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

placed it across the top of the kettle. Now the time had come to express his
appreciation to his invisible host.
He jumped up, selected several thin branches, and entered the house.
Treading cautiously on the rotten floorboards and trying to avoid looking at
the remains in the shadows, he picked some mushrooms, selecting the firmest,
and threaded their crimson caps onto a branch. "You could use some salt and
a little pepper, but never mind. You'll do for an introduction. We'll hang
you over the fire, steam out every bit of your poison, and you'll be
delicious. You'll be my first contribution to the culture of this inhabited
island."
The house darkened almost imperceptibly and he felt someone's eyes on
him. Suppressing the desire to turn sharply, he counted to ten, rose slowly,
and with an anticipatory smile turned his head.
A long dark face with large doleful eyes and lips drooping at the
corners looked at him blankly through the window. They stared at each other
for several seconds, and it seemed to Maxim that the gloom emanating from
the face was flooding the house, sweeping over the forest, and engulfing the
entire world. Everything around him turned gray, gloomy, and mournful. Then
the house became still darker. Maxim turned toward the door.
A stocky man, topped by a shaggy mop of red hair and wearing an ugly
jump suit, straddled the threshold with his short sturdy legs and blocked
the entrance with his broad shoulders. Maxim was pierced by a pair of blue
eyes, very steady and hostile, yet almost cheerful - perhaps in contrast to
the all-pervasive gloom spreading from the window. Obviously this was not
the first time this rough-looking native had encountered a visitor from
another world. But it was also obvious that he was used to dealing with
annoying visitors promptly and harshly, dispensing with such amenities as
communication and other unnecessary complications. An ominous-looking thick
metal pipe suspended from a leather belt around his neck was aimed directly
at Maxim's abdomen. It was clear that he hadn't the slightest notion of the
value of human life, of the Declaration of the Rights of Man, of humanism's
lofty ideals, even of humanism itself.
Having no choice in the matter, Maxim extended the branch of skewered
mushrooms, smiled more broadly, and spoke in carefully articulated words.
"Peace! Everything is OK. Everything is fine!" The gloomy face behind the
window responded to this greeting with a lengthy but unintelligible sentence
that succeeded in clearing the air. Judging from the sounds outside, dry
twigs were being tossed into the fire. Behind the unkempt red beard, the
blue-eyed figure produced clanging sounds that reminded Maxim of the iron
dragon at the crossing.
"Yes!" Maxim nodded vigorously. "Earth! Space!" He pointed the branch
toward the zenith and Redbeard obediently looked up at the broken ceiling.
"Maxim!" continued Maxim, poking himself in the chest. "Maxim! My name is
Maxim! Maxim!" "Mac Sim!" bellowed Redbeard. He had a strange intonation.
His eyes glued on Maxim, he shot a series of rumbling sounds over his
shoulder. "Mac Sim" was repeated several times. The doleful character
replied with some eerie, melancholy syllables. Redbeard's blue eyes and
yellow-toothed jaws opened wide and he began to guffaw. Evidently there was
something funny here that Maxim failed to grasp. Finished with his fun,
Redbeard dried his eyes with his free hand, lowered his death-dealing