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

I'll stick to mine."
The brigadier was offended. "The leader of a group... is inclined to
philosophize. I don't understand you."
"Have you ever seen a philosophizing corpse?"
"Nonsense."
"Well, have you?"
"And have you?" asked the brigadier.
"Yes, just now," said the civilian with authority. "And, take note,
this isn't the first time. I'm alive. He's dead. So what's there to
discuss?"
The captain rose suddenly, went over to Maxim, and whispered into his
face: "Watch your posture, candidate. Attention! Eyes straight ahead!" He
studied Maxim for several seconds, then returned to his seat.
"So," said the adjutant. "We still have Ordi Tader, Memo Gramenu, and
two others who refuse to give their names."
"We'll start with them," suggested the civilian.
Number 7313, a lean, sinewy man with painfully swollen lips, entered
and sat down. He, too, was in handcuffs, although he had an artificial arm.
"Your name?" asked the brigadier.
"Which one?" asked the one-armed prisoner cheerfully.
Maxim winced - he had been certain the man would remain silent.
"Do you have so many? Give your real name."
"My real name is Seven-Three-One-Three."
"So-o. What were you doing in Ketshef's apartment?"
"I was lying unconscious. For your information, I'm very good at it. If
you like, I can give you a demonstration."
"Don't trouble yourself," said the civilian. He was very angry. "Save
your skill for later. You'll be needing it."
The prisoner burst out laughing. He laughed heartily, as if he were
still a young man, and Maxim realized with horror that this laughter was
genuine. The men sitting around the table stiffened as they listened to him.
"Massaraksh!" The prisoner wiped his tears with his shoulder. "Some
threat!" He turned to the civilian. "But you, you re still a young man. You
must learn to do your job coolly, officially - for the money. It makes an
enormous impression on the victims of your inquisition. What an appalling
state of affairs when you find yourself being tortured not by an enemy but
by a bureaucrat. Take a look at my left arm. His Imperial Majesty's
specialists sawed it off in three stages; and each order was accompanied by
a lengthy official correspondence. Those butchers were just doing a
disagreeable, boring, unrewarding job. While they were sawing off my arm,
they cursed their wretchedly low pay. And I was terrified. I had to strain
my willpower to keep from talking. And now... I can see how you hate me. You
- me, and I - you. Fine! But you have been hating me less than twenty
years, and I - you, for more than thirty. You, young man, were still
toddling under the table and tormenting the cat."
"Ah," said the civilian, "an old-timer. I thought we'd already killed
all of you off."
"Don't count on it," replied the prisoner. "You still have a lot to
learn."
"I think that's enough," said the brigadier, turning to the civilian.