"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
pitch, but Maxim had no time to think about it. Fank had lost consciousness
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