"Anderson, Poul - Corridors Of Time v1 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Poul)

She was as tall as himself. A dress, simple, subtle, and expensive,
showed a figure that might have belonged to a swimming
champion, or to Diana the Huntress. Her head was carried high,
black hair falling to the shoulders and shimmering with a stray
sunbeam. The face-he couldn't quite tell what part of the world had
shaped it: arched brows over long and tilted green eyes, broad
cheekbones, straight nose with slightly flaring nostrils, imperious
mouth and chin, tawny complexion. For a moment, though the
physical resemblance was slight, he recalled certain images from
ancient Crete, Our Lady of the Labrys, and then he had time only to
think of what was before him. Half frightened, he approached her.



"Mr. Lockridge," she said, not as a question, He couldn't place her
accent either; perhaps just a too perfect enunciation. The voice
was low-pitched and resonant.



"Y-yes," he faltered. "Uh-"



"I am Storm Darroway. Shall we sit down?" She did so herself, as if
accepting a throne, and opened her purse. "Would you like a
cigarette?"



"Thanks," he said automatically. She flared a Tiffany lighter for him
but did not smoke herself. Having something to do with his hands
steadied his nerves a little. He took his chair and met her gaze
across the blank surface that divided them. In some corner of
turmoil he wondered what anyone of her appearance was doing
with an Anglo-Saxon name. Well, maybe her folks had been
unpronounceable immigrants and changed. Yet she had none of
the . . . the humbleness, the desire to please, which that
suggested.



"I'm afraid I haven't had the, uh, pleasure of meetinТ you before,"
he mumbled. Glancing at her left hand: "-Uh, Miss Darroway."



"No, of course not." She fell silent, watching him, her countenance
gone expressionless. He began to fidget. Stop that! he told