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

positron sender."
But the wicked sorcerers persisted. First they dropped a gigantic
rotted tree across the road, destroyed its concrete surface, dug a large
hole in the ground, and filled it with putrid radioactive liquid. When that
failed to stop him, when the midges tired of biting and retreated in
disappointment, toward morning they released a cold, malevolent fog. Maxim
jogged to warm himself. The fog was sticky and oily, and smelted of decay.
Soon the smell of smoke was added, and Maxim tried to locate the fire.

Dawn was breaking when Maxim spotted it at the side of the road, near a
low moss-covered stone structure with a caved-in roof and dark empty
windows. Although there was no one in sight, he sensed that people had been
there recently and might return soon. He turned off the road, leaped over a
drainage ditch, and sinking ankle-deep in rotting leaves, approached the
fire. The fire welcomed him with its primitive warmth. Everything was very
simple here. Without the formality of greetings, one could squat, warm one's
hands by the fire, and wait in silence until the host, just as silently,
served hot food and drink. True, the host wasn't around, but a blackened
kettle with a strong-smelling broth hung above the fire.
Maxim sat down by the fire and warmed himself, then rose reluctantly
and entered the house. House? Only a stone shell remained of the original
structure. The morning sky shone through the broken beams overhead, the
rotten floorboards were treacherous, and clusters of crimson mushrooms grew
in the corners - poisonous when raw, but edible if roasted sufficiently.
But Maxim suddenly lost his appetite. In the semidarkness by the wall,
mingled with faded rags, there was a skeleton! Revolted, he turned,
descended the broken steps, and cupping his palms around his mouth, shouted
at the top of his lungs: "Hey, six-toes!"
His shout was smothered almost instantly by the fog-bound trees. There
was no answer except for the angry chattering of birds overhead.
Maxim returned to the fire, tossed on some branches, and peered into
the kettle. The broth was boiling. He found a spoon of sorts, sniffed it,
dried it with grass and sniffed it again. Then he carefully skimmed off a
grayish scum and flicked it over the rim. He stirred the broth, scooped some
from the edge, blew on it, and pursing his lips, tasted it. Not bad.
Something like broth made from a takhorg liver. Only stronger. Setting the
spoon aside, he took down the kettle carefully with both hands and placed it
on the grass. Then he looked around again and called out: "Breakfast! Come
and get it!"
He still sensed that the owner of the dwelling was somewhere nearby,
but all he saw were motionless bushes, wet from the fog, and dark gnarled
tree trunks. There were no sounds except the crackling of the fire and the
restless cross-chatter of the birds.
"Well, OK," he said aloud. "Do as you please, but I'm breaking the
ice!"
He developed a taste for the broth very quickly. Before he knew it, a
third of the soup had vanished from the kettle. Regretfully, he moved away,
rested for a while, and dried the spoon. But he couldn't control himself: he
scooped up from the very bottom more of those delicious brown chunks of meat
that melted in his mouth. Then he moved away, dried the spoon again, and