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

back. Guy, shackled, was shoved into the truck. Dawn was a long way off and
it was still drizzling. The legionnaires plopped down on benches in the rear
of the truck. At the entrance to the building, the porter stood leaning
against the door jamb, hands folded on his stomach. He was dozing.

12.
The state prosecutor leaned back in his chair, tossed some dried fruit
into his mouth, chewed it, and drained a jigger of mineral water. Frowning
and pressing his fingers against his tired eyes, he listened carefully. All
was well for hundreds of yards around. A night rain drummed monotonously
against the window; the screaming sirens, screeching brakes, and clanking
elevators had quieted down for the night. The Department of Justice was
deserted except for his assistant, who sat quietly in the reception room,
anxiously awaiting orders. The prosecutor unwound slowly. Through the
colored spots floating before his eyes, he glanced at the custom-made
visitor's chair. "I must take that chair with me when I leave. The table,
too; I'm used to it. Yes, it will be hard to leave. I've made a nice little
nest for myself here. But why should I leave? How strange human nature is:
confronted with a ladder, man feels compelled to climb to the very top. It's
cold and drafty up there - bad for the health - and a fall can be fatal.
The rungs are slippery. It's a funny thing: you're aware of the dangers, and
you're practically ready to drop from exhaustion, yet you keep fighting your
way up. Regardless of the situation, you keep climbing; contrary to advice,
you keep climbing; despite the resistance of your enemies, you keep
climbing; against your better instincts, your common sense, your
premonitions, you climb, climb, climb. If you don't keep climbing, you fall
to the bottom. That's for sure. But if you do keep climbing, you fall
anyway."
His thoughts were interrupted by the beeping of the intercom. Annoyed,
he picked up the receiver.
"What's the matter? I'm busy."
"Your honor," said his assistant, "a party by the name of Strannik is
on your personal line and insists on speaking with you."
"Strannik?" The prosecutor perked up. "Put him on."
A click. Then a familiar voice with a Pandeyan accent, carefully
articulating each word.
"Smart? Hello, how are you? Are you very busy?"
"For you, no."
"I must talk with you."
"When?"
"Now, if possible."
"I'm at your service," said the prosecutor. "Come on over."
"I'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Wait for me."
The prosecutor hung up and sat immobile for some time, biting his lower
lip. "So, my friend, you've turned up out of the blue again. Massaraksh,
I've thrown away so much money on that man, more than on all the others put
together, and I know no more about him than anyone else. A dangerous
character. Unpredictable. Ruined my evening." The prosecutor looked angrily
at the papers lying on his desk, then shoved them into a pile and stuffed
them into a drawer. "How long has he been here? Yes, two months. As usual.