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

the mortar is in the shop, contributions are levied by the five-ruble bill,
but to Bald Mountain-- at your expense, please! The meter won't read low, my
good fellow, and then he has to wait. . .
Muttering and coughing, she turned from me and walked away. I rubbed my
hands and went off in my own direction. My suppositions were being borne
out. The skein of wondrous events was getting tighter. And, shame to admit,
but this seemed a lot more fascinating at the moment than, say, even the
modeling of a reflex process.
The Prospect of Peace was now deserted. A gang of kids were loitering
at the cross street, apparently playing tip-cat. Catching sight of me, they
quit the game and took off in my direction. Sensing unfavorable
developments, I passed them quickly and bore off toward downtown. Behind my
back a stifled and excited voice exclaimed, "Stilyaga." I quickened pace.
"Stilyaga," bawled several at once. I was almost running, pursued by yells
of, "Stilya-aga! Spindle-legs! Papa's Pobeda-driver... Passersby were
looking at me with compassion.
In such eventualities, it's best to dive into some refuge. I dived into
the nearest door, which turned out to be a food store. I walked up and down
the counters, assured myself that there was plenty of sugar, and found the
choice of sausages and candies rather limited, which was amply compensated
by the variety of fish products surpassing all expectations. Such appetizing
and variegated salmon! I had a glass of soda water, and scanned the street.
The kids were gone. Thereupon I left the store and continued my journey.
Presently the grain stores and log-cabin fortresses came to an end and
were replaced by modern two-storied houses, interspersed with small parks.
In the parks, small children were running about, old women were knitting
warm things, and old men were playing dominoes as if for keeps. A spacious
square turned up in the center of town, surrounded with two- and three-story
buildings. It was paved with asphalt, punctuated in the center by the
greenery of a garden. Above it rose a large red poster titled Honor RoIl and
several smaller posters with plotted curves and diagrams. I discovered the
post office right there, in the square. The fellows and I had agreed that
the first one to get to the town would leave a note with his coordinates in
general delivery. There was no note, and I left a letter with my address and
instructions on how to find the cottage on hen's legs. Next I decided to
have breakfast
Circling the square, I found a cinema playing Kozara; a bookstore,
closed for inventory; the town hall with several dusty cars in front; the
Hotel Frigid Sea, without vacancies as per usual; two kiosks with soda and
ice cream; one general goods store, No. 2; an agricultural goods store, No.
18; dining room No. 11, which opened at noon; and a buffet, No. 3, closed
without explanation. Next I observed the town police station and had a chat
in its open doorway with a very young policeman about the location of the
gas pump and the state of the road to Lezhnev.
"But where is your car?" inquired the policeman, looking around the
square.
"Over with some people I know," I replied.
"Aha, with acquaintances . . ." he said meaningfully. I felt he took
note of me. Timidly I bowed off.
Next to the three-storied building of the local fisheries co-op, I