"C. L. Moore - The Cold Gray God" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore C. L)

muscular start had embarrassed him. He turned upon her an absolutely
expressionless stare and waited.
"Who are you?" cooed a throatily velvet voice from the depths of the hood.
"Northwest Smith." He said it crisply, and his lips snapped shut again. He
moved a little away from her, for her hand still lay upon bis right arm, and
his right hand was still hidden in the coat pocket. He moved far enough to
free his arm, and stood waiting.
"Will you come with me?" Her voice throbbed like a pigeon's from the shadow of
her hood.
For a quick instant his pale eyes appraised her, as caution and curiosity
warred within him. Smith was a wary man, very wise in the dangers of the
spaceways life. Not for a moment did he mistake her meaning. Here was no
ordinary woman of the streets. A woman robed in snow-cat furs had no need to
accost casual strangers along the Lakklan.
"What do you want?" he demanded. His voice was deep and harsh, and the words
fairly clicked with a biting brevity.
"Come," she cooed, moving nearer again and slipping one hand inside his arm.
"I will tell you that in my own house. It is so cold here."
Smith allowed himself to be pulled along down the Lakklan, too puzzled and
surprised to resist. That simple act of hers had amazed him out of all
proportion to its simplicity. He was revising his judgment of her as he walked
along over the snow-dust cobbles at her side. For by that richly throaty voice
that throbbed as colorfully as a dove's, and by the milky whiteness of her
hand on his arm, and by the subtle swaying of her walk, he had been sure,
quite sure, that she came from Venus. No other planet breeds such beauty, no
other women are born with the instinct of seduction in their very bones. And
he had thought, dimly, that he recognized her voice.
But no, if she were Venus-bred, and the woman he half suspected her of being,
she would never have slid her arm through his with that little intimate
gesture or striven to override his hesitation with the sheer strength of her
own charm. His one small motion away from her hand on his arm would have
warned a true Venusian not to attempt further intimacy. She would have known
by the look in his still eyes, by the wolfish, scarred face, tight-mouthed,
that his weakness did not lie along the lines she was mistress of. And if she
were the woman he suspected, all this was doubly sure. No, she could not be
Venus-bred, nor the woman her voice so recalled to him.
Because of this he allowed her to lead him down the Lakklan. Not often did he
permit curiosity to override his native caution, or he would never have come
unscathed through the stormy years that lay behind him. But there was
something so subtly queer about this woman, so contradictory to his
preconceived opinions. Very vital to Smith were his own quick appraisements,
and when one went all awry from the lines he intuitively expected, he felt
compelled to learn why. He went on at her side, shortening his strides to the
gliding gait of the woman on his arm. He did not like the contact of her hand,
although he could not have said why.
No further words passed between them until they had reached a low stone
building ten minutes' walk on down the Lakklan. She rapped on the heavy door
with a quick, measured beat, and it swung open upon dimness. Her bare white
hand in the crook of Smith's arm pulled him inside.
A gliding servant took his coat and fur cap. Without ostentation, as he