G L A V A 6
Shtrilitz was born in January, but celebrated his birthday on the first of May to show his solidarity with the international working class. Last year, on this day, he invited one Müller, but due to the vile initiative of Himmler, the entire top brass of the Reich showed up at his home, believing it their duty to congratulate him on the holiday, and each, as if mocking him, presented either a GIF image of Stalin, or military boots lined with floppy disks, or a complete collection of works by Kernighan and Ritchie in two volumes in Chinese, and Bormann even had the audacity to gift his old lab assistant. Shtrilitz could not forgive him for this; he immediately handed the lab assistant over to Schellenberg, who in return added a bit of purgen to Bormann's toner.
Only the kind and intelligent Müller presented Shtrilitz with a collection of French pornography from 1917.
Everything would have been fine if the officers hadn't gotten so drunk that they turned into pigs and messed up Shtrilitz's entire apartment. Shtrilitz didn't care about the broken Super-VGA monitor, the smashed floppy drive, the formatted hard drive, and the deleted files, but it was a matter of principle, and this time Shtrilitz decided not to invite anyone. He considered his situation from all sides and prudently decided to celebrate his birthday at the dacha in the company of Pastor Schlag and his parishioners, thus hiding from uninvited guests.
The table was set in the shape of an "H". Satisfied, Shtrilitz generously issued orders, and although no one listened, he felt like a big boss. The pastor's agency, dressed in white aprons, bustled in the kitchen, setting the table, eagerly catching every word of the Standartenführer. An English agent, disguised as a woman and also in a white apron, meticulously concealed microphones in the corners. His heart sang. He had finally made contact with Shtrilitz.
A bus with women arrived 
just three hours ago. The 
pitiful female faces looked 
out of the bus windows at the 
approaching Shtrilitz's 
face. He was in a robe, which 
smelled of hairy chest, 
and on his head was a 
net. Why, Shtrilitz didn't 
know, but he saw exactly the 
same thing on Schellenberg. 
Today Shtrilitz was taking a bath again.
Pastor Schlag emerged from the booth and saluted.
- How many? - asked Shtrilitz, glancing quickly at the bus.
- Twenty-four.
- Three bytes. - Shtrilitz rejoiced.
- Twenty-three verified agents and one newbie, - said Pastor Schlag, smiling rosy-cheekedly.
- Command away, - Shtrilitz permitted.
Pastor Schlag took a deep breath and shouted in a repulsive voice:
- Form one line!
- Form up, form up... - echoed back, and something rustled in the bushes.
The women, giggling and chatting, climbed out of the bus, and within twenty minutes, the pastor managed to line them up.
Shtrilitz assumed a combat stance and said:
- On the first, second, count! First numbers - to the kitchen, second - to set the table.
The women scurried back and forth, while Shtrilitz and the pastor played a game of durak with slaps. When everything was set, Shtrilitz sat at the head of the table, while Pastor Schlag adjusted his white collar and raised a glass of champagne.
Suddenly, a motor roared in the yard. Shtrilitz looked out the window. Bormann got out of the arriving SX. The dacha was cordoned off by SS men. The SS men sat in all the trees, in the bushes, on the roof, and in other interesting places. Practical Schellenberg wanted to catch Shtrilitz off guard and had ordered the dacha to be surrounded a week in advance. Gimmingler and Goebbels slid out of the SX, and Shtrilitz spat on the freshly cleaned floor. Gimmingler, already quite tipsy (on the way, they stopped at a women's concentration camp, and the commandant treated them to some liquor), convinced Goebbels that it would be three times more pleasant for Shtrilitz if the SX drove right into the house.
Shtrilitz knew how to suppress his feelings.
- Bastards!!!
He grabbed a bottle 
of champagne and hurled it at 
the monitor. Shards 
rained down. 
- I don't like champagne either, - said Müller, who had approached.
The officers cheerfully settled at the table, embracing Pastor Schlag's parishioners. Bormann reached for Turbo C++ and knocked over Larry.
Müller presented Shtrilitz with a bouquet of red floppy disks.
- I propose, - shouted Goebbels, - to drink to the true patriot of the Reich, Standartenführer CC Von Shtrilitz!
- Hail Shtrilitz! - the guests shouted.
