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

sight. Marching in the middle of the pavement was a man with flags in his
hands. About ten paces behind him, engine revving and laboring, a huge white
truck was drawing a gigantic cistern-like silvery trailer, from which issued
wisps of smoke. Fire Danger was written all over the cistern, and busy
little fire engines, bristling with fire extinguishers, were rolling along,
keeping pace on its right and left. From time to time, mixing in with the
steady roar of the engine, a different sound issued forth, somehow chilling
the heart with a strange malaise. Simultaneously yellow tongues of flame
spurted out of the cistern's ports. The faces of the firemen, hats pushed
low on their ears, were stern and manly. Swarms of children swirled around
the cavalcade, yelling piercingly, "Ti-li-lee ti-li-lay, they're caning the
dragon away." Adult passersby fearfully hugged the fences. Their faces
clearly depicted a desire to save their clothing from possible damage.
"There they go with dear Unc," a familiar raspy bass pronounced in my
ear.
I turned around. Behind me, looking miserable, stood Naina Kievna with
a shopping bag full of blue packets of granulated sugar.
"Trucking him off," she repeated. "Every Friday they take him."
"Where to?" I asked.
"To the test pad, old friend. They keep experimenting. Nothing else to
do!"
"And whom are they taking, Naina Kievna?"
"What do you mean-- whom? Can't you see for yourself?"
She turned and strode off, but I caught up with her.
"Naina Kievna, there was a telephonogram for you."
"From whom would that be?"
"From H.M. Viy."
"What about?"
"You are having some kind of fly-in today," I said, looking at her
hard. "On Bald Mountain. Dress-- formal."
The old woman was obviously pleased.
"Really?" she said. "Isn't that nice! Where is the telephonogram?"
"In the entry, by the phone."
"Anything about membership dues in it?" she asked, lowering her voice.
"In what sense?"
"Well, you know, such as, ‘You are requested to settle your arrears
from seventeen hundred . . .‘" She grew quiet.
"No," said I. "Nothing like that was mentioned."
"Well enough. And how about transportation? Will there be a car to pick
me up?"
"Let me carry your bags," I offered.
She sprang back.
"What do you have in mind?" she asked suspiciously.
"You cut that out-- I don't like it. The bag he wants! Starting in
young, aren't you?"

No way do I like old crones, I thought.
"So how is it with transportation?" she repeated.
"At your own expense," I gloated.
"Oh, the skinflints!" moaned she. "They took the broom for the museum,