"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Probationers (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

He patted Yura on the shoulder and suddenly noticed the police car.
- Inter-nashional police, - he said solemnly. - Zhey musht have all
honours. He nodded off with dignity and walked on. When he came level with
the police atomocar, he braced himself and placed an index finger to the
temple. The blue helmets behind the windshield tilted slowly in unison and
became motionless again.
Yura sighed and leisurely walked to the hotel. He had to find the
cosmodrome director somewhere. The road was empty, and he could not ask
anyone. Sure, he could ask the police officers, but Yura did not wish to
approach them. She did not like the way they sat, motionless. Yura briefly
regretted that he did not ask the man in the white suit about the director,
but then suddenly realised that the friendly duty officer would definitely
know everything about Mirza-Charlie. He even stoped for a second, but then
walked further. Ultimately, it's not polite to take so much of these
people's time. Never mind, I will find out somewhere, he thought and walked
faster.
He was walking along the very edge of the irrigation ditch, trying not
to walk in the sun, past the brightly coloured vending machines with soda
and juices, past the empty benches and recliners, past the small white
houses, hidden in the shade of the acacias, past the roomy bitumen yards
filled with empty atomocars. One of the yards did not have a tent above it,
and ripples of hot air rose from the shiny polished roofs of the vehicles.
It was a pitiful sight, seeing all these cars, possibly left standing for
hours under the merciless sun. Past the giant billboards, promising, in
three languages, herculean health to all those who drink vitamised goats
milk "Golden Horns", past some really strange dishevelled people, sleeping
right on the grass, having placed packages, backpacks and suitcases under
their heads, past the automated street cleaners frozen at the kerb, past
tanned kids, splashing around in the irrigation ditch. A few times he was
overtaken by empty buses. He walked beneath a poster, stretched above the
road: "Mirza-Charlie welcomes disciplined drivers." The sign was done in
English. He passed the blue booth of the traffic controller and came out on
to the Friendship walk - the main street in Mirza-Charlie.
The main walk was also empty. Shops, cinemas, bars, cafes were shut.
Siesta, thought Yura. It was unbearably hot on the street. Yura stopped by a
vendomat and drank a glass of hot orange juice. Raising his eyebrows he
walked to the next vendomat and drank a glass of hot soda water. Yep, he
thought. Siesta. Wouldn't it be nice to crawl inside a refrigerator.
The sun scorched the street - white, as if enveloped by a haze. There
was no shade. At the end of the main walk, in a hot mist the bulk of the
hotel was radiating crimson and blue. Yura started on his way, feeling the
blistering pavement through the shoes. At first he walked fast, but he
couldn't walk fast - he was running out of breath and sweat was pouring down
his face, leaving itchy trails.
A long narrow vehicle with outstretched top panels rolled up to the
kerb. The Driver wearing big dark glasses opened the door.
- Listen, pal, where is the hotel around here?
- Straight ahead, at the end of the main walk, - said Yura.
The driver looked, nodded and asked:
- Aren't you going there?