"Boris and Arkady Strugatsky. The snail on the slope" - читать интересную книгу автора

impossible, get me? It's absolutely out of the question!"
He bounded up to Pepper and whispered in his ear, "Your visa has run
out! Twenty-seven minutes ago it ran out and you're still here. You mustn't
be here. I beg you. . . ." He collapsed onto his knees and drew Pepper's
boots and socks out from under the bed. "I woke up at five to twelve covered
in sweat," he mumbled. "Well, I thought, this is it. This is the end of me.
I ran off just as I was. I don't remember a thing. Clouds over the streets,
nails catching my feet--and my wife's expecting! Get dressed, please, get
dressed. . . ."
Pepper got dressed in a hurry. He found it hard to think. The warden
kept running between the bunks, shuffling across the moonlit squares, now
glancing out into the corridor, now looking out of the window, whispering,
"Good lord, what a business."
"Can I at least leave my suitcase with you?" inquired Pepper.
The warden clacked his teeth.
"Not at any price! You'll be the ruin of me. .. . You might have some
sympathy. . . . Good lord, good lord... ."
Pepper gathered his books together, closing his case with difficulty,
and picked up his raincoat. "Where shall I go now?" he asked.
The warden was mute. He waited fidgeting with impatience. Pepper hefted
his suitcase and went off down the dark and silent staircase to the street.
He paused on the verandah and while attempting to control his shivering,
spent some time listening to the warden instructing the somnolent duty
clerk: "He'll ask for readmittance. Don't let him in! He's got ...
[inaudible sinister whisper] Got it! You're responsible. .. ." Pepper sat
down on his suitcase and placed his raincoat across his knees.
"I'm afraid not, sorry," said the warden behind him. "I must ask you to
leave the verandah. I must ask you to vacate the hotel premises completely."
He had to go down and put his case on the roadway. The warden stamped
around, muttering: "I must ask you. . . . My wife . . . and no fuss. . . .
Consequences . . . can't be done. ..." and left, white underwear gleaming,
stealing along the fence. Pepper glanced at the dark windows of the
cottages, the dark windows of the Directorate, the dark windows of the
hotel. There was no light anywhere, even the street lighting was off. There
was only the moon, round, brilliant, and somehow malevolent.
He suddenly realized he was alone. He had nobody. All around people
were asleep and they all like me, I know that, I've seen it many times. Yet
I'm alone, just as if they'd suddenly died or become enemies . . . and the
warden--kind, ugly man, a martyr to Basedow's disease, a loser who latched
on to me the very first day. We played the piano together, four hands, and
argued. I was the only one he dared to argue with and next to whom he felt
himself a real person, not just the father of seven children. And Kim. He
had returned from the chancellery and brought a huge document case with him,
full of informers reports. Ninety-two denunciations of me, all written in
one hand and with different signatures. That I steal official sealing wax at
the post office, that I brought an underage girl in my suitcase and am now
keeping her in the bakery cellar, and much besides. . . . And Kim read these
denunciations and threw some into the wastebasket, and kept others to one
side, muttering: "I'll have to put some headwork in on that." And that was
unexpected and horrible, senseless and repulsive. . . . How he would timidly