* * *
Master(English)
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Nevermore
- АудиоКнига Henry Lion Oldy
http://www.sf.amc.ru/oldie/
АудиоКнига Henry Lion Oldy http://www.sf.amc.ru/oldie/ В чём цель существования нашей цивилизации? А с точки зрения ворона? Мы ведь их неплохо кормим. На полях сражений... Лишь бы это не было единственным смыслом нашего существования
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Последнее допущение господа
- АудиоКнига Henry Lion Oldy
http://www.sf.amc.ru/oldie/
АудиоКнига Henry Lion Oldy
http://www.sf.amc.ru/oldie/
ОЛДИ
ПОСЛЕДНЕЕ ДОПУЩЕНИЕ ГОСПОДА
И сотворил Бог человека по образу своему...
(Ветхий Завет, 1-я книга Моисеева,
Бытие, стих 27)
...Джошуа не помнил, как он оказался на берегу. В мозгу мелькали
неясные обрывки: дорога к подземелью, запутанные темные переходы, фигуры в
бесформенных балахонах, дымное пламя факелов - и ужасное, зловещее, но
необъяснимо притягательное лицо Лучезарного, с горящими углями зрачков!..
И тут до Джошуа дошло - отныне он Посвященный!
- С прибытием, Посвященный! - прохрипели сзади него. Джошуа
обернулся, и мир, взорвавшись, разлетелся на множество мелких осколков,
ничем не связанных друг с другом.
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Реквием по мечте
- Henry Lion Oldy - Громов, Лодыженский
Говорят, в жизни можно многого добиться, надо только твёрдо знать, чего хочешь. Правду говорят. Нет, возможно не всё, не всегда и не для всех. И всё же... возможно в этой жизни гораздо больше, чем может показаться. Вот только... у всего есть цена. Прежде, чем заварачивать покупку, узнай цену. Подумай. Хорошо подумай.
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To be a god
Arkadi and Boris Strugatski. Hard to be a god
---------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright Arcady and Boris Strugatsky ? http://rusf.ru/abs/
Copyright Translated by Wendayne Ackerman, 1973
Copyright DAW Books, INC.
Origin: "Trudno byt bogom" ? be_god.txt
OCR: SCOUT
---------------------------------------------------------------
PROLOGUE
The stock of Anka's crossbow was made of black plastic. The string of
chrome steel was operated by a noiselessly moving winch. Anton did not think
much of such innovations. He owned a conventional arquebus in the style of
Marshal Totz, King Pitz the first. It was overlaid with black copper and a
rope of steer sinews ran along small wheels. Pashka, on the other hand, had
an air rifle. Crossbows were childish weapons, he thought, for he was lazy
by nature and lacked manual dexterity.
They landed on the north shore at a spot where the gnarled roots of
mighty pine trees protruded from the yellow sandy slope. Anka let go of the
rudder and looked around. The sun had risen above the forest. A blue fog
hung over the lake. The pines glowed dark green and a yellow sandy beach
stretched in the distance. A light blue sky arched over the whole landscape.
The children bent over the side of the boat and looked into the water.
"Can't see a thing," said Pashka.
"A huge pike," said Anton, a trifle too sure of himself.
"With fins like that?" asked Pashka.
Anton did not reply. Anka, too, looked into the water, but she saw only
her own reflection in it.
"How about taking a swim?" said Pashka, and plunged his arm into the
water up to the elbow. "Cold," he reported.
Anton climbed onto the bow and jumped ashore. The boat rocked to and
fro. Anton took hold of the boat and glanced questioningly at Pashka. Now
Pashka rose, placed the oar like a water carrier's beam across his neck,
bent his knees a bit and sang at the top of his voice:
Old salt, sea-dog, Witzliputzli!
Are you watching, on your guard?
Look! A school of hard-boiled sharkies
Are approaching, swimming hard!
Anton rocked the boat.
"Hey, hey!" yelled Pashka, trying not to lose his balance.
"Why 'hard-boiled?'" Anka asked.
"I don't know," answered Pashka. They climbed out of the boat. "But
it's pretty good, isn't it? 'A school of hard-boiled sharkies!'"
