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

stars. 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
variety show, and so on. Everything for our glorious troops and our brave
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