"Arkadi and Boris Strugatsky. Monday begins on Saturday (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

the corners. The crone gave a deafening whistle and continued her snoring. I
picked up the pillow and threw it on the sofa. The trash smelled of dog. The
hanger rod had fallen off its support on one side. I re-hung it and began
picking up the old trash. No sooner had I hung up the last coat, than the
pole came away again and, sliding along the wallpaper, hung by one nail
again. The crone stopped snoring and I turned cold with sweat. Somewhere,
nearby, a cock crowed loudly. To the soup pot with you, I thought
venomously. The crone behind the wall set to turning, the bedspring snapping
and creaking. I waited, standing on one foot
Someone in the yard said softly, "Time for bed; we have sat up too long
today." The voice was youthful and female.
"So be it, it's off to sleep," responded the other voice. There was a
protracted yawn.
"No more splashing for you today?"
"It's too cold. Let's go bye-bye."
All was quiet. The old hag growled and muttered, and I returned
cautiously to the sofa. I'll get up early in the morning and fix everything
up properly.

I turned on my right side, pulled the blanket over my ear, and it
suddenly became crystal clear to me that I wasn't at all sleepy-- that I was
hungry. Oh-oh, I thought. Severe measures had to be taken at once, and I
took them.
Consider, for instance, a system of integral equations of the type
commonly found in star statistics: both unknowns are functions to be
integrated. Naturally the only solutions possible are by successive
numerical approximations and only with computers such as the RECM. I
recalled our RECM. The main control panel is painted the color of boiled
cream. Gene is laying a package on the panel and is opening it unhurriedly.
"What have you got?"
"Mine is with cheese and sausage." Polish, lightly smoked, in round
slices.
"Poor you, it's married you should be. I have cutlets, with garlic,
home-made. And a dill pickle."
No, there are two dill pickles . . . . Four cutlets, and to make things
even, four pickles. And four pieces of buttered bread.
I threw off the blanket and sat up. Maybe there was something left in
the car? No-- I had already cleaned out everything there was. The only
remaining item was the cookbook that I had got for Valya's mother, who lived
in Liezhnev.

Let's see, how does it go? Sauce piquant . . . half a glass of vinegar,
two onions, and a pinch of pepper. Served with meat dishes. . . . I can see
it now with miniature steaks. What a rotten trick, I thought, not just any
old steaks, but miniature ones. I jumped up and ran to the window. The night
air was distinctly laden with the odor of miniature beefsteaks. Out of some
nether depths of my subconscious this floated up: "Such dishes were usually
served him in the taverns as: marinated vegetable soup, brains with fresh
peas, pickles [I swallowed], and the perpetual layer cake..." I must
distract myself, I thought, and took the book on the windowsill. It was The