"Andre Norton - Crosstime 2 - Crossroads of Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

"Care to wash now?" Blake asked casually.
Kittson stiffened. He looked up, straight into Blake's eyes. And his own
eyes were strange onesЧalmost yellow, unblinking, like those of some
hunting feline, he low, unblinking, like those of some hunting feline. They
continued to bore into BlakeЧor to try toЧbut he met stare with stare.
The agent got to his feet.
"I would, for a fact," his voice was mild, deceptively so, Blake believed.
He was certain that in some way he had surprised the man, had failed to
respond as the other had expected him to.
When Kittson was wiping his hands there came a knock at the door.
"My men," the agent appeared as certain of that as if he could see
through the wall. Blake unlocked and opened the door.
Two men stood outside. Under any other circumstances Blake might
not have given them a second glance, but now he watched them with
double intentness.
One was almost as tall as Kittson and his wide boned, freckled face was
surmounted by a thatch of bright red hair only partially concealed by his

hat. The other, in contrast, was not only short but small, delicately boned,
almost fail. They gave Blake flickering glances as they passed him, and he
felt as though he had been measured, catalogued and filed for all time.
"Okay, chief?" asked the red haired one.
Kittson stepped aside to reveal the man on the floor. "He's all yours,
boysЧЧЧ"
Between them they brought the gunman to partial consciousness and
took him out. But Kittson remained and, when they were gone, locked the
door for the second time.
Blake watched this move with raised eyebrows. "I assure you," he kept
his tone light, "I have no connection with the departed."
"I am sure you have not. HoweverЧ"
"This is a matter which should not concern meЧis that it?"
For the first time Kittson's tight lips moved in a shadow smile. "Just so.
We would rather no one knew about this little episode."
"My foster father was on the police force. I don't talk out of turn."
"You are from out of town?"
"I'm from Ohio, yes. My foster parents are dead. I came here to enter
Havers," Blake answered with the exact truth.
"HaversЧso you are an art student?"
"I have hopes," Blake refused to be drawn. "But five minutes of
checking on your part will support all my statements."
Kittson's shadow smile broadened. "I don't doubt that at all, young
man. But tell me one thingЧjust why did you open your door at that
crucial moment? I'll swear you couldn't have heard us coming up the
corridor, not through these walls andЧ" He was frowning now, watching
Blake with that same hunting cat intensity, as if the young man presented
a problem which must be solved.
Blake lost a fraction of his assurance. How could he possibly explain

those queer flashes of foreboding, which he had had at intervals all his life,
warning him of danger to come? How could he explain to this man that he