Gloomy Shtrilitz ate dumplings with microchips from a large silver platter one by one.
Schellenberg stood up, reached for a piece of hard drive. Bormann slipped him a big button. Schellenberg jumped to the ceiling and landed on the table, spilling a three-liter jar of toner onto Gimmingler. Not losing his composure, Gimmingler, not figuring out who did it, punched the sitting nearby Göring in the nose. He toppled over with his chair.
Shtrilitz poured Müller another shot of toner.
The toppled Göring
crawled to the table and 
tried to stand up. 
As he stood up, he 
got his head caught on
Goebbels's leg, who 
was giving
a toast, and lifted him above the table. Goebbels, not understanding anything, shouted "help!" and fell onto the table. The women burst into laughter.
Müller poured Shtrilitz another shot of toner.
Goebbels, face down in a dish of Finnish paper, was trying to prove to the uncomprehending sheets the superiority of the Aryan race over all others and was agitating to join the "Hitler Youth."
A tipsy aide of Himmler, swaying, approached Shtrilitz and began to congratulate him on his birthday.
- I admire you, Standartenführer! You are my ideal of a systematic... programmer!
They drank a brotherly toast. Müller, who liked the blonde sitting next to him, looked at his watch and said:
- I think it's time for us to F10.
Himmler stood up and shook his index finger in front of Shtrilitz's nose:
- And still, Shtrilitz, you are a big Pig, trying to Escape from us at the dacha...
- Undo that quickly! - the aide protested and slapped Himmler.
Drunk Bormann was walking around the table and trying to get acquainted with the women one by one. He smelled of vodka and garlic, and the women pushed him away in disgust. The English agent hid from Bormann under the table.
Without having any luck, Bormann sat down next to Pastor Schlag.
- B-Bormann, - said Bormann, extending his sweaty palm.
They introduced themselves and drank. Had a snack. Drank again. Soon Pastor Schlag, harmonizing in thirds with Bormann, began to sing:
- From Moscow to the British seas...
Wolf, Holtov, and Von Schwarzkopfmán loaded the preference. They wrote the bullet with chalk on the keyboard. Von Schwarzkopfmán was losing and cursing. Most of the women gathered around them, eagerly watching the game and giving tips to the unlucky Von Schwarzkopfmán.
Himmler felt unwell, crawled under the table, and fell asleep, pushing the English agent aside.
Shtrilitz remembered that today was his birthday. He looked around the hall in disgust and realized that the holiday was ruined.
"If only I could gather all these bastards somewhere... Just not at my dacha... And light a fuse on a box of dynamite..." - Shtrilitz wearily thought.
He spat at Göring, grabbed a bottle of toner, and headed to the bathroom to escape the vulgar noise.
The English agent crawled out from under the table and crawled in the same direction.
Shtrilitz's bathroom was decorated with Yugoslav tiles. Next to the pool stood a blue Finnish VGA monitor. Shtrilitz sat down, propped his cheek with his fist, and pondered, looking at the reproduction of Levitan's painting "Russian :-)8". Shtrilitz remembered his native village, the snowdrift, a girl with a birthmark on her left breast.
"Damn it," - thought Shtrilitz, "only Jews around!"
And then he had the idea to congratulate the center on his birthday. Shtrilitz tried to remember which catalog he had shoved the modem into last time. Neither under the sink nor in the modem tank was there anything, but he found something similar in the toilet itself. At least, this something had a quality mark.
"To Felix from Shtrilitz. Top secret," - Shtrilitz transmitted in plain text, - "congratulating you on my birthday, wishing happiness in work and personal life. Shtrilitz."
The center did not respond.
"Have they fallen asleep over there or what?" - thought Shtrilitz and repeated the message.
It seemed that the center had already celebrated the birthday, gotten drunk, and was sleeping. Shtrilitz was upset that they got drunk without him and turned off the modem.
"Enough hanging around!" - he pulled the string, and the tank rumbled.
The English agent outside changed the tape. Dissatisfied, Shtrilitz kicked the door with his foot, the door hit the agent in the nose, and Shtrilitz, forgetting the bottle of toner, approached the table.
The agent, rubbing his swollen nose, entered the bathroom.
"Where is he hiding the modem?"
