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

the regulation carved wooden cockerels on the roofs, stretched on both sides
of the street. Here and there a dirty brick structure with iron doors evoked
the half-known word for grain stone. The street was wide and straight and
bore the name of Peace Prospect. Up ahead, toward the center of town, I
could make out some two-story town houses with interspersed open squares.
"Turn right at the next alley," said Hawk-nose.
I switched on the turn signal, braked, and turned right. Here the road
was overgrown with grass, but a brand-new car manufactured in the Ukraine
was snuggled up against one of the gates. House numbers were hung over the
posterns, and the numerals were almost invisible against the rusty tinplate.
The alley was modishly titled Lukomoriye Street.* It was rather narrow and
squeezed between sturdy palisades that must have been erected in those times
when Swedish and Norwegian pirates raided the lands.
"Halt," said Hawk-nose. I braked, and he bumped his nose on the gun
barrel again. "Now, then," he said, massaging his nose. "You wait for me
here and I will go to arrange everything."
"Really, you shouldn't," I said, for the last time.
"No more arguments. Volodia, keep him in your sights."
Hawk-nose climbed out of the car, and, bending down, squeezed through
the low gate. The house was invisible behind the towering gray stockade. The
postern was altogether remarkable, big enough for a locomotive depot, hung
on rusty hinges that must have weighed a stone apiece.

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* A magical place in Russian literature.


I read the signs with growing astonishment. There were three. On the
left wing, coldly gleaming with thick glass, there was an imposing blue sign
with silver letters:








SRITS

Izba on Hen's Legs

Monument

of

Solovetz Antiquity