"Arcady And Boris Strugatsky. Prisoners of Power" - читать интересную книгу автора

weapon, and signaled Maxim to come out.
Maxim was delighted to obey. On the porch, he again held out skewered
mushrooms to Redbeard. Redbeard seized the branch, inspected it carefully,
sniffed it, and tossed it aside. "No!" Maxim protested. "This stuff is
good." Maxim bent down and retrieved the branch. Redbeard did not object but
slapped Maxim on the back several times and shoved him toward the fire,
forcing him to sit down. He attempted to communicate something, but Maxim
was busy studying the gloomy one sitting on the other side of the fire and
drying out a dirty rag. One foot was bare, and he kept wiggling his toes.
Five, not six.

2.
Guy sat on the edge of the bench by the window and polished the
insignia on his beret with his cuff while Corporal Varibobu prepared his
travel orders. The corporal's head was tilled to one side, eyes opened wide.
With his left hand he held a red-bordered form while he slowly traced out a
fine calligraphic script. "What handwriting," thought Guy somewhat
enviously. "Ink-stained old fogey: twenty years in the Legion and still a
measly clerk. Just look at those eyes goggle - the pride of the brigade.
Watch that tongue come out. Yup, there it is. Full of ink, too. So long,
Varibobu, you old paper pusher. I won't be seeing you again. I feel sorry to
leave - good men they've got here, and the officers, too. And the job we do
is useful and important." Guy sniffed and looked out the window.
Outside the wind was blowing white dust along the broad sidewalkless
street paved with hexagonal slabs. The long walls of identical buildings
housing administrative and engineering personnel gleamed white. Mrs. Idoya,
a stout imposing woman, walked past the window, shielding herself from the
dust and holding down her skirt. She was a courageous woman, not afraid to
gather up her brood and follow her brigadier husband to these dangerous
parts. The sentry in front of the CO's headquarters, a recent recruit
wearing an unwrinkled trench coat and a beret pulled down over his ears,
presented arms. Then two truckloads of trainees passed - probably going for
their shots. "That's right, sergeant, give it to 'em. Don't stick your head
out. There's nothing to see here," Guy thought. "Where do you think you are
- on some main drag?"
"How do you spell it?" asked Varibobu. "G-a-I?"
"No. My last name is Gaal - G-a-a-I."
"Too bad," said Varibobu, sucking his pen. "Gal would fit on one line."
"Come on, write," thought Guy. "It won't do you any good to save lines.
This jerk is a corporal? Can't even polish his buttons. Some corporal. Two
stripes, but you can't shoot worth a damn, and everybody knows it."
The door flew open and Captain Tolot, wearing the gold arm-band of duty
officer, strode into the room. Guy jumped to his feet and clicked his heels.
The corporal rose slightly but continued writing.
"Aha." The captain tore off his dust mask in disgust. "Private Gaal.
Yes, I know, you're leaving us. Too bad. But I'm glad for you. I hope you'll
serve as conscientiously in the capital."
"Yes, sir, captain!" said Guy. He was very fond of Captain Tolot, an
educated officer and former high school teacher. The captain had singled him
out.