The agent began to search and found the bottle of toner. Bormann, having drunk Pastor Schlag so much that he fell under the table, tied his shoelaces to the table leg and, rubbing his hands, habitually went to the bathroom. In the bathroom, the English agent was drinking toner.
- P-Pardon, madam, - said Bormann, closed the door, and stared blankly at the letter "M".
"Shtrilitz has mixed up the signs on the doors. The women's toilet has a sign saying 'M'. I need to think about this. What would Kaltenbrunner say about this?"
Thoughtful Bormann weighed all the "for" and "against," bent three fingers, and changed the signs. Then he thought he had done a good deed and changed the signs back.
- I love order, - he said aloud and entered another door.
A scream was heard, and Bormann came out with a handprint on his right cheek.
"@#%$#%$@@#$%#@#$%%#@!. - thought Bormann, - I don't understand anything!"
And offended Bormann went to the garden.
In the hall, everyone was already asleep. General Von Schwarzkopfmán mumbled in his sleep:
"Six pikeys - Stalingrad. Where are you with the bubs, yours don't fit..."
And only Shtrilitz sat in the corner, reading Yesenin by the light of the lamp:
- "No, I won't interrupt you -
That's what I said indeed.
And not one, but a hundred ticks. -
And you - didn't want to believe..."
G L A V A 7
The meeting with the new lab assistant was scheduled at the beach. The previous lab assistant of Shtrilitz unexpectedly went on maternity leave and was sent to the Big VTs. Shtrilitz missed the lab assistant very much, and it was decided at the center to send a new one.
To avoid attracting attention, Shtrilitz did not walk on the beach in uniform, but undressed and decided to swim. The hot sun poured its rays on the ground like boiling water, and just the thought of swimming made him feel light and pleasant inside. Holding his nose with two fingers, Shtrilitz dove into the water. The water was warm and clear, and he allowed himself to bask for a few minutes. Shtrilitz lay on his back and lightly moved his fingers. An hour later, checking his watch, he climbed out of the water. He went into the booth, wrung out his family underwear, and combed his hair.
He walked along the beach, whistling "The Internationale" as agreed with the center, and among many girls tried to find the Russian lab assistant, relying on his intuition. Shtrilitz's intuition never let him down.
The Russian radio operator stood 
by the beer kiosk in 
a bright red swimsuit 
with the inscription Turbo Basic on 
her left breast. In one hand 
she held "Computer 
Press". and in the other - a 
modem and a sit- 
dress. 
Shtrilitz walked around 
the beer kiosk three times. 
There was no surveillance. He couldn't 
risk a new agent. 
The radio operator appealed to Shtrilitz.
- Could you tell me the time? - he asked. This was the password.
- I left my watch in Moscow. - the radio operator readily replied.
Shtrilitz took her by the arm, and they strolled along the beach.
- Shall we sunbathe?
The radio operator nodded.
They swam to the buoys, sunbathed, talked about the weather in Moscow, and sent a Message to the center about the successful arrival of the lab assistant. Shtrilitz told her a couple of system jokes. She delicately laughed, and Shtrilitz invited her to a restaurant.
- Just a minute, I need to change.
Shtrilitz went home and exactly a minute later came out in a black, freshly laundered tailcoat. This hadn't happened to him since '39. When civilian Shtrilitz and the radio operator entered the restaurant, a surprised gasp swept through the hall. A lewd waiter with a Jewish face jumped up on his half-bent legs.
- The usual for you, Standartenführer? A decanter of toner and a roll of paper?
Shtrilitz leaned toward the radio operator:
- Want some paper?
She shook her head negatively.
- Impertinent, - Shtrilitz boiled, - can't you see I'm with a lady? To make up for his blunder, the waiter sycophantically chuckled and asked in a nasty voice:
- Got a new one again?
- Yes. A new lab assistant, - said Shtrilitz. He took the keyboard from the lady and marked "*.exe".
- We need this... And also...
- I understand, - the waiter grinned knowingly and ran to the kitchen.
- What do you understand, you scoundrel? - shouted Shtrilitz after him, - toner for me and champagne for the lady! And it better be this minute! - He turned to the radio operator, - waiters in Germany are such Pigs, please forgive him.
