"Michael Scott Rohan - The Gates of Noon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rohan Michael Scott)

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book
is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment
for this "stripped book."
For Marise, Philip and Lucy
AVON BOOKS
A division of
The Hearst Corporation
1350 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10019
Copyright ┬й 1992 by Michael Scott Rohan Cover illustration by Dorian Vallejo
Published by arrangement with the author Library of Congress Catalog Card
Number: 93-20295 ISBN: 0-380-71718-2
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S.
Copyright Law. For information address Avon Books.
First AvoNova Printing: May 1994
First Morrow/AvoNova Hardcover Printing: July 1993
AVONOVA TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES. MARCA
REGISTRADA. HECHO EN U.S.A.
Printed in U.S.A.
RA 10 987654321
BetuventhepedestakofNightandMornmg, Between red death and radiant destre With
not one sound of triumph or of warnmg Stands the great sentry onthe Bridge of
Ftre...
Flecker, The Bridge of Fire
Too angry to wait for the creaky elevator, I went clattering down the dusty
stairs, so fast that I outpaced Dave. I stalked across the little lobby,
ignoring the receptionist's soft-voiced courtesies, and barged straight out
into the sunshine before I stopped to take a deep breath. This wasn't the best
idea. Rumour awarded the atmosphere here one of the world's lowest oxygen
counts, and beyond the air-conditioned shade of the shipping offices the
sunlight beat down on it with the brassy intensity of a gong. The roar of the
city enveloped me, the growl of cars mingled with the deeper cough of the
buses, the high-pitched fizz of the little tuk-tuk taxi-rickshaws and the
flatulent mopeds. A thousand stinks smote my nostrils: smoke, exhausts,
spices, street filth, sweat and all the other statenesses of humanity. Round
here they were pretty considerable, these offices being in a low-rent district
not far from the riverside wharves. Just the kind of one-horse outfit who'd
normally be falling over themselves for the business of a worldwide agency
like ours.
Normally.
I was actually trembling with rage and resentment. I was fed up with this
place. I just wanted to walk, to get away to somewhere less hot and stinking
and uncooperative. I turned on my heel and plunged away through the
counterflowing crowd. A sea of heads hardly reached my shoulder; 1 had to
fight the feeling that I ought to be swimming. But for all the crush and
hubbub, the eternal plastic pop blaring from Japanese blasters, there was none
of Hong Kong's earsplitting jabber, nor the barging you'd find in Western
crowds. By and large this was a quiet-spoken, courteous people; only their