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

"What?"
"You sound so irritated that I thought..."
"Captain!" Guy shouted in a tremulous voice. "I beg to report, sir,
that the prisoners have regained consciousness."
The captain looked at him and smiled ironically.
"Don't worry, corporal. Your buddy proved himself today to be a real
legionnaire. If it weren't for him. Captain Chachu would be stretched out
here with a bullet in his brain." He looked up at the ceiling and blew out a
dense cloud of smoke. "You have a good nose, corporal. I'd promote this
rascal to regular private on the spot; massaraksh, I'd even make him an
officer! He has the makings of a brigadier: he loves to ask officers
questions. But, corporal, now I understand. You had good reasons for your
report. So we'll wait a while before promoting him." The captain rose,
clumped around the table, and halted before Maxim. "We won't even make him a
regular private yet. He's a fine fighter, but still wet behind the ears.
We'll get him into shape... Attention!" he shouted suddenly. "Corporal Gaal,
remove the prisoners! Private Pandi and Candidate Sim, take my painting and
all papers in this apartment and bring them to me in the truck."
He turned and left the room. Guy looked at Maxim reproachfully but said
nothing. The legionnaires kicked and jabbed the prisoners to their feet and
led them to the door. They did not resist but swayed and buckled like blobs
of jelly. The stocky man who had been firing in the hall groaned loudly and
swore under Ms breath. The woman's lips moved soundlessly; her eyes were
glazed.
"Hey, Mac," said Pandi. "Take the blanket from the bed and wrap the
books in it. Drag it downstairs - I'll take the picture. Yeah, and don't
forget your gun, you blockhead! You're wondering why the captain raked you
over the coals, eh? You threw away your gun. Imagine, throwing away your gun
during a battle! You nut!"
"Cut it, Pandi," said Guy angrily. "Take the picture and go."
In the doorway Pandi turned around to Maxim, tapped himself on the
forehead, and vanished. They could hear him singing "Cool It, Mama" at the
top of his lungs as he walked down the stairs. Maxim laid his gun on the
table and walked over to the pile of books that had been dumped on the bed
and floor. Never before on this planet had he seen so many books in one
place, except perhaps in the city library. Of course, the bookstores had
many more books, but not more titles.
The pages were yellowed with age. Some books were singed, and some, to
Maxim's surprise, were perceptibly radioactive. He didn't have time to
examine them properly.
Maxim packed up two bundles and paused to look around the room. Empty
twisted shelves, dark stains where pictures had been hanging - the pictures
had been torn from their frames and trampled. Not a trace of dental
equipment. He picked up the bundles and started for the door, then
remembered his gun and returned. On a desk, beneath plate glass, lay two
photographs. One was of a pale woman dandling a boy of about four on her
knees. She was young, content, proud. The other showed a beautiful spot in
the mountains, dark clumps of trees, and an old tumbled own tower. Maxim
slung the gun across his back and returned to the bundles.