And Shtrilitz kissed the radio operator's hand. The entire hall sat with their jaws dropped. A Pakistani spy was filming this incredible event with a camera. A Gestapo agent was picking his nose:
"And what would Kaltenbrunner say about this?"
Two SS men, expecting a fight, pulled out their recently bought printers. Everyone was in a state of suspense.
Shtrilitz ordered a waltz from Weird Dream and invited the radio operator to dance.
"Now it will start!" - the SS men rubbed their hands. Now everything was clear to them.
But the waltz ended, Shtrilitz escorted the lady to her seat, and the fight still hadn't started. The regulars were completely shocked when Shtrilitz paid the bill and, offering his hand to the lady, headed for the exit. The SS man said it wasn't Shtrilitz, but someone else. The Gestapo agent objected, and a minute later, the fight began.
Shtrilitz's car stopped at the house where he rented an apartment for his new employee. Shtrilitz helped the lady out, and they went up to the third floor.
- Where to put this? - asked the lab assistant, lifting a heavy suitcase with a FizTech 1200 modem.
- Put it on the mezzanine, - Shtrilitz said gently, - and I'll make the paste.
The radio operator went into the room, changed into a lieutenant's uniform of the signal troops, sat at the table, took out a magnet, and, spitting on it, began to clean it.
Shtrilitz entered with a tray of paste and sat down opposite her.
After drinking the paste, they listened to Tchaikovsky.
- Well, I must go, - Shtrilitz hurried. He didn't want to leave, and he was stalling. - Well, I'm off.
The radio operator sighed.
- Or maybe more paste? - asked Shtrilitz, shy as a schoolboy.
The radio operator nodded, and he stayed.
- What's your name? - Shtrilitz inquired.
- Katya.
- Katyusha, then! A good name. Purely Russian. And I am - Shchitrits.
G L A B A 8
"Operation 'Dubels'. What the hell did they mean? What are those vile faces plotting?"
Shchitrits was sitting at home, by the fireplace, smoking a pipe. A volume of Virt was lying open on his lap, on page 57. For the sake of conspiracy, Shchitrits pretended to read. No one should know that he was deep in thought.
"And what if Japan or Uruguay is about to enter the trade?"
Shchitrits packed a new pipe, took a coal from the fireplace, lit it, and began to blow rings. He knew that without his involvement, the Motherland would suffer.
"These scoundrels are plotting something and hiding it from me, even Mueller is silent. I need to get rid of them all, and everything will be just fine. And for that, I need to gather the entire top of the Reich together, at Schlag's church, lure them in with the presence of games and toner, and blow it up! I have dynamite..."
A clear plan formed in Shchitrits' mind; now he knew what to do. "And then I'll find out what Operation 'Dubels' is and report to the center."
There was a knock at the door.
- Say PassWord?
- PassWord.
- "Aisman" - thought Shchitrits.
The maid opened the door.
- Hello, sweetheart, - said Aisman, and, patting her cheek, rushed to the bathroom. From the bathroom came his relieved voice:
- By the way, you didn't hear, Shchitrits, Borman played around with the Disk Manager program at Goering's, and he messed up the report to the Führer!
Aisman entered the room, adjusting his suspenders.
- They set up, those bastards, pay toilets for 10 kilobytes; I thought, let me go to Shchitrits. Where do you keep your disks?
Shchitrits nodded toward the sideboard.
Aisman pulled out a drawer, put a pack of disks in his uniform pocket, and took a disk from an already opened pack.
The maid, well aware of the habits of the Standartenführer, brought in a tray with glue.
- Aisman, - asked Shchitrits, - how do you feel about women?
- I don't feel anything for them, - joked Aisman, - when?
- For example, on Thursday.
- Where?
- At my pastor's BBS.
- At the BBS? - asked Aisman doubtfully.
- What? - said the atheist Shchitrits, - He will reconfigure it by Thursday; we'll invite someone else so there won't be any gossip later.
- Are we going to invite Borman?
- Definitely, it would be boring without him.
Aisman made lists of who to invite and who not to. Shchitrits approved both lists, knowing full well that those who were not invited would show up anyway.
When Aisman left, Shchitrits reached for the volume of Virt again.
- I wonder what Kaltenbrunner will say about this?
