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

the table. Suddenly she went limp and began to cry. They watched her cry for
some time. Then the brigadier rose and sentenced her to death, the sentence
to be carried out within forty-eight hours. Pandi took her by the arm and
pushed her through the door. The civilian rubbed his hands, smiled, and
said: "That was luck. Fine escorts." The brigadier replied: "Thank the
captain."
Captain Chachu said only: "Ssh." Everyone fell silent.
The adjutant summoned Memo Gramenu and skipped the usual formalities
because it was a clear-cut case. When he was placed under arrest he had
shown armed resistance. They did not bother to interrogate him. While the
brigadier read the death sentence, he looked at the ceiling indifferently,
nursing his injured right hand with his left. The dislocated fingers were
bound with a rag. Maxim could not understand the prisoner's unnatural calm
and his cold indifference to the proceedings.
Gramenu was being led out when the adjutant, with a sigh of relief,
gathered the papers into his folder, and the brigadier started a
conversation with the civilian about the promotion system. Captain Chachu
went over to Pandi and Maxim and ordered them to leave. Although Maxim
clearly saw a threat in his transparent eyes, he was too preoccupied to
care. He wondered about the man who would have to execute the woman.
Impossible! But someone would have to do the job in the next forty-eight
hours.

8.
Guy pulled on his pajamas, hung up his uniform, and turned to Maxim.
Candidate Sim was sitting on a small sofa that Rada had placed in an empty
corner for him. One boot was off and he had started on the other. His eyes
were turned to the wall. Guy crept up to him from the side and tried to jab
him playfully. As usual, he missed his mark: Mac jerked his head back just
in time.
"What's on your mind?" asked Guy playfully. "Pining for Rada? You're
out of luck, brother; she's on the night shift today."
Mac smiled weakly and started on the other boot.
"Why out of luck?" he said absentmindedly. "Guy, I know you wouldn't
lie to me." He stopped tugging. "You're always saying they get paid for
their work."
"Who? The degens?"
"Right. You've talked about it a lot, to me and the men. Paid agents of
the Khontis, you said. And the captain gives us the same story every day."
"What else is there to say about them?" Oh, God, there goes Mac again
with one of his boring conversations. "You're really a funny guy, Mac.
Nothing's changed with them, so there's nothing new to say. Degens have
always been degens, and that's the way it is now. They've always received
money from our enemies. They do it now, too. For example, just last year, a
group of them were caught red-handed with a cellarful of dough. How could an
honest man have that much money? They weren't bankers."
Mac set his boots neatly by the wall, rose, and began unbuttoning his
jump suit.
"Guy," he said, "There's something I don't understand about you people.
You're told something about a person, but when you look at him, you know it