"Alexander Abramov, Sergei Abramov. Journey Across Three Worlds (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

"At the last foreign port he stayed behind, skipped - the scum! Either
in Turkey or West Germany: don't know which way they were heading, to or
from Odessa."
"The scoundrel," I said.
"There'll be trouble."
"For whom?"
"Well, those who vouched for him, and so on," laughed the man in the
suede coat. "Fomich is fit to be tied; he made a beeline for head office. It
has nothing to do with you, of course."
"I should hope not," I said.
The unknown released my arm and gave me a friendly jab on the back.
"You look a bit sour, Sergei. Or maybe I'm butting in?"
"In what way?"
"Are you in throes of composition ... or waiting for somebody? Why
aren't you at the editorial office?"
I was not attached to any editorial office. I had to break off the
conversation somehow - it was getting a bit too hot to handle.
"Business," I said vaguely.
"You're up to something, old fellow," he said with a wink. "Well, so
long."
He vanished from my life as quickly as he had come into it. And like a
man thrown for the first time into deep water begins to learn the motions of
a swimmer, I also began to find my bearings in the unknown. Curiosity got
the better of fear and alarm. What had I found out so far? That here my
appearance was the same, and my name too. That Moscow was Moscow, only
different in detail. That there existed an Odessa, Turkey and a Germany.
That the S.S. Ukraine, as in our world, made runs around Europe. That I was
connected with a certain editorial office, and that in this world Mikhail
Sichuk was also a rotten bit of scum.
So I was not much surprised when, going down the steps towards the
Rossiya cinema - as I had already guessed, the building was a cinema - I ran
into Lena. I was bound to meet somebody who knew me, both here and from
whence I came.
Elegant as ever, Lena was walking along in her usual absent way, but
she knew me at once and was even a bit embarrassed, or so I thought.
"Is that you? Where are you coming from?"
"Just off a camel. Well, how are things over there?"
"Where?" she asked, surprised.
"At the hospital, of course. Did you just get off?"
She was even more surprised.
"I don't understand, Sergei. What are you talking about? I've only been
in Moscow three days."
I had seen her this morning in the office of the Head Doctor when I was
telephoning the Brain Institute. Before that, we met every day or almost
every day when I happened to be in the therapeutic department. So I was
silent, painfully seeking a way out of what was a clearly critical
situation. The road into the unknown certainly teemed with pit-falls.
"Sorry, Lena, I'm getting awfully absent-minded. And besides ... it's
so unexpected, meeting you...."
"How are you getting along?" she asked, with what seemed to me a