The clock struck eleven. Five minutes later, the maid knocked, well aware of Shchitrits' habits.
The cunning Borman wet the keyboard and wrote a message to Shchitrits in Norton's handwriting.
"Dear Shtirlitz!
I am very interested in you.
Come today to Shtandart-Shtrasse.15.
Wait for you.
P.N."
- Brevity is the soul of wit, - Borman rejoiced and, squealing with delight, wrote on the envelope "to comrade Shchitrits".
Borman had thought it all through carefully. This joke was meant to be the apotheosis of his creative activity, his swan song. At the specified address, everything was arranged so that Shchitrits would be carried back on a stretcher.
Borman quietly snorted and imagined this scene in his mind. Well-groomed Shchitrits with a bouquet of roses and in a tailcoat enters house number 15, the door closes behind him. Shchitrits calls softly into the darkness: "Petya!!!"... And falls, slipping on the floor cleaned with a cleansing liquid. In his fall, he knocks over a printer ribbon, and a small CGA monitor falls on him. Borman couldn't reach the big one. He had seen an MCGA at Goering's, but that one, enraged by the incident with the Disk Manager, threw Borman out.
So, as soon as the monitor falls on Shchitrits, the door automatically locks, a small program hastily typed in Turbo C runs, and the gas chamber opens.
- Ha, ha! - Borman laughed uncontrollably and then stopped, - but what if Shchitrits doesn't understand what "P.N." means?
Borman pondered.
- Then Shchitrits will never go to that address... Partygenosse imagined how no one would enter the house, the monitor wouldn't fall, and the gas chamber would be idle. And Borman had wasted half of Barrack 6 of the Ravensbrück concentration camp on testing it!
Out of frustration, Borman scratched his bald head until it hit him. He wet the keyboard again, deleted the block with the word "Shchitrits" and typed "Shchitrits from Petya Norton".
- Now everything is in order!
Yes, this joke was meant to be Borman's funniest joke.
Partygenosse stood up and looked at the clock. It was time to go to the dinner party organized by Shchitrits.
Borman got into the car, snapping his fingers to signal the driver to go. The car drove off.
Pulling up to the church, Borman opened the door and, already lifting his foot onto the sidewalk, realized he had forgotten the disk with the letter in the disk drive.
"Remembered just in time," - he praised himself, - no point in complaining about memory."
He had to go back for the disk, and that made him late.
Shchitrits was nervous. He was alarmed by Borman's absence, who was necessary for the start of the planned operation. Next to the thoughtful Shchitrits sat Mueller, checking the glue jar against the light.
- Whatever you say, Shchitrits, - he said skeptically, - Bavarian glue is three times better than Zhiguli glue.
- Of course, - grumbled Shchitrits, - But where is Borman? He must be plotting some new mischief again!
- That's obvious, - Mueller agreed. He can't help it.
"What's with the oak?" - thought Shchitrits. He had heard that word before. And then he realized. After all, "oaks" in German is "Dubels"! And that was the name of the mysterious operation of the Wehrmacht, which he had been struggling to decipher for so long. The plural form confused Shchitrits.
"Something to do with oaks! Well, now I'll get everything out of them."
- Oak? - Shchitrits asked again.
- Yes, yes, the one with branches...
- By the way, Mueller, how do oaks reproduce then?
- Ask Kaltenbrunner.
- Will he tell?
- No one knows what Kaltenbrunner will say, - philosophically stated Mueller, - But still, Shchitrits, whatever you say, Bavarian glue is even six times better than Zhiguli glue.
- Of course, - grumbled Shchitrits and fell silent.
Around Shchitrits, the admiring Himmler's adjutant Fritz roamed in circles, carefully listening to every word of his idol.
- Of course, - he noted. The English agent was photographing the pages of Fritz's notebook from behind the altar. There were quite a few officers in the hall. Most wanted to try their hand at being confessors and dispersed into the rooms with the pastor's female parishioners. The rest entertained themselves as best they could. Goering and Goebbels were swinging Schellenberg by his arms and legs, while Himmler counted:
- Ein, zwei, polizai, drei, vier, grenadier!!!
Somewhat dissatisfied, Schellenberg, shouting that he was ready to wipe the screw for the great Führer, flew over the altar and mounted the English agent.
