"S. A. Gorden - Eyes of an Eagle a Novel of Gravity Controlled" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gorden S A)

right..."
He drank another swallow of coffee. I could see the pain of old memories in his face. With eyes filled
with sadness, he said, “It is yours now."

The old leather sheath was scuffed and blackened with age. The varnish on the wood hilt was worn off in
places. I pulled the knife from the sheath. In my hand the old knife felt lighter than the knives I had in my
kitchen although the blade was nearly twice as thick. The clip blade was a dark rippled gray—the color
high-grade hand-forged carbon steel fades to with age. The edge was honed bright. I turned the blade
up. The sharpened edge disappeared. I knew if I just touched the blade with my thumb blood would
flow. I turned.

The mouse still watched.
Chapter 2
Waiting
The Chameleon had decided on a community. As far as he could tell, it was the richest and strongest in
the whole area. His next decision would be where to infiltrate. The economic heart had a large turnover
of individuals. A new face would easily be lost in the crowds. But the economic center also had greater
security. The outlying area had less new people moving in but also much less security. Where would be
the best place to infiltrate?

Females seemed to have nearly as much access to sensitive materials with less security questions. Males
had the most access. Gays were in the minority but would they have the benefit of both the sexes? Which
would help the group the most, greater access or less questions?

The Chameleon had time. He waited and watched.
****
When I got home, Move-over was on the computer again. I could feel his eyes on my back as I
proofread portions of a college algebra textbook. For some reason, I couldn't concentrate on the
reading. I kept remembering back to when I was little. It was summer. I recalled seeing a Disney type
Davy Crockett movie or show; I don't remember which. In the show, Davy was in some contest where
he threw a knife and an axe at a target. I had an old pocketknife and was trying to throw it at a tree. Dad
came up to me.

“Son. You are using the wrong kind of knife for throwing."

He went into the house and came back with an old straight-backed paring knife. We threw the knife for
what seemed like hours. He stuck it in the tree every time he threw. At the end, I got it to stick in the tree
three times in a row. I vaguely remember keeping up the practice for the rest of the summer but I could
only clearly remember that first time with Dad. It was one of the few times we were alone and not
arguing.

I got the puukko. