Definitely Maybe by Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky Read Free Book Online

into the doorjamb, plodded out onto the landing, and stopped in front of Snegovoi’s apartment door. There was a big wax seal on the lock. He touched it gingerly with a fingertip and pulled his hand away. It was all true. Everything that had happened had really happened. Citizen of the Soviet Union Arnold Snegovoi, colonel and man of mystery, was no more.

CHAPTER 4
    Excerpt 7.…
washed the glasses and put them away, cleaned up the pieces in Bobchik’s room, and gave Kaliam some fish. Then he took down Bobchik’s milk glass, put three raw eggs into it, added pieces of bread, heavily salted and peppered the mixture, and stirred. He wasn’t hungry; he was functioning on automatic pilot. And he ate the glop, standing by the balcony window watching the sun-flooded empty courtyard. Couldn’t they plant some trees? Even one?
    His thoughts moved on in a feeble trickle, not really thoughts, just bits and pieces. Maybe these are the new investigative methods, he thought. The scientific and technological revolution and all that. Free and easy behavior and psychological attack. But the cognac, that was completely unclear. Igor Petrovich Zykov. Or was it Zykin? Well, anyway, that was what he said his name was, but what did it say in his documents? Those con men! he thought suddenly. They pulled that whole prank just for a lousy half bottle of cognac?
    No, Snegovoi had died. That was clear. I’ll never see Snegovoi again. He was a good man, but disorganized. He always seemed out of sorts, particularly yesterday. And yet he was calling somebody; he wanted to say something, explain, warn about something. Malianov shuddered. He put the dirty glass in the sink. The embryo of the future pile of dirty dishes. Lidochka sure did a good job on the kitchen, everythingsparkled. He warned me about Lidochka. Really, it was very strange about Lidochka.
    Malianov rushed to the foyer and looked for Irina’s note. No, it was just his imagination. Everything was in order. It was obviously Irina’s handwriting and her style—and anyway, why would a killer stay around to do the dishes?
    Excerpt 8.…
Val’s phone was busy. Malianov hung up and stretched out on the sofa, his nose in the itchy blanket. Something was wrong at Val’s house, too. Some kind of hysteria. It’s happened before. A fight with Svetlana, or with his mother-in-law. What was that he asked me, something strange? Ah, Val, I should have your troubles! No, let him come over. He’s hysterical; I’m hysterical—maybe the two of us can come up with a solution. Malianov dialed again, and it was still busy. Damn, what a waste of time! I should be working, but there’s all this mess.
    Suddenly he heard someone cough behind him in the foyer. Malianov flew off the sofa. For nothing, of course. There was no one in the foyer. Or in the bathroom. He checked the lock and came back to the sofa, whereupon he realized that his knees were wobbly. Hell, my nerves are shot. And that creep kept telling me that he was like the Invisible Man. You look like a tapeworm with glasses, you creep, not the Invisible Man! Bastard. He dialed Val’s number again, hung up, and began pulling on his socks with determination. I’ll call from Vecherovsky’s. It’s my own fault that I’m wasting time. He put on a fresh shirt, checked that his keys were in his pocket, locked the door, and ran up the stairs.
    On the sixth floor a couple was making out by the incinerator chute. The guy was wearing sunglasses, but Malianov knew the punk—he was an aspiring do-nothing from Apartment 17. He was in his second year of unemployment and steadily notlooking for work. He didn’t run into anyone else on his way to the eighth floor. But all the while he had the feeling that he would bump into someone. They would grab his arm and say softly: “Just a second, citizen.”
    Thank God, Phil was home. And as usual he was dressed as if ready to leave for the Dutch Embassy for a reception for her Royal Highness, the car would