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

emerged on a cracked concrete road leading into the woods. Stepping along
the concrete slabs, he walked to the edge of the river. There he saw rusty
girders overgrown with vegetation, the remains of some huge latticed
construction lying half-submerged in the water. On the other side the road
continued, barely visible beneath the luminous sky. Apparently, long ago a
bridge had spanned the river, but it probably had interfered with someone's
plans and had been knocked over into the water, creating an ugly mess. Maxim
sat down and contemplated his predicament.
"OK, you have a road. That's the main thing. It's a lousy road, very
old, but it's still a road. And, on all inhabited planets, roads lead to
their builders. What do I need now? Not food. I wouldn't mind a snack, but I
had better keep my appetite in check. I can manage without water for another
day. There's enough air, although I'd be happier with a little less carbon
dioxide and radioactivity. So far. I'm in fair shape. What I do need is a
small primitive coil transmitter with a spiral pitch." In his mind's eye he
saw clearly the circuit for a positron sender. If only he had the parts, he
could put one together at once, blindfolded. He assembled it mentally
several times.
"Robinson Crusoe. That's me, all right." He was somewhat taken by the
idea. "Maxim Crusoe. I don't have a damned thing except a pair of shorts
without pockets and my sneakers. On the other hand, my island is inhabited.
And if it's inhabited, there's always hope of locating a primitive coil
transmitter." He tried hard to visualize a coil transmitter but had no luck
this time. Instead he kept seeing his mother and the expression on her face
when she was told her son had disappeared without a trace. His father would
nib his cheeks and look around absentmindedly. "Cut it out," he said to
himself. "Stop thinking about them. Anything, but not about them. Otherwise
you're sunk. Cut it out and get hold of yourself." He rose and started along
the road.
The forest, timid and sparse at first, gradually became bolder and
edged up closer to the road. Several impudent young trees had burst through
the concrete and were growing right through the highway. Obviously the road
was at least twenty or thirty years old. Along its sides the woods were
taller, denser, and wilder; here and there branches interlaced overhead. It
grew dark and loud guttural cries came from the depths of the forest.
Something moved, rustled, thudded. Then, about twenty paces in front of
him, a dark squat shape darted across the road. Mosquitoes whined. It
suddenly dawned on Maxim that this region was too desolate and wild for
human habitation and that it would take several days to reach an inhabited
area. Again his hunger surfaced, but Maxim sensed that flesh on the hoof was
plentiful here. He wouldn't starve to death. Although the meat wouldn't be
particularly appetizing, the hunt itself would be interesting. Deer? Maybe,
maybe not. But the local game was undoubtedly edible. Stop moving, and the
midges would begin to feed on you savagely. And as everyone knows, what's
edible on an alien planet doesn't die of hunger. It wouldn't be so awful to
get lost here and spend a year or so roaming the forest. He would find
himself a buddy - some kind of wolf or bear. They'd go hunting together. He
supposed he'd eventually tire of it. Besides, the prospect of tramping
through this forest wasn't particularly appealing, with all that iron junk
around and the polluted air. Anyway, the main thing was to put together a