"Aleksandr Abramov, Sergei Abramov. Horsemen from Nowhere ("ВСАДНИКИ НИОТКУДА", англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

The flier shook his head uncomprehendingly.
"Not at all like him, sir. Mine is in the plane, and what is more," he
added with care, "I still don't know whether he's a human being or not."
At that moment Vano opened his eyes. He glanced at the American who
stood near him, his head rose above the pillow and then he fell back again.
"That's ... not me," he said and closed his eyes.
"He's still delirious," Tolya signed.
"Our comrade is wounded. Somebody attacked him. We do not know who it
was," Zernov explained to the American. "And so when you said ..." he
delicately dropped the subject.
Martin pulled over Tolya's sleigh and sat down, covering his face with
his hands and teetered back and forth as if in unbearable pain.
"I don't know whether you'll believe me or not, it's all so unusual and
unlike the truth," he started to relate. "I was flying a oneseater, a little
Lockheed, a former fighter plane, you know the kind. It even has a double
machine-gun for circular fire. One doesn't need it here, naturally, but the
rules state that you have to keep the gun in order, just in case. And there
was a case only it didn't work out. Have you people ever heard of rose
clouds?" he asked suddenly, and without waiting for an answer he continued,
a cramp deforming his mouth for a moment. "I caught up with them about an
hour and a half after take-off."
"Them?" I asked incredulously. "There were several?"
"A whole squadron. They were flying low, about two miles below me,
large rose jellyfish. Maybe a dark red, crimson, say. I counted seven of
different shapes and hues from the pale rose of not-yet-ripe raspberry to a
flaming garnet. Now the colour was changing all the time, getting darker or
thinning out as if diluted with water. I cut speed and plunged, calculating
on getting a sample. I have a special container under the undercarriage. But
it didn't work, the medusas escaped. I caught up with them but they escaped
again, without any effort, as if they were playing hide and seek. And when I
increased my speed they rose and scudded away above me. Light large and
flat, like a kid's balloon. But are they fast, why they'd outstrip a
four-engine Boeing. They led me on as if they were living beings. Only a
living being can act that way when it feels danger. And so I thought, if
that's the case, they themselves may become dangerous. I figured I ought to
get away. But they appeared to guess my manoeuvre. Three crimson jellyfish
rushed out at a terrific speed and swinging round without cutting speed they
plunged for me. I didn't even have time to yell, the plane was enveloped in
a fog, not even a fog, something slime like, thick and slippery. That's when
I lost control completely-speed, control and visibility. I couldn't even
move my foot or hand. I figured that's the end. The plane wasn't falling, it
was sliding downwards like a glider. Then it landed and I didn't even notice
how it landed. The sensation was like sinking into a reddish slime, choked
but not dead. I looked around; snow everywhere and a plane next to mine, a
copy of my little Lockheed. I got out and went up to it, and coming out of
the cabin was another great big guy like me. I don't know, he looked
familiar. Couldn't figure it out. So I asked him: "Who are you?" "Donald
Martin," he says. Looking at him was like looking in a mirror. "And you?"
"No, I said, I'm Donald Martin." He struck out at me, I ducked and sent a
left to the jaw. He fell and hit his head against the door, an awful bang!