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

was complaining and threatening, but in a very quiet and indistinct voice,
so that Redrick heard only isolated words. Something about legs, knees, and
his darling Archie. Then he shut up.
The village stretched along the western edge of the city. There once
had been summer houses, gardens, orchards, and the summer villas of the city
fathers and plant directors. Green, pleasant places with small lakes and
clean sandy beaches, translucent birch groves, and ponds stocked with carp.
The stink and pollution from the plant never reached this verdant glade--nor
did the city plumbing system. But now everything here was abandoned and they
passed only one inhabited house--the window shone yellow through the drawn
blinds, the wash on the line was wet from the rain, and a huge dog rushed
out at them furiously and chased the car through the mud thrown up by the
wheels.
Redrick carefully drove over an old rickety bridge. When he could see
the turnoff to Western Highway, he stopped the car and turned off the motor.
Then he got. out and went on the road without looking back at Burbridge, his
hands stuffed into the damp pockets of his jumpsuit. It was light.
Everything around them was wet, still, and sleepy. He walked over to the
highway and peered from the bushes. The police: checkpoint was easily
visible from his vantage point: a little trailer house, with three lighted
windows. The patrol car was parked next to it. It was empty. Redrick stood
watching for some time. There was no action at the checkpoint; the guards
must have gotten cold and wornout during the night and were warming up in
the trailer. Dreaming over cigarettes stuck to their lower lips. "The
toads," Redrick said softly. He found the brass knuckles in his pocket,
slipped his fingers into the oval holes, pressed the cold metal into his
fist, and still hunched up against the chill and with his hands still in his
pockets, he went back. The jeep, listing slightly to one side, was parked
among the bushes. It was a lost, quiet spot. Probably nobody had looked at
it in the last ten years.
When Redrick reached the car, Burbridge sat up and looked at him, his
mouth open. He looked even older than usual, wrinkled, bald, unshaven, and
with rotten teeth. They stared at each other silently, and then Burbridge
said distinctly:
"The map . . . all the traps, everything. . . . You'll find it and you
won't be sorry."
Redrick listened to him without moving; then he loosened his fingers
and let the brass knuckles fall into his pocket
"All right. All you have to do is lie there in a faint. Understand?
Moan and don't let anyone touch you."
He got behind the wheel and started the car.
Everything went well. No one got out of the trailer when the jeep drove
slowly past, obeying all the signs and making all the correct signals. It
accelerated and sped into town through die southern end. It was six A.M. The
streets were empty, the pavement wet and shiny black, and the traffic lights
winked lonely and unneeded at the intersections. They drove past the bakery
with its high, brightly lit windows, and Redrick was engulfed in a wave of
the warm, incredibly delicious smell of baking bread.
"I'm starved," Redrick said and stretched his stiffened muscles by
pushing his hands into the wheel.