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

The doctor again ran his cold fingers over Maxim, enveloped himself in
clouds of smoke, and sat down.
"Forester, pour!" he said. "Something like this calls for a drink. Get
dressed," he said to Maxim. "And stop smiling like a scarecrow. I have a few
questions for you."
Maxim got dressed. The doctor took a sip from the mug and asked: "When
did you say you were shot?"
"Forty-seven days ago."
"What did you say you were shot with?"
"A pistol. An army pistol."
The doctor took another sip and addressed Broadshoulders:
"I'll bet this tough guy was shot with an army pistol, and from a very
short distance. But not forty-seven days ago. At least one hundred and
forty-seven. Where are the bullets?" He turned to Maxim suddenly.
"My body eliminated them, and I threw them away."
"Listen, what's your name ... Mac! You're lying! Tell us the truth!"
Maxim bit his lip.
"I am telling the truth. You have no idea how rapidly wounds heal for
us. I am not lying." He paused. "I can prove it easily. Cut my hand. If it's
not a deep cut, it will heal in ten or fifteen minutes."
"That's true," said Ordi, speaking up for the first time. "I saw it
myself. He was peeling potatoes and cut his finger. A half-hour later there
was only a white scar, and the next day, not a trace of anything. I believe
him when he says he's from the mountains. Gel used to talk about mountain
folk medicine. They know how to heal wounds."
"Bah, mountain medicine." The doctor sent up a cloud of smoke again.
"All right, let's say his mountain folk medicine exists. But a cut finger is
one thing, and seven bullets fired point-blank is another. There are seven
holes in this young man; at least four of them should have been lethal."
"The hell you say!" Broadshoulders made a gesture of disbelief.
"You'd better believe it," said the doctor. "One bullet through the
heart, one through the spine, two through the liver. Add to this the loss of
a great deal of blood and inevitable blood poisoning. Plus the total lack of
evidence of treatment. Massaraksh, one bullet in the heart should have been
enough to kill him."
"Explain it." Broadshoulders turned to Maxim.
"He's wrong. About the shots, his diagnosis is correct, but he's wrong:
for us those wounds are not lethal. Now, if the captain had shot me in the
head... but he didn't. Doctor, you have no idea how viable the heart and
liver are."
"True," said the doctor.
"One thing I do know," said Broadshoulders. "They would hardly have
sent us such a crude piece of work. They know very well that we have
doctors."
There was a long pause. Maxim waited patiently. "Would I believe such a
story in their place? I suppose I would. I'm too gullible for this world.
Although, I must say, less than I used to be. Take this Memo fellow, for
example. I don't like that guy. He's practically afraid of his shadow. Sits
there among his own comrades with a machine gun on his knees. Probably is
afraid of me, too. Scared I'll grab his gun and dislocate his fingers again.