Read Online The Dead Mountaineer's Inn by Arkady Strugatsky - Free Book Online Page A

asked.
    â€œYes, quite a long time,” Du Barnstoker said.
    Suddenly, Hinkus muttered something unintelligible and, shoving Olaf’s shoulder, rushed into the hall.
    â€œListen,” I said. “Did anyone else arrive this morning?”
    â€œOnly these gentlemen,” Du Barnstoker said. “Mr. Andvarafors and Mr.… um … the little fellow, who just left …”
    Olaf objected. “We arrived last night,” he said.
    I already knew when they had arrived. For a second, the image of a skeleton purring out songs beneath the stream of hot water as it washed its armpits flashed across my mind. I lost my temper and shoved the door. It opened, of course. And of course, no one was in the shower. The stream of hot water (which had been left at full blast) was making a lot of noise, there was steam everywhere, the Dead Mountaineer’s infamous tarpaulin jacket was hanging from the hook, and beneath this, on the oak bench, an old transistor radio was whispering and muttering.
    â€œQue Diablo!” Du Barnstoker cried. “Where’s the owner? Come here at once!”
    A ruckus erupted. Heavy boots thumped as the owner ran to us. Simone emerged as if sprung from the ground. The kid leaned over the railing with a cigarette dangling from its lower lip. Hinkus watched cautiously from the hall.
    â€œUnbelievable!” Du Barnstoker exclaimed heatedly. “We’ve been waiting and waiting, for no less than a quarter of an hour—isn’t that right, Inspector?”
    â€œAnd someone’s been lying in my bed again,” the child reported from above us. “And the towel’s completely wet.”
    Simone’s eyes flashed with impish glee.
    â€œGentlemen, gentlemen …” the owner said, offering aseries of appeasing gestures. Before doing anything else he ducked into the shower and turned off the water. Then he took the jacket off the hook, picked up the radio and turned to us. His face was solemn. “Gentlemen!” he said in a low voice. “I can only speak to the facts. This is HIS radio, gentlemen. And HIS jacket.”
    â€œExactly whose …?” Olaf asked calmly.
    â€œHIS. The dead mountaineer.”
    â€œWhat I meant was, whose turn is it exactly?” Olaf asked, as calmly as before.
    I silently maneuvered the owner out of the way, went into the shower and locked the door behind me. After I’d already taken my clothes off I realized that it wasn’t my turn, but Simone’s—but I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty. That was probably one of his, I thought furiously. Well, let him wait. The hero of national science. What a waste of water … No, jokers like him should be stopped. And punished. I’ll teach you not to play tricks on me …
    When I left the shower, the people gathered in the hall were still discussing what had happened. No new theories had been offered, so I didn’t stick around. On the stairs I ran into the kid, who was still hanging over the railing.
    â€œMadhouse!” it said to me defiantly. I passed without a word and went straight to my room.
    The shower and a pleasant exhausted feeling soon caused my temper to disappear completely. I pulled the armchair up to the window, picked up my fattest and most serious book and sat down with my feet propped on the edge of the table. Before I’d finished the first page, I was asleep; by the time I woke up, maybe an hour and a half later, the sun had shifted considerably, and the shadow of the inn was lying beneath my window. I could tell from its silhouette that someone was sitting on the roof, and I decided sleepily that this must beSimone, the great physicist, hopping from chimney to chimney and chortling over the entire valley. I fell asleep again, waking finally with a start when my book slipped off onto the floor. Now I could distinctly see the shadows of two people on the roof: one appeared to be