- N-no!!! - yelled Schellenberg, - squadron, follow me!!!
The English agent, for the sake of conspiracy, pretended not to notice anything. Goering and Goebbels pulled Schellenberg off the agent, and again it was heard:
- Ein, zwei, polizai!!!
The agent prudently slipped behind the curtain. Aisman and Holtoff were consuming a huge Winchester, washing it down with toner.
- A-a-a!!! - came a sound over Shchitrits' ear. Not a muscle twitched on the face of the Russian spy. Of course, it was Borman.
"It's time to leave," - thought Shchitrits. He just needed to take Mueller and Pastor Schlag away, and then it would be time to blow up. Picking at his teeth, Borman called:
- Shchitrits, I need to tell you something interesting...
- Borman, how do oaks reproduce?
Borman was taken aback.
- Well, that's... - he made an indefinite gesture with his hands, - the programmer brings the lab assistant, and that... - Borman repeated his gesture.
- I see, - nodded Shchitrits, - you don't know either. And where do you think oaks reproduce faster, in Russia or in Germany?
- Don’t worry, Shchitrits! All "Microshis" will be taken out of Russia! A train is already on its way.
Shchitrits leaned back in his chair.
"A train! Taken out of Russia! Yes, but then the technical balance in Russia will be disrupted, and we, Russian SysOps, will go crazy!"
- Shchitrits, - Borman mumbled, - let's step aside, I need to tell you something important...
- Leave me alone, - Shchitrits waved him off.
In his mind, a great deal of thought was taking place. Shchitrits realized that saving the "Microshis" was much more important than getting rid of a bunch of drunken officers who would die someday anyway. Borman, seeing that Shchitrits was not paying attention to him, looked around and noticed Fritz.
"Himmler's adjutant," - he thought and called:
- Fritz! For a minute!
And, grabbing the copper button on the adjutant's uniform with his fingers, he whispered heatedly:
- Fritz! Do you want to help Shchitrits?
- Of course! He's my best friend. I drank with him on brotherhood.
- You see, Shchitrits has a contract with Norton...
- I understand, - Fritz nodded.
- And Kaltenbrunner himself found out about this. Trouble may happen; we need to save Shchitrits!
- I'm ready, - Fritz stood at attention.
- Pass this file to Shchitrits.
Borman released the button on Fritz's uniform and secretly slipped him the disk. Shchitrits was making his way to the exit. The inspired Fritz caught up with him only near the door.
- Mr. Standartenführer, I must...
- You owe me nothing! - Shchitrits pushed him away, - drunken pig!
On the street, a patrol stopped Shchitrits.
- Let me see your documents, officer! - said the balding corporal.
- @# %$%#$# $@ #% $#% #$ #$# %%%%!...
- Shchitrits had no time.
The corporal opened a Russian-German phrasebook.
- Ah, it's Shchitrits, - he said, watching the departing spy.
"Am I a drunken pig?" - Fritz wondered, leaning against the curtain. His thoughts began to jumble. The English agent was watching the unfolding events closely. He stepped out from behind the curtain and, adjusting his apron, coyly called:
- Mr. Himmler's adjutant, could you spare me a few minutes?
- Sorry, fraulein, I need to save Shchitrits.
With the strike of a professional boxer, the "fraulein" knocked the adjutant to the floor. Rubbing his hands and nursing his bruised fist, the agent squatted over the lifeless body and habitually rummaged through the pockets. Besides the letter, he grabbed twenty bytes, a listing of all BBS, and the Turbo Professional distribution. After reading the file, the agent congratulated himself on his promotion and successfully conducted operation in Berlin. It was not in vain that he had disguised himself as a woman for so many days.
On Shtandart-Strasse, the agent quickly found house 15.
- That's it, - said the agent to himself and entered the house.
The door closed behind him.
It was Borman's most successful joke...
Shchitrits lay on a hill at the railway fork, looking into the bottomless blue sky. This day could be the last day of his life. But Shchitrits was calm because he knew he was fulfilling his duty, a duty not only to the Motherland but, above all, to himself.
Shchitrits lit the last disk, crumpled the pack, and wiped it on the barrel of a large-caliber magnet. On the horizon, a train with "Microshis" appeared.
