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

"Yet for the past two years you've been Canadian consultant to the UN
Commission on Problems of the Visitation."
"Yes. But I have nothing to do with the study of extraterrestrial
cultures. On the commission my colleagues and I represent the inter national
scientific community when questions come up on implementing UN decisions
regarding the internationalization of the Zones. Roughly speaking, we make
sure that the extraterrestrial marvels found in the Zones come into the
hands of the International Institute."
"Is there anyone else after these treasures?"
"Yes."
"You probably mean stalkers!"
"I don't know what they are."
"That's what we in Harmont call the thieves who risk their lives in the
Zone to grab everything they can lay their hands on. It's become a whole new
profession."
"I understand. No, that's not within our competence."
"I should think not. That's police business. But I would be interested
in knowing just what does fall within your competence, Dr. Pilman."
"There is a steady leak of materials from the Visitation Zones into the
hands of irresponsible persons and organizations. We deal with the results
of these leaks."
"Could you be a little more specific, doctor?"
"Can't we talk about the arts instead? Wouldn't the listeners care to
know my opinion of the incomparable Godi Muller?"
"Of course! But I would like to Finish with science first. As a
scientist, aren't you drawn to dealing with the extraterrestrial treasures
yourself?"
"How can I put it? I suppose so."
Then, we can hope that one fine day Harmonites will see their famous
fellow citizen on the streets of his home town?"
"It's not impossible."

1. REDRICK SCHUHART, AGE 23,

BACHELOR, LABORATORY ASSISTANT AT THE HARMONT BRANCH OF THE INTERNATIONAL
INSTITUTE FOR EXTRATERRESTRIAL CULTURES

The night before, he and I were in the repository--it was already
evening, all I had to do was throw off my lab suit and I could head for the
Borscht to put a drop or two of the stiff stuff into my system. I was just
standing there, holding up the wall, my work all done and a cigarette in my
hand. I was dying for a smoke--it was two hours since I'd had one, and he
was still puttering around with his stuff. He had loaded, locked, and sealed
one safe and was loading up the other one--taking the empties from the
transporter, examining each one from every angle (and they're heavy little
bastards, by the way, fifteen pounds each), and carefully replacing them on
the shelf.
He had been struggling with those empties forever, and the way I see
it, without any benefit to humanity or himself. In his shoes, I would have
said screw it long ago and gone to work on something else for the same