worse yet. He would be suffocated if he didn't get home.
Such things had already happened; it had occurred to his father and himself to return from sorties literally on last gulps of oxygen, but now he was all alone and hadn't the slightest idea of the right direction.
It remained the sole path for him to take – the one to the surface of the spheroid, as it was only there that he would be able to get his bearings.
Exhausted and depressed, he reached the upper layer of ships and cautiously looked out of a hatch. All around, the chaos of a metallic plain stretched for many miles.
The crimson nebula still curled above the close horizon, coloring the ships' armor with opalescent spots. The indifferent stars interlacing fanciful patterns of constellations coldly gazed at the steel sphere from the abyss of space. Simeon got out of the hatch and looked round once again. The unfamiliar outlines of disabled spacecraft produced a discouraging impression on him. He realized his having completely lost the way.
The lad sat down on the ledge of the hatch, leaning against the covering, lowering his arms helplessly.
Simeon didn't know the exact names of feelings.
He had struggled all his life. At first it was a struggle against loneliness and boredom, against the walls of the small room and the locked hatch. But boredom finally came to an end, the hatch opened, and his dad appeared on the doorstep without fail. He brought some food, the smell of sweat emitting from his pressure suit, a tired smile and a lot of words. Father talked very much to him, telling him a number of zingy stories about quite unimaginable places.
At the beginning Simeon believed that Dad traveled to those places when he was out, but later, when he grew up and started getting outside too, he understood that his father's stories were nothing more than fiction: during their wanderings on the spheroid he never saw a huge room filled with oxygen on the floor of which water called "river" would flow.
In return, he mastered other arts. When he wasn't yet five, Simeon knew the true price of a gulp of air and of a bit of food. He learned to walk in the gloom of halls, shoot at everything moving, find out stores, open doors using electronic pass-keys and an emitter. Very often it seemed to him that his father and himself were playing a simple game with elementary rules: shoot first, manage to find a store, quickly react to the gleam of a robot's armor.
His life was simple and clear. He didn't feel any deprivation, and he didn't understand that he was desperately struggling for survival doing his utmost. He simply couldn't imagine any other existence; as for his father's tales about other worlds – they didn't find any confirmation in the gloomy labyrinths of the ships' cemetery.
Simeon lowered his head in such a manner that his helmet's visor now rested on his bent elbows. Loneliness and hopelessness overflowed his soul, coming to his throat as a hot, suffocating lump. There was no need to continue struggling, all had come to an abrupt end the moment when he'd tried to make Dad talk, looking with horror through the melted glass of his helmet as his face turned white.
"Sonny," another memory emerged from the depths of his memory, touching him deeply again, "remember this: one mustn't give up in this place. Each second is a struggle." He suddenly remembered that he had laughed at those words while Dad grew gloomy and his eyes dampened. "What a pity, sonny, that it seems normal to you." he whispered and turned away, sorrowful, which remained incomprehensible to Simeon. "I was unable to arrange a better destiny for you."
The crimson nebula almost sank below the horizon, and this part of the spheroid began immersing fast into the inky dark of the cosmic night. The cold stars' patterns became still more distinct. Human's passions were unknown to them. They remained impassive when observing the explosions and destruction of powerful spacecraft squadrons, and they were
Such things had already happened; it had occurred to his father and himself to return from sorties literally on last gulps of oxygen, but now he was all alone and hadn't the slightest idea of the right direction.
It remained the sole path for him to take – the one to the surface of the spheroid, as it was only there that he would be able to get his bearings.
Exhausted and depressed, he reached the upper layer of ships and cautiously looked out of a hatch. All around, the chaos of a metallic plain stretched for many miles.
The crimson nebula still curled above the close horizon, coloring the ships' armor with opalescent spots. The indifferent stars interlacing fanciful patterns of constellations coldly gazed at the steel sphere from the abyss of space. Simeon got out of the hatch and looked round once again. The unfamiliar outlines of disabled spacecraft produced a discouraging impression on him. He realized his having completely lost the way.
The lad sat down on the ledge of the hatch, leaning against the covering, lowering his arms helplessly.
Simeon didn't know the exact names of feelings.
He had struggled all his life. At first it was a struggle against loneliness and boredom, against the walls of the small room and the locked hatch. But boredom finally came to an end, the hatch opened, and his dad appeared on the doorstep without fail. He brought some food, the smell of sweat emitting from his pressure suit, a tired smile and a lot of words. Father talked very much to him, telling him a number of zingy stories about quite unimaginable places.
At the beginning Simeon believed that Dad traveled to those places when he was out, but later, when he grew up and started getting outside too, he understood that his father's stories were nothing more than fiction: during their wanderings on the spheroid he never saw a huge room filled with oxygen on the floor of which water called "river" would flow.
In return, he mastered other arts. When he wasn't yet five, Simeon knew the true price of a gulp of air and of a bit of food. He learned to walk in the gloom of halls, shoot at everything moving, find out stores, open doors using electronic pass-keys and an emitter. Very often it seemed to him that his father and himself were playing a simple game with elementary rules: shoot first, manage to find a store, quickly react to the gleam of a robot's armor.
His life was simple and clear. He didn't feel any deprivation, and he didn't understand that he was desperately struggling for survival doing his utmost. He simply couldn't imagine any other existence; as for his father's tales about other worlds – they didn't find any confirmation in the gloomy labyrinths of the ships' cemetery.
Simeon lowered his head in such a manner that his helmet's visor now rested on his bent elbows. Loneliness and hopelessness overflowed his soul, coming to his throat as a hot, suffocating lump. There was no need to continue struggling, all had come to an abrupt end the moment when he'd tried to make Dad talk, looking with horror through the melted glass of his helmet as his face turned white.
"Sonny," another memory emerged from the depths of his memory, touching him deeply again, "remember this: one mustn't give up in this place. Each second is a struggle." He suddenly remembered that he had laughed at those words while Dad grew gloomy and his eyes dampened. "What a pity, sonny, that it seems normal to you." he whispered and turned away, sorrowful, which remained incomprehensible to Simeon. "I was unable to arrange a better destiny for you."
The crimson nebula almost sank below the horizon, and this part of the spheroid began immersing fast into the inky dark of the cosmic night. The cold stars' patterns became still more distinct. Human's passions were unknown to them. They remained impassive when observing the explosions and destruction of powerful spacecraft squadrons, and they were
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