"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Roadside Picnic (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автораstars. Spreading his coat over his head and shoulders, Noonan trotted past
the long row of cars to his Peugeot, dove in, and tossed the coat in the back seat. He took out the round black stick of the so-so from his suit pocket, put it in the jack in the dashboard, and pushed it in to the hilt with his thumb. He wriggled around, getting more comfortable behind the wheel, and pressed the accelerator pedal. The Peugeot silently drove out into the middle of the street and raced toward the exit from the Pre-Zone Area. The rain came pouring down suddenly, as though a bucket had been overturned in the sky. The road got slippery and the car swerved at corners. Noonan turned on the wipers and slowed down. So, he thought, they got the report. Now they'll be praising me. Well, I'm all for that. I like being praised. Especially by Mr. Lemchen himself. In spite of himself. Strange isn't it? Why do we like being praised? It doesn't get you any more money. Glory? What kind of glory can we have? "He's famous: three people know about him now." Well, let's say four, counting Bayliss. What a funny creature man is! It seems we enjoy praise just for itself. The way children like ice cream. And it's so stupid. How can I be better in my own eyes? As if I didn't know myself? Good old fat Richard H. Noonan? By the way, what does that "H" stand for? What do you know about that? And there's nobody to ask, either. I can't ask Mr. Lemchen about it. Oh, remember! Herbert! Richard Herbert Noonan. Boy, it's pouring. He turned onto Central and suddenly thought how the city had grown over the past few years. Huge skyscrapers. They're building another one over there. What will it be? Oh, the Luna Complex-- the world's best jazz, and a tourists, especially the elderly ones, and for the noble knights of science. And the suburbs are being emptied. Yes, I'd like to know how this will all end. Well, ten years ago, I was sure I knew. Impenetrable police lines. DMZ twenty miles wide. Scientists and soldiers, and no one else. The horrible sore on the face of an odor that he had long ago given up trying to identify, and he threw open the door at the end of the corridor and went in. Instead of the secretary there was a very tan, unfamiliar young man at the desk. He was in shirtsleeves. He was digging around in the guts of some electronic device that was set up on the desk instead of the typewriter. Richard Noonan hung up his coat and hat, smoothed what was left of his hair with both hands, and looked inquiringly at the young man. He nodded. Noonan opened the door to the office. Mr. Lemchen rose heavily from the big leather armchair in front of the draped window. His angular general's face was wrinkled either in a welcoming smile or in displeasure with the weather or, perhaps, in a struggle with a sneeze. "Here you are. Come in, make yourself comfortable." Noonan looked around for a place to make himself comfortable and could find nothing except for a hard, straight-backed chair tucked away behind the desk. He sat on the edge of the desk. His jovial mood was dissipating for some reason--he himself did not understand why. Suddenly he understood that he was not going to be praised today On the contrary. The day of wrath, he thought philosophically and steeled himself for the worst. "Please smoke," Mr. Lemchen offered, lowering himself back into the |
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