They pulled the boat ashore. Their feet slipped on the wet sand, which
was strewn with dried needles and pine cones. The boat was heavy and
slippery but they dragged it all the way up onto the land. Then they stopped
for a while to catch their breath.
"Almost squashed my foot," said Pashka, and straightened his red fez.
He made sure that the tassel hung directly above his right ear--just like
the broad-nosed Irukanian pirates were wont to do. "life isn't worth a
farthing, my dear!" he recited dramatically.
Anka was intently sucking her finger.
"A splinter?" asked Anton.
"No. Got a scratch. One of you two must have long nails."
"Let me see!"
She showed him her finger.
"Yes," said Anton. "A scratch.--Well, let's do something!"
"Pick up your arms and let's walk along the shore!" suggested Pashka.
"For that we didn't need to crawl ashore," Anton said.
"It's chicken to stay in the boat," stated Pashka. "But along the shore
there are all kinds of things. Reeds, canyons, whirlpools, eddies with
eels--and catfish, too."
"A school of hard-boiled catfish," said Anton.
"Hey, did you ever dive into a whirlpool?"
"Sure."
"Funny that I didn't see you do it."
"Lots of things you haven't seen yet"
Anka turned her back on them, raised her crossbow and aimed at a pine
tree 20 feet away. The bark came off in splinters.
"Wow, did you see that!" exclaimed Pashka with admiration. Then he
aimed his air rifle at the same spot. But he missed. "I didn't hold my
breath properly," he said.
"And even if you had held it properly, so what?" asked Anton. He looked
at Anka.
With a firm movement Anka retracted the steel bow with the winch. She
had splendid muscles, and Anton watched with pleasure the hard ball of her
biceps rolling beneath her tanned skin.
Anka took aim carefully, and shot again. The second arrow penetrated
the tree trunk, a bit lower than the first
"That doesn't make any sense," said Anka, and let the crossbow hang
down her side. "What?" asked Anton.
"We're only damaging the trees, that's all. Yesterday, a kid shot an
arrow at a tree and I forced him to pull that arrow out with his own teeth."
"Pashka would have run away," said Anton. "You have good teeth."
"I can whistle through my teeth, too," said Pashka.
"Well," said Anka, "let's do something!"
"I don't feel like climbing up and down canyons," said Anton.
"Me neither. Let's walk straight ahead."
"Where to?" asked Pashka.
"Just follow your nose."
"Meaning what?" said Anton.
"Let's go into the forest!" said Pashka. "Toshka, do you remember the
'Forgotten Road'?"
"Sure!"
"You know, Anetchka--" said Pashka.
"Don't you call me Anetchka," Anka cut in abruptly. She could not stand
to be called by any other name than Anka.
Anton remembered very well that she did not like it, and said quickly:
"Sure--the Forgotten Road. Nobody has driven over it for ages. It isn't
even marked on the map, and where it leads to, nobody knows."
"Have you ever been there?"
"Yes. But we didn't explore it."
"A road coming from nowhere and leading nowhere," stated Pashka, who
had regained his former self-assurance.
"That's fine!" said Anka. Here eyes narrowed to black slits. "Let's go!
Will we get there by tonight?"
"What are you talking about? Well be there by noon."
They clambered up the steep slope. Once they had arrived at the top,
Pashka tamed around. Down below was the blue lake with yellow speckled sand
bars, and the boat on the sandy beach. Close to the shore, where the water
was as smooth as oil, large concentric circles broke the surface-- that was
the pike, probably. And the boy felt, as always, that vague joy he
experienced whenever he and Toshka stole away from the boarding-school and a
whole day of freedom lay before them. A day filled with unexplored places,
strawberries, sun-scorched deserted meadows, lizards, and ice cold water
from unexpected springs amidst the rocks. And as always he felt overcome by
a desire to shout out loud and jump up into the air. Anton, laughing
happily, watched him, and Pashka saw the understanding in his friend's eyes.
Anka placed two fingers in her mouth and gave forth with a piercing whistle.
And they entered the forest.
It was a pine wood, with sparse vegetation. Their feet skidded over the
slippery, needle-covered soil. The slanting sun rays glittered between the
straight tree trunks, and golden spots danced on the ground. The air smelled
of resin, the nearby lake, and strawberries. Somewhere, far above them, an
invisible lark was warbling.
