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

wasn't some weird dream it came very close to it. Undoubtedly the wisest

thing for him to do would be to stop this cab and disappear on his own.
Only he had a very strong suspicion that Kittson would sooner or later
catch up with him again and that then their relationship would be on a far
less easy footing.
The taxi wove through the narrow roads in the central park in a shuttle
pattern which completely baffled Blake's scant knowledge of the city. Then
they came out on the main streets once more. Morning traffic was on the
move and the cab rounded busses, bored between trucks and private cars.
It slowed at last to whip into a narrow alley running between blank walled
buildings which might be warehouses. About three-quarters of the way
down this the driver pulled to a stop.
"Here y'are."
Blake reached for his wallet. But the driver said, without turning
around, "It's already paid, Mac. You go in that door, see? Elevator there.
Punch the top button. Now make it snappy, Mac, this here's no place to
park!"
Blake went on in to be confronted by the glass frosted panel of a
self-operating elevator. He punched the top button and tried to count the
floors as he moved upward creakily, but he was not sure whether they
came to stop before nine or ten.
Beyond was a scrap of hall, hardly more than standing room before a
single blank door. Blake knocked and the portal opened so speedily that he
thought they must have been awaiting him.
"Come in, Walker."
Blake had been expecting Kittson. But the man who greeted him was
the elder of the agent by at least ten years. He was shorter and his hair
was brindled with gray threads among the dark brown. But, as
inconspicuous as he might have been in a crowd, there was a quiet
distinction in his air. He was as much a personality in his way as the more
aggressive Kittson.
"I am Jason Saxton," he introduced himself. "And Mark Kittson is
waiting. Just leave your things here."
Deftly separated from coat, hat and bag, Blake was ushered into an

inner office where he found not only Kittson but the red haired man who
had helped remove the gunman in the Shelborne.
The room was bare except for a wall range of files, a desk and three or
four chairs. There was not even a window to break the gray walls, matched
in shade by a carpet under foot. And the lighting came from a concealed
source near the ceiling.
"This is Hoyt," Kittson indicated the redhead abruptly. "You made the
trip without incident, I see."
Blake wanted to ask what kind of an "incident" Kittson had expected
him to encounter, but he decided that his wisest move now was to let the
other fellow do the talking.
Hoyt was slumped down in his chair, his long legs stretched out, his
hands, with their fringing of coarse red hairs, finger-laced across his flat
middle.