"Martin, Michael A - AtTheCavern" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Michael A)

afternoon, I drained my mug, throwing my head back to catch all the foam.
Drinking a Guinness was like eating a small loaf of very tart bread. As I put
the mug down, I noticed the figure standing near the door. A man in a hat and
trench coat. Staring. How long had he been there, watching us.:

The man in the trench coat chewed on a toothpick nervously, casting furtive
glances toward our booth. He looked familiar, too, but with the hat obscuring
his features, I couldn't place him. I nodded in the direction of the man in the
coat to point him out to my drinking companion, who abruptly turned to take a
look at him. That must have spooked Trench, since he jerked into motion just
then and strode quickly for the door.

One thing a veteran clandestine time-traveler finds annoying is being noticed.
Being observed and stared at makes me feel positively undressed. Evidently, my
drinking buddy felt the same way and the two of us decided without the need to
exchange any words not to let Trench get very far away from us.

Once outside on the street neither of us could see which way he'd gone. But I
knew he couldn't have gotten far. I pointed to the south end of the grubby
asphalt lane and began to run in the opposite direction. My Other took the hint
and ran in the direction I pointed. Splitting up should make our man easier to
find, I reasoned. My Other and I could settle our differences later.

Turning the corner and running into a trash-strewn alley, I literally ran into
Trench, practically knocking him down. He lurched onto one knee and as he
struggled, to right himself I saw the little black gun in his hand. He leveled
it straight at me and began to rise to both feet. For a single, frozen instant
his eyes locked with mine and once again I had that eerie sensation of staring
into the mirror.

The pistol jerked with a muffled pop and my forehead seared from the heat of the
muzzle flash. At the same time, my trench coated doppelganger took another bad
step, the flap of his coat having somehow gotten underfoot. I seized the wrist
of his gun-hand and with a woosh of deflating lungs we sprawled in a flailing
heap onto the alley's smelly cobbles.

He tried to knee me in the groin, but I swiveled and he encountered hard
hip-bone instead. I wrenched harder on his forearm, trying to get him to open
his hand. Needless to say, we were fairly evenly matched.

Then the gun gave another silenced, jerking report.

Sweaty, scraped, and shaken, I retraced my steps through the alley to the front
of the pub. My slacks were tom at the knee, the pantleg slick with blood.
Several sailors and rough-looking dock-worker types passed-me at the front door,
but nobody favored me with so much as a glance. Street brawls were evidently as
common here as the gum wrappers and bottles and cigarette butts lining the
gutters.

"What the hell happened to you" asked my Beatle-fan alter ego, from behind me. I