Anka walked ahead. She carried her crossbow in one hand, and with the
other reached now and then for the strawberries that occasionally peeked
out, as red as blood, from among the foliage. Anton marched behind her with
the solid battle gear of Marshal Totz slung over his shoulder. The quiver,
filled with mighty battle arrows, rhythmically banged against the seat of
his trousers with every step. He looked at Anka's neck: it was deeply
tanned, and the vertebrae jutted out like little knobs. Once in a while he
turned around and looked for Pashka, who had disappeared; only the red fez
flashed from time to time in the bright sunlight. Anton imagined Pashka
prowling silently among the pine trees, his air rifle held in firing
position, his lean face with the hooked nose pointing forward like some
predatory animal Pashka crawling through the underwood. But the forest knows
no mercy. A challenge--and you must react at once, thought Anton. He was
just about to duck--but Anka was walking right in front of him, and she
might turn around any moment Wouldn't he look silly then!
Anka tamed around and asked:
"Did you sneak away real quietly?"
Anton shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody sneaks away noisily!"
"Well, I did. I guess I made some awful noise," said Anka with a
worried expression. "I dropped a cup--and suddenly I heard steps in the
corridor. Probably old maid Katja; she's on duty today. I had to jump out of
the window into a flower bed. Guess what kind of flowers grow there,
Toshka?"
Anton frowned.
"Under your window? I don't know, what kind?"
"Pretty tough flowers. No wind can rock them, no storm can break them.
You can jump around in them and trample on them and it won't harm them."
"That's interesting," said Anton in a serious voice. He remembered that
he also had a flower bed under his window, with flowers that were neither
rocked by wind nor broken by storm. But actually he had never paid any
attention to it.
Anka stopped and waited until Anton had caught up with her. She held
her hand out to him. It was full of strawberries. With the tip of his
fingers, Anton seized exactly three berries.
"Go ahead. Take some more," said Anka.
"No, thanks," said Anton. "I like to pick them myself.-- But listen,
Anka, it must be easy to get along with old maid Katja, isn't it?"
"That all depends," said Anka. "Just imagine somebody telling you every
night how dirty and dusty your feet are--"
She fell silent. It was good to walk with her through the woods,
shoulder to shoulder, and their bare elbows touching now and then. And it
felt good to look at her--how pretty she was, so nimble, so friendly--and
how big and gray her eyes were, and what dark lashes she had.
"Sure," said Anton, and stretched out his hand to grasp a spider web
that glistened in the sun. "Her feet wouldn't get dirty. If somebody carried
you through every puddle, then you wouldn't get dirty either."
"Who carries her?"
"Henry from the weather station. A big, strong guy with blond hair, you
know."
"Really?"
"Didn't you know it? It's old hat, everybody knows they're in love."
Both fell silent again. Anton looked at Anka. Her eyes were dark caves.
"And when did that happen?" she asked.
"Oh, on a moonlit night," replied Anton, not too eagerly. "Just keep
this all to yourself, will you?"
Anka laughed.
"It wasn't hard to drag it out of you, Toshka," She said. "Do you want
some more strawberries?"
Quite mechanically, Anton now took some berries from her red-stained
hand and put them in his mouth. I don't like gossip-mongers, he thought I
can't stand people who tell tales about others. Suddenly he had a thought.
"Some day somebody will carry you, too. How would you like it if people
talk about it then?"
"I'm certainly not going to tell anybody about it," said Anka. "I don't
like gossip."
Then she continued in a more confidential tone: "You know, I'm really
fed up with having to wash my feet two times every night."
Poor old maid Katja, thought Anton. What an uphill fight she has.
They reached a narrow lane. The path led up a steep slope and the wood
became darker and darker. Ferns grew in profusion, and wood sorrel. The pine
trunks were covered with moss and the whitish foam of lichen.
But the forest knows no mercy. Suddenly a hoarse, shrill voice, quite
unhuman, roared out:
"Stop! Throw your arms to the ground! You, milord, noble don and you,
too, Dona!"
If there is a challenge in the woods, you must react at once, Anton
knew. With calculated precision, Anton pushed Anka down into the ferns to
the left of the path, while he himself leapt into the ferns to the right. He
slipped at first, and then hid behind the evil-smelling lichen foam. The
echo of the hoarse voice still rang through the wood, but the path was
empty. Suddenly everything was quiet.
