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

names! Abu . . . Au . . . Somebody Ibn, whoever. . . . So-o, all right,
let's say Polouekt. Polouekt Ibn, me-eh. . . Polouektovich. .. . In any
event, I can't recall what happened to him. Dog take it, let's start
another."
I lay with my stomach on the sill in a trance-like state, watching the
unfortunate Basil wandering about the oak, now to the left and then to the
right, muttering, coughing, meowing and mooing, standing on all fours in his
efforts-- in a word, suffering endlessly. The diapason of his knowledge was
truly grandiose. He did not know a single tale or song more than halfway,
but to make up for this, the repertoire included Russian, Ukrainian, West
Slavic, German, English-- I think even Japanese, Chinese, and African--
fairy tales, legends, sermons, ballads, songs, romances, ditties, and
refrains. The misfunction drove him into such a rage that several times he
flung himself at the oak, ripping its bark with his claws, hissing and
spitting while his eyes glowed with a satanic gleam and his furry tail,
thick as a log, would now point at the zenith, then twitch spasmodically,
then lash his sides. But the only song he carried to the end was "Tchizhik
Pizhic,"* and the only fairy tale he recounted at all coherently was "The
House that Jack Built" in the Marshak translation, and even that with
several excisions. Gradually-- apparently fatiguing-- his speech acquired
more and more catlike accent. "Ah me, in the field and meadow," he sang.
"the plow goes by itself, and . . . me-e . . . ah . . . me-a-ou...and behind
that plow the master himself has paced... or is it wended his way . . . ?"
Finally, altogether spent, he sat down on his tail and stayed thus for some
time, his head bent low. Then, meowing softly and sorrowfully, he took the
psaltery under his arm and wandered off on the dewy grass, haltingly on
three legs.
I climbed off the sill and dropped the book. I distinctly remembered
that the last time it was Creativity of the Mentally Ill, and was sure that
was the book which had fallen on the floor. But the book I picked up and
placed on the sill was The Solution of Crimes by A. Swanson and O. Wendell.
Dully I opened it, scanned a few samples, and at once I was sure that I
sensed there was someone strangled hanging in the oak. Fearfully I raised my
eyes. From the lower branches, a wet silvery shark tail hung. It was
swinging heavily in the gusts of the morning wind.
I shied violently and struck the back of my head on something hard. A
telephone rang loudly. I looked around. I was lying crosswise on the sofa,
the blanket had slid to the floor, and the early sun was shining into the
window through the oak leaves.





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* Common children's song

Chapter 3

It entered my head that the usual interview with