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

be picking him up in five minutes. He was wearing a phenomenally gorgeous cream-colored suit, loafers beyond mere mortal dreams, and a tie. That tie always depressed Malianov. He just couldn’t understand how anyone could work at home in a tie.
    “Are you working?” Malianov asked.
    “As usual.”
    “I won’t stay long.”
    “Of course. Some coffee?”
    “Wait. No, why not. Please.”
    They went to the kitchen. Malianov took a chair, and Vecherovsky began the ritual with the coffee-making equipment.
    “I’ll make Viennese coffee,” he said without turning.
    “Fine,” Malianov said. “Do you have whipped cream?”
    Vecherovsky did not reply. Malianov watched his protruding shoulder blades work under the creamy fabric.
    “Did the criminal investigator come to see you?” Malianov asked.
    The shoulder blades stopped for a second, and then the long, freckled face with the droopy nose and red eyebrows, raised high over the tortoiseshell eyeglasses, appeared slowly over his round, stooped shoulder.
    “Sorry. What did you say?”
    “I said: Did the criminal investigator come to see you today?”
    “Why a criminal investigator?”
    “Because Snegovoi shot himself. They’ve already talked to me.”
    “Who’s Snegovoi?”
    “You know, the guy who lives across the hall from me. The rocketry guy.”
    “Oh.”
    Vecherovsky turned away and his shoulder blades started up again.
    “Didn’t you know him? I thought I had introduced you.”
    “No,” said Vecherovsky. “Not as far as I can remember.”
    A marvelous coffee aroma filled the kitchen. Malianov settled comfortably into the chair. Should he tell him or not? In that aromatic kitchen, cool despite the blinding sun, where everything was in its place and everything was of top quality—the best in the world or even better—the events of the last day seemed particularly crazy and improbable, even unhealthy, somehow.
    “Do you know the joke about the two roosters?” Malianov asked.
    “Two roosters? I know one about three roosters. A terrible joke.”
    “No, no. It’s about two roosters,” Malianov said. “You don’t know it?”
    And he told the joke about the two roosters. Vecherovsky did not react at all. One would have thought that he was faced with a serious problem instead of a joke—he was so serious and thoughtful when he set the cup of coffee and the creamer in front of Malianov. Then he poured himself a cup and sat down across the table, holding the cup in the air, taking a sip, and finally pronouncing:
    “Excellent. Not your joke. I mean the coffee.”
    “I got it,” Malianov said glumly.
    They silently enjoyed the Viennese coffee. Then Vecherovsky broke the silence.
    “I thought about your problem some yesterday. Have you tried Hartwig’s function?”
    “I know, I know. I figured that out for myself.”
    Malianov pushed away the empty cup.
    “Listen, Phil. I can’t think about the damn function! My brain is in a muddle, and you …”
    Excerpt 9.…
nothing for a minute, rubbing his smooth-shaved cheek with two fingers, and then declaimed:
    “We could not look death in the face, they bound our eyes and brought us to her.” Then he added, “Poor guy.”
    It wasn’t clear who he had in mind.
    “I mean, I can understand everything,” Malianov said. “But that investigator …”
    “Want some more coffee?” Vecherovsky interrupted.
    Malianov shook his head, and Vecherovsky stood up.
    “Then let’s go into my room,” he said.
    They moved to his studio. Vecherovsky sat down at his desk, completely bare except for one single piece of paper right in the middle, took a mechanical phone directory from the drawer, pushed a button, read down the page, and dialed the phone number.
    “Senior Investigator Zykin, please,” he said in a dry, businesslike voice. “I mean, Zykov, Igor Petrovich. Out on operations? Thank you.” He hung up. “Senior Investigator Zykov is out on operations,” he told Malianov.
    “He’s out drinking my