Anton turned to one side to bend his bow, when an arrow hit close by.
Dirt showered down on him. The hoarse, unhuman voice announced:
"Milord has been hit in the heel!"
Anton moaned and pulled up his left
"Not that one, it's the right heel!" corrected the voice.
He could hear Pashka giggle nearby. Cautiously, Anton peered out from
the ferns, but he could not see him anywhere in the dusky, green jungle.
At that moment, a penetrating, whistling sound came and a thud as if a
tree were falling to the ground.
"Owoooooo!" howled Pashka in a tortured voice. "Have mercy! Spare my
life! Don't kill me!"
Anton leapt to his feet. From the thicket of ferns he saw Pashka
approach in an unsteady gait, both arms raised above his head. Anka's voice
asked:
"Toshka, can you see him?"
"Yes, I can," called Anton cheerfully. "Don't move!" he yelled in
Pashka's direction. "Put your hands on top of your head!"
Pashka obediently clasped his hands above his head and declared:
"I won't tell a thing."
"What shall we do with him, Toshka?" asked Anka.
"You'll find out in just a minute," said Anton, settling comfortably on
the ground and placing his crossbow across his knees.
"Name!" he croaked, using the voice of the witch of Irukan.
Pashka simply arched his back and made a contemptuous gesture. He did
not want to submit to defeat. Anton fired. The heavy arrow noisily
penetrated the branches above Pashka's head.
"Wow!" exclaimed Anka.
"They call me Don Sarancha," grudgingly confessed Pashka. And then he
began to recite: "And here lies, as you all can see, one of his
accomplices."
"An infamous thug and murderer," Anton clarified. "But he is known
never to do something for nothing. On whose behalf have you come here to
snoop around?"
"Don Satarina the Pitiless has sent me," Pashka lied.
Anton spoke with contempt in his voice:
"This hand of mine cut the thread of Don Satarina's stinking life on
the Square of the Heavy Swords just two years ago."
"Shall I pierce him with an arrow?" suggested Anka.
"Oh, I completely forgot," said Pashka quickly. "Actually, I'm being
sent by Arata the Fair. He promised me one hundred gold pieces for your
heads."
Anton slapped his knees.
"What a liar!" he shouted. "Do you believe for an instant that Arata
would have anything to do with a swindler like you?"
"Maybe I'd better pierce him with an arrow after all?" asked a
bloodthirsty Anka.
Anton laughed demonically.
"By the way," said Pashka, "you were shot in your heel. You should have
collapsed long since from losing so much blood."
"Nuts!" countered Anton. "First of all, I've had a piece from the bark
of the White Tree in my mouth the whole time; and, second, two beautiful
barbarian maidens bandaged my wound."
The ferns began to move and Anka stepped out onto the path. On her
cheek was a long scratch and her knees were smeared with earth and lichen.
"It's about time we threw him into the swamp," she declared. "If the
enemy won't surrender, he must be destroyed."
Pashka's arms dropped down and dangled at his sides.
"You don't stick to the rules of the game," he said to Anton. "With you
it always turns out that the witch is a good person."
"You don't know the first thing about it!" said Anton. He, too, stepped
out onto the path. 'The forest knows no mercy, you filthy mercenary."
Anka returned the air rifle to Pashka.
"You two are real sharpshooters," said Anka enviously. "Do you always
aim so close?"
"What else did you expect from us?" Pashka asked. "We don't run around
yelling 'Bang, bang--you're dead!' When we play, we always take risks."
Anton added with nonchalance:
"We play William Tell a lot."
"We take turns," volunteered Pashka. "One day I have to go stand there
with an apple on my head, and next time he's got to do it."
"You don't say." Her words came slowly. "I'd love to watch that some
time."
"We'd show it to you right now--with pleasure," snapped Anton. 'Too bad
we don't have an apple!"
Pashka grinned from ear to ear. But Anka quickly yanked the pirate's
fez from his head and swiftly rolled it up into a cone.
"It doesn't have to be an apple!" she said. "This makes a marvelous
target. Come on, let's play William Tell!"
Anton took the red cone and examined it carefully. He glanced at Anka;
her eyes were like dark wells. Pashka was dancing about; he felt great Anton
held the cone out to him.
