"Stanislaw Lem - Return from the Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lem Stanislaw)

small plate in front of each of us and with two lightning movements threw on each plate a portion
of some white substance that foamed, turned brown, and hardened; meanwhile the plate itself
grew darker. The girl then folded it -- it was not a plate at all -- into the shape of a pancake and
began to eat.
"Oh," she said with a full mouth, "I didn't know how hungry I was!"
I did exactly as she. The bons tasted like nothing I had ever eaten. It crackled between the
teeth like a freshly baked roll, but immediately crumbled and melted on the tongue; the brown
stuff in the middle was sharply seasoned. I was going to like bonses, I decided.
"Another?" I asked, when she had finished hers. She smiled, shaking her head. On the
way out, in the aisle, she put both her hands into a small niche lined with tiles; something in there
buzzed. I followed suit. A tickling wind blew on my fingers, and when I withdrew them, they
were completely dry and clean. Next we ascended a wide escalator. I did not know if this was
still the station but preferred not to ask. She led me to a small cabin inside a wall, not very
brightly lit; I had the impression that above it trains of some kind were running, since the floor
shook. It got dark for a fraction of a second, something beneath us gave a deep sigh, like a metal
monster emptying its lungs of air, the light reappeared, the girl pushed open the door. A real
street, apparently. We were quite alone on it. Bushes, trimmed fairly low, grew on either side of
the sidewalk; somewhat farther along stood flat black machines, crowded together; a man came
out of a shadow, disappeared behind one of the machines -- I did not see him open any door, he
simply vanished -- and the thing took off with such force that it must have flattened him against
his seat. I saw no houses, only the roadway, as smooth as a table and covered with strips of dull
metal; at the intersections, hanging overhead, were shuttered lights, orange and red; they looked a
little like models of wartime searchlights.
"Where shall we go?" asked the girl. She still held me by the arm. She slackened her pace.
A red stripe passed across her face.
"Wherever you like."
"My place, then. It isn't worth taking a gleeder. It's nearby."
We walked on. Still no houses in sight, and the wind that came rushing out of the
darkness, from behind the shrubbery, was the kind you would expect in an open space. Here,
around the station, in the Center itself? This seemed odd to me. The wind bore a faint fragrance
of flowers, which I inhaled eagerly. Cherry blossom? No, not cherry blossom.
Next we came to a moving walkway; we stood on it, a strange pair; lights swam by; now
and then a vehicle shot along, as if cast from a single block of black metal; these vehicles had no
windows, no wheels, not even lights, and careered as though blindly, at tremendous speed. The
moving lights blazed out of narrow vertical apertures hanging low above the ground. I could not
figure out whether they had something to do with the traffic and its regulation.
From time to time, a plaintive whistle high above us rent the unseen sky. The girl
suddenly stepped off the flowing ribbon, but only to mount another, which darted steeply upward,
and I found myself suddenly high up; this aerial ride lasted maybe half a minute and ended at a
ledge covered with weakly fragrant flowers, as if we had reached the terrace or balcony of a dark
building by a conveyor belt set against the wall. The girl entered this loggia, and I, my eyes now
accustomed to the dark, was able to discern, from it, the huge outlines of the surrounding
buildings, windowless, black, seemingly lifeless, for they were without more than light -- not the
slightest sound reached me, apart from the sharp hiss that announced the passage, in the street, of
those black machines. I was puzzled by this blackout, no doubt intentional, as well as by the
absence of advertising signs, after the orgy of neon at the station, but I had no time for such
reflections. "Come on, where are you?" I heard her whisper. I saw only the pale smudge of her
face. She put her hand to the door and it opened, but not into an apartment; the floor moved softly
along with us -- you can't take a step here, I thought, it's a wonder they still have legs -- but this
irony was a feeble effort; it came from the constant amazement, from the feeling of unreality of