- And I still haven't managed to quit smoking, - sighed Shchitrits and flicked the switch. The locomotive pulled up alongside Shchitrits, and Shchitrits threw the first pack of disks.
CONCLUSION
Outside, Shchitrits walked and marked the Winchester.
Joseph Vissarionovich turned away from the monitor and asked:
- Comrade Zhukov, have you not been infected yet?
- No, Comrade Stalin.
- Then give me AIDSTEST.
Zhukov sighed obediently, took a box of disks from his right pocket, and handed it to Stalin. Crumbling several disks into the pipe, the commander-in-chief thoughtfully lit up from the extended KTs.
Ten minutes later, he asked:
- How are things at the "Mitinsky" market?
- They're trading, - Zhukov replied simply.
- And how is comrade A. Isaev feeling?
- He has performed a feat again, - Zhukov said sadly.
- That's good, - Stalin said, - I think he deserves a promotion.
- I think so too, comrade commander-in-chief, - Zhukov supported him, - I believe he deserves the rank of SS Gruppenführer.
- Gruppenführer? - Stalin pondered. That's good. I have a new assignment for him...
And outside, Shchitrits walked and marked the Winchester.
P.S. ALL NAMES, SURNAMES, TIME AND PLACE OF ACTION - FICTIONAL.
THOUGH AT TIMES .......
Contents of the publication: Oberon #02
- Introduction
Introduction to the second issue of Oberon magazine, with insights into its delays and team expansion. The editorial team acknowledges past misunderstandings and introduces the new issue's contributors. Details on distribution, contributions, and user interaction features are provided.
- Scroll - Alex Noman
Game manual for 'Peking', detailing controls, menu options, and gameplay strategy, involving matching pairs of crates under time constraints.
- Scroll
Empire 128 is a strategic space game where players act as merchants dealing with an alien invasion. Gameplay involves trading, mission completion, and space exploration. The game requires 128K memory and offers both disk and RAM save options.
- Scroll
Description of various space ships, including their specifications, weapon systems, and purposes. Each model differs in speed, armament, and functionality. Includes notes on origins and uses.
- Review
Review of ZX Spectrum games and tools: Double Xinox 128 offers a modern twist on Xonix with 80 levels and new challenges. UFO 2: Terror in the Deep has multiple versions with improvements and issues noted. Shadow Dancer for ZX Spectrum shows graphical evolution but maintains classic gameplay elements.
- Review - Unbeliever
Analysis of the 1996 ENLIGHT demo competition in St. Petersburg, evaluating participants and results across platforms. Highlights the achievements and critiques of notable entries. Provides insights into the dynamics of the competition and perspectives on the ZX Spectrum demos.
- Our Response
Reader feedback and editor's response regarding magazine content, the need for more graphics, and the state of local Samara software distribution.
- About Everything
Critique of Sinclair software quality, concerns about poor programming affecting computer lifespan, and commentary on CODE BUSTERS group's practices.
- Educational Program - Paul Atrides
An in-depth examination of the eight essential stages of software development, from defining technical requirements to testing and distribution. The article provides insights into the necessity of each stage and critiques poorly executed examples. It emphasizes the importance of systematic programming for both commercial and personal software projects.
- Hardware
The article discusses synchronization issues in various Spectrum models and provides a circuit solution to correct INT signal delays for improved graphics performance.
- Announcement - M.M.A
Introduction of new column highlighting Samara programmers' works, detailing projects like ZX-WINWORD, UNRECOGNIZED FORMATTING OBJECT, and DESIGNER ANALYSIS FUNCTIONS. ZX-WINWORD aims to be a publishing system for Spectrum, while U.F.O. offers advanced disk copying. DESIGNER ANALYSIS FUNCTIONS aids in mathematical graphing and function analysis.
- Programming - Unbeliever
A humorous narrative featuring Stirlitz, a fictional intelligence officer, in absurd and surreal situations involving Gestapo, programming, and secret plans.
- Pogurammim - Unbeliever
A humorous and fictional narrative involving Shtrilitz's spy adventures during a covert operation with many unexpected turns and satire.
- Advertisement
Advertisement for electronics and components store offering used equipment, software, and literature.
