"Charles Stross - Red, Hot and Dark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

interstellar travel is impossible -- yes? What is it? Meir, again?"
Oleg cleared his throat. "I think you overlook something," he said, suddenly aware that
his heart was pounding. "Perhaps, all is stillness and quiet not because we are alone ...
but because they are scared. After all, ideas can be dangerous, can they not? -- Just as
socialist ideas are considered dangerous by the capitalists, so may there be, darker things
lurking among the stars. Things that listen, like us, for the transmissions of the unwary ..."

"Like Voice of America?" some wit interrupted, and the whole room burst out laughing.

Oleg sat down, his face turning beet red. He looked round, searching for support against
the hilarity -- there was a man he had never seen before at the back of the hall, and his
expression was set and thoughtful. Something about him was vaguely familiar, like a
half-remembered family photograph. Oleg looked away rapidly, and tried to ignore the
good-natured joshing he received after the lecture from those who believed that the laws
of dialectical materialism applied to interstellar communication. But somehow the face
stuck in his mind; and he was not surprised when, two days later, he was awakened by a
peremptory rap on the door of his room.

Struggling out of bed, Oleg made his way to the door. "Who is it?" he called, half-certain
that it was the apartment warden about to complain again about him lying in on a
perfectly good Saturday --

"Open up!" called a voice outside. "We haven't got all day!"

Oleg tensed, shivering with more than cold -- muscles bunching and coiling like ropes
beneath his skin -- then opened the door a crack. "What's it about?" he asked. "I was in
bed --"

"Never mind that. You can get dressed now. You're going for a drive in the country this
morning, how about that? Don't bother packing, you'll be back before sunset, I promise.
Come along now!"

Goaded into sudden action, Oleg grabbed his clothes and began to yank them on
haphazardly. "You can come in," he called when he had his trousers belted. The door
opened. "Have we met?" he asked politely.

The stranger shut the door behind him. "Two nights ago, at the Institute. I was in the row
behind you."

Oleg's shoulders slumped with something like relief. "I thought you were with the cheka,"
he muttered as he buttoned his shirt.

The stranger looked at him and smiled, exposing his teeth. "You thought right -- sort of.
The people I'm with ... the KGB don't like us, but we don't have to put up with them. Do
the initials GRU mean anything to you?" Oleg stared uncomprehendingly. "Good. Now
they do. We're going for a little drive in the country, and we'll have lunch at a dacha and
I'm sure you'll enjoy our little chat; I'll drop you off back here this evening. How does
that sound, comrade?"

Mouth dry, heart pounding again: "you want me to be an informer?" Oleg pulled on his