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

prickly seeds stuck to his shorts. A swarm of midges buzzed in front of his
face, but then, as if on signal, retreated.
The IRU didn't attract solid establishment types. They were wrapped up
in their own serious affairs and knew that the exploration of alien worlds
was just a monotonous and exhausting game. Yes, monotonously exhausting and
exhaustingly monotonous.
Of course, if you are twenty years old, can't do anything well, haven't
the vaguest notion of what you really want to do, haven't yet learned the
value of time, that most precious of all things, haven't any special talents
and don't foresee acquiring any - if at age twenty you still haven't
outgrown the lad stage where your hands and feet are more important than
your head; if you are still naive enough to imagine yourself making fabulous
discoveries in unexplored space... if, if, if... You pick up the catalog,
open it to any page, take a random stab to choose your unexplored world, and
take off into the wild blue yonder. Discover a planet, name it after
yourself, determine its physical characteristics, do battle with any
monsters you might encounter, and establish contact with intelligent beings,
if there are any. If not, become a Robinson Crusoe.
What for? Well, you'd be thanked and told you've made an enormous
contribution, and some prominent expert would summon you for lengthy
discussions. The school kids, especially the little ones, would gaze at you
in awe. But your old teacher would ask only: "Are you still with the IRU?"
Then he'd change the subject and look distressed and guilty because he felt
responsible for your inability to outgrow the IRU. And your father would
say: "H'mm" and hesitatingly offer you a position as a lab assistant. And
your mother would say: "Maxie, when you were little you drew rather well."
And Pete would say: "How long can this go on? Haven't you disgraced yourself
long enough?" And everybody would be right except you. So what do you do?
You return to IRU headquarters, pick up the catalog, open it at random and
stab blindly.

Before descending the high, steep bank to the river, Maxim looked
around. Gnarled trees were silhouetted against the sky, and a small circle
of light came from the open hatch. Everything appeared normal. "Well, OK,"
he mumbled to himself. "Take it as it comes. It would be great if I could
find a civilizations powerful, ancient, wise culture. And human." He went
down to the river.
The river was very broad and sluggish; it appeared to flow downhill
from the east and uphill to the west. The refraction here was incredible.
The opposite bank was sloped and choked with bulrushes; a half-mile upstream
some sort of columns and twisted beams - buckled trusswork overgrown with
vines - protruded from the water. "Civilization," thought Maxim, not
particularly enthusiastic. He sensed the presence of a great deal of iron.
And something else, too, something unpleasant and stifling. Scooping up a
handful of water, he realized quickly that it was dangerously radioactive.
The river was carrying radioactive substances from the east. This certainly
wasn't the kind of civilization he had in mind. Rather than establishing
contact, it would be wiser to take samples and perform the usual analyses,
orbit the planet's equator several times, and head for home. Once on Earth
he would turn the material over to the experts on the Galactic Security