"I can hit the bull's-eye at 30 paces," he said flatly. "Of course,
only with a pistol I'm familiar with."
"Really?" said Anka, and she turned to Pashka. "And how about you? Can
you score a direct hit from 30 feet away?"
"I'm known as the fastest gun this side of the lake!" he grinned
broadly. "Let's try it out."
Anton made an about-face and walked down the path, counting out loud:
"... fifteen... sixteen... seventeen..."
Pashka said something that Anton couldn't hear, and Anka laughed, much
too loud.
"Thirty," said Anton and turned around.
At a distance of thirty paces, Pashka looked pretty small. The red cone
sat on his head like a dunce cap. Pashka grinned. He was still playing.
Anton leaned forward and leisurely drew his bow.
"Bless you. Father William!" Pashka called out to him. "And whatever
happens, thanks for everything!"
Anton placed a bolt in the slot which would guide the missile. He
straightened up. Pashka and Anka looked at him. They were standing close to
each other. The lane stretched ahead like a dark soggy passage between tall
green walls. Anton raised the crossbow. The battle gear of Marshal Totz
suddenly felt very heavy. My hands are trembling, thought Anton. That's bad.
What nonsense! He remembered how he and Pashka had amused themselves last
winter for one full hour by aiming snowballs at an icicle on a fence post
They were throwing from a distance of twenty feet, then fifteen, then
ten--and they still could not hit it And finally, when they had grown tired
of the game and were just about to leave, Pashka pitched the last snowball,
without even taking aim, and made a direct hit.
Anton pressed the stock hard against his shoulder. Anka is standing
much too close, he thought He was on the point of calling out to her to move
over a bit, but then he remembered that this would seem silly. Higher.
Higher still. . . Higher . .. Suddenly he was firmly convinced that the
heavy bolt was going to strike Pashka right between the eyes, bore deeply
between those merry, green eyes, even if he turned around now and let the
arrow fly in the opposite direction.
He opened his eyes and looked at Pashka. Pashka's grin had vanished.
Anka raised her hand very slowly, then ever so slowly spread her fingers
apart. Her face looked very intense and grown-up. Now Anton lifted his
crossbow higher still and pulled the trigger. He did not see where the arrow
landed.
"Missed it!" he said very loud.
He walked along the path but his legs would not properly obey him.
Pashka wiped the red cone across his face, shook himself like a wet dog,
unrolled the cone and formed it into a fez again. Anka bent down and picked
up her crossbow. If shell hit me over the head with it, thought Anton, I'll
even say thank you. But Anka did not even look at him.
She tamed to Pashka and asked: "Are we leaving?"
"Right away," said Pashka.
He looked at Anton, tapping his finger against his forehead.
"But you were scared too." Anton said. Pashka did not reply. Once more
he tapped his finger against his forehead. Then he followed Anka. Anton
ambled along in the rear, trying to cope with his doubts.
What did I do, he thought. His head felt very heavy all of a sudden.
Why are they so put out? Pashka--well, he was scared stiff. Who knows who
was more afraid: Father William or his son? But what's the matter with Anka?
Maybe she was worried about Pashka. But what should I have done? Now they
make me trot behind like an outcast. I should take off on my own. I can take
that tarn over there on the left, there's an interesting looking little pool
Maybe I can catch an owl; wouldn't that be something!
But he did not even slow down. That's for good, he thought Somewhere he
had read that such things happened frequently.
They reached the Forgotten Road sooner than they had expected. By now,
the sun was high up in the sky, and it was very hot. The pine needles
pricked their bare skin. The road was paved with concrete; it consisted of
two rows of cracked, reddish-gray blocks. Thick tufts of dried grass were
growing in the cracks. The soft shoulders on either side were full of dusty
thistles. Above the road flew fat blowflies, buzzing and droning, and a
brazen one bumped right into Anton's forehead. The air was quiet and sultry.
"Look, you two!" said Pashka.
He pointed to a round metal sign hanging over the middle of the road on
a rusty wire that had been strung across. The paint was peeling off the
sign. They could barely make out a light-colored crossbar on a red
background.
"What is that?" asked Anka. She did not seem too interested.
