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

one interceded. The box was jammed, but everyone turned away. Only Guy
jumped up, white with anger (maybe it had been fear) and shouted at them,
and they cleared out. But even Guy, who seemed to be a decent sort would
suddenly be seized by unexplainable rages, would quarrel violently with the
passengers in his compartment, stare at them and then Just as suddenly
become totally prostrated.
Yet the others behaved no better. They would sit peacefully for hours,
resting, chatting softly, even laughing; and suddenly someone would begin to
growl at his neighbor. The neighbor would respond with a nervous snarl. And
the other passengers did nothing to break it up. Instead of calming down the
quarreling pair, they Joined in. And the row would grow until everyone was
yelling, threatening, shoving. Even the children would howl at the top of
their lungs until their ears were boxed. Then everything would gradually
subside; people would get sulky and avoid conversation. And sometimes the
row would turn into a really disgusting affair. Eyes would practically pop
out of their sockets faces would flush with red blotches, voices would rise
to blood-curdling shrieks, and someone would laugh hysterically. Some would
pray, others sing. A madhouse.

Maxim left the window and paused briefly in the center of his cramped
room, feeling weak, apathetic, and exhausted. Forcing himself to take
positive action to overcome his deteriorating physical and mental state, he
began to exercise, using a bulky wooden chair as barbells. "You can sure go
to pot this way " he thought. "I suppose I can take it for another day or
so. Then 1'© have to get out of here. Maybe roam the forest awhile. Maybe it
wouldn't be a bad idea to run off to the mountains. Nice there And wild.
Pretty far - you couldn't make it in one night. What did Guy call them?
Zartak. I wonder if that's the name of those mountains or their word for
mountains? Well, whatever they are I'd better forget about them for now.
I've been here ten days and haven't made any progress yet."
He squeezed into the stall shower and for several minutes rubbed
himself down in the dense artificial rain, as disgusting as their real ram.
True, it was slightly colder, but hard and caustic. He dried himself with a
sterile towel.
Annoyed with everything - the bleary morning, this suffocating world,
his idiotic situation, the lousy, greasy breakfast he would eat shortly -
he returned to his room to make his bed. Breakfast was waiting for him,
fuming and stinking on the table. Fishfacewas closing the window.
"ЌҐll®," said Maxim in the local language. "Window. Mustnot."
"Hello," she replied as she turned the window's many bolts. "Must.
Rain. Bad."
"Fishface," said Maxim in Lingcos. Her real name was Nolu, but Maxim
had instantly renamed her. Fishface she would always be, for her expression
and her imperturbability.
She turned and looked at him with unblinking eyes. For the nth time,
she touched her finger to the tip of her nose and said "woman," then pointed
at Maxim and said "man," then pointed to the baggy jump suit hanging on the
back of a chair. "Clothes. Must." Shorts weren't enough. For her, a man had
to be covered from the neck down.
While he dressed, she made his bed, although Maxim always insisted he