"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Roadside Picnic (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

get his hands on the witches' jelly. Gutalin may be a drunk and a religious
nut, but maybe he's got something there. Maybe we should leave the devil's
things to the devil? Hands off.
Some punk in a bright scarf sat in Dick's chair.
"Mr. Schuhart?"
"So what?"
"My name is Creon. I'm from Malta.
"So how are things in Malta?"
"Things are fine in Malta, but that's not what I wanted to talk about.
Ernest put me on to you.
So, I thought. That Ernest really was a bastard. Not a drop of pity in
him. Here's this young guy--tan, and clean, and pretty. Hasn't ever shaved
or kissed a girl. But Ernest doesn't care. He just wants to send more people
into the Zone. One out of three will come back with swag, and that's money
for him.
"So how's old Ernest?" I asked.
He looked over at the bar.
"He looks well. I wouldn't mind trading places with him."
"I would. Want a drink?"
"Thanks, I don't drink."
"A smoke?"
"Forgive me, but I don't smoke, either."
"Damn you then. What the hell do you need the money for?"
He blushed and stopped smiling.
"Probably," he said in a low voice, "that concerns only me, doesn't it,
Mr. Schuhart?"
"You're absolutely right," I said and poured myself another four
fingers. My head was beginning to buzz and I was feeling a nice looseness in
my limbs. The Zone had let go of me completely. "I'm drunk right now. I'm
celebrating, as you can see. I went into the Zone and came back alive and
with money. It doesn't happen very often that people come back alive and
even more rarely that they come back with money. So why don't we postpone
any serious discussions."
He jumped up and excused himself. I saw that Dick was back. He was
standing by his chair and I could see in his face that something had
happened.
"Your tanks losing their vacuum again?"
"Yep," he said. "Again."
He sat down, poured himself a drink, freshened mine, and I could see
that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with faulty goods. To tell the
truth, he couldn't care less about the shipments--a model worker!
"Let's have a drink, Red." Without waiting for me he gulped down his
drink and poured himself another. "You know Kirill Panov died."
I was so stoned that I didn't quite understand. Someone died. So what.
"Well, let's drink to the departed."
He looked at me with his round eyes and only then did I feel as if a
string had snapped inside my body. I remember that I got up and leaned
against the table. I looked down at him.
"Kirill?" The silver web was before my eyes and I could hear it
cracking again as it tore. And through the eerie sound of the cracking I