"A traffic sign," said Pashka. "Do Not Enter."
"A one-way street," explained Anton.
"What does that mean?" asked Anka.
"That means that you can't enter that road," said Pashka.
"But why do they have the road, then?"
Pashka shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a very old road," he said.
"An anisotropic road," Anton explained. Anka stood with her back to
him. "Traffic can move only in one direction."
"The wisdom of our forefathers," said Pashka pensively. "There they
were, driving along for about 200 miles, and all of a sudden--smash,
bang!--Do Not Enter! Wrong Way! And you can't drive on, and there isn't
anybody you can ask."
"Just imagine all the things that might be there on the other side of
that traffic sign!" said Anka. She looked all around. For many miles there
was only the deserted forest and not a person to ask what might lie beyond
that traffic sign. "Maybe it isn't an anisotropic traffic sign after all,"
said Anka. "The paint's almost all peeled off."
Now Anton lifted his crossbow, took careful aim and shot off an arrow.
How nice if the bolt would snap the wire and let the traffic sign fall right
before Anka's feet. But the arrow hit the upper part of the sign, pierced
the rusty metal and nothing fell down except some flakes of dried paint
"Silly ass!" said Anka without bothering to turn around.
That was the first remark she had addressed to him since they had
played William Tell. Anton smiled wryly.
"And enterprises of great pitch and moment," he recited, "with this
regard their current turn away and lose the name of action."
Faithful Pashka called out:
"Hey, kids, a car was here! After the thunderstorm! The grass is still
flat where the tires drove over it! And here--"
That lucky Pashka, thought Anton. Carefully he examined the tire tracks
in the road. He, too, saw the trampled grass and the black skid marks where
the car must have suddenly braked before a pothole in the concrete pavement.
"I can see it now," called out Pashka. "The car must have come from the
other side, from behind the traffic sign."
It seemed very obvious, but Anton said:
"Baloney! He's come from the other direction!"
Pashka regarded him with surprise:
"What's gotten into you? You're blind as a bat!"
"He's come from this way here," Anton argued stubbornly. "Let's follow
his track."
"You idiot!" Pashka sounded angry. "Who in his right mind would drive
into a one-way street the wrong way? And look here: here is the pothole and
over there the skid mark --so where did the car come from?"
"I don't care what you say! I'm going along this one-way street, even
if it's the wrong way."
Pashka turned pale with fury. "Go right ahead!"
He started to hiccup. "What idiocy! The sun must have cooked your
brain!"
Anton turned around. He looked straight ahead, ducked under the traffic
sign and passed through to the other side. He only wished he could come upon
a collapsed bridge and have to work his way over to the other side. I have
nothing more to do with them, he thought. Let them go wherever they
please--with her darling Pashka. Then he remembered how Anka had cut off
Pashka when he had called her Anetchka, and feeling a bit relieved, he
turned and looked back.
His eye fell on Pashka. Like a dog sniffing a scent, Don Sarancha was
following the track of the mysterious car. The rusty sign over the road was
gently swaying in the wind, and the blue sky gleamed through the hole the
arrow had made, Anka sat at the side of the road, her elbows resting on her
knees and her chin supported by her small, clenched fists.
As they were returning home, dusk began to fall. The two boys rowed,
while Anka sat at the rudder. A red moon stood above the dark forest and the
frogs croaked untiringly.
"And we had planned everything so nicely," said Anka mournfully. "You
two--!"
The boys remained silent. Then Pashka asked softly:
"Toshka, what did you find behind the one-way street sign?"
"A collapsed bridge," answered Anton. "And the skeleton of a German,
chained to a machine gun." He thought a while, then he added: "the machine
gun was halfway sunk into the ground already."
"Hmm, yes," said Pashka. "These things can happen. I helped somebody
repair his car back there."
* * *
Жил-был Хернорыл
- Сказка
В некотором царстве, некотором государстве жил-был Хернорыл. Жил-поживал добра-зла наживал. Покойниками-подпокойниками командовал. Мелкую нежить в упор не замечал. Живых за сырьё покойничье держал. Кто в неупокоенные добром не шёл - упокаивал. Имущество упокоенных чуть не задарма скупал. Выждав - по полной цене продавал. Лучшее - придерживал. С умом хернорыльствовал!
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