugatsky. Prisoners of Power" - читать интересную книгу автора There were many pale, drawn faces, very similar to Fishface's. Almost
everyone was ugly, painfully thin, too pale, awkward, and angular. Yet they appeared to be content: they laughed often and seemed relaxed, their eyes sparkled, and animated voices filled the air. "Perhaps," thought Maxim, "this is a well-organized society after all." The houses seemed cheerful - lights were shining in almost all the windows, which meant there was no shortage of electric power. Many-colored lights above rooftops blinked gaily. Streets were washed clean. Almost everyone was neatly dressed. But although this world appeared prosperous on the surface, something was wrong: there were too many haggard faces. Suddenly there was an abrupt change of mood. Excited cries rang through the air. A man climbed onto a glass kiosk and began to shout, waving a free hand as he hung on with the other. Singing broke out on the sidewalk. Pedestrians halted in their tracks, tossed their hats in the air, and sang and shouted themselves hoarse, lifting their drawn faces to enormous colored signs flashing across the street. "Massaraksh!" hissed Fank, and the car swerved sharply. Maxim looked at him. Fank's face was deathly white and contorted. He pulled his hands back from the wheel with difficulty and stared at his watch. "Massaraksh!" he groaned. He uttered several other words, but Maxim caught only "I don't understand." Fank glanced over his shoulder, and his face grew even more contorted. Mac looked back, too, but saw nothing unusual. Only a bright yellow box-shaped automobile. By now the shouting and shrieking on the street had reached fever and the car was still moving. The van in front of them slammed on its brakes, and a massive gaudy wall came at Maxim head-on. Then, a dull thud, a sickening crunch, and the hood of their car sprang up. "Fank!" shouted Maxim. "Fank! Must not!" Fank lay there moaning, his body slumped over the wheel, Brakes squealed, traffic stopped, and sirens howled. Maxim shook Fank by the shoulder and then opened the window, shouting, "Hurry! Hurt!" The singing, yelling mob converged on the car. Maxim was to-tally bewildered. Either these people were outraged by the accident, or they were insanely overjoyed about something, or they were threatening someone. It would be pointless to shout for help; he couldn't even hear himself. So he returned to Fank. Now Fank's head was thrown back against the seat; and with all his strength he was kneading his temples and cheeks. Saliva oozed from the corners of his mouth. Realizing that Fank was in terrible pain, Maxim grasped him firmly by the elbows and braced himself quickly, preparing to transfer the pain to his own body. He wasn't sure it would work with a non-Earthling, and he searched in vain for a point where he could establish nerve contact. To make matters worse, Fank pulled his hands from his temples and with all his remaining strength tried to push Maxim away, mumbling desperately and tearfully. Maxim understood only "Go, go!" He was sure that Fank was out of his mind. The door next to Fank opened wide. Two faces beneath black berets forced their way into the car. Rows of metal buttons glittered, Maxim's door was opened, and strong hands gripped his shoulders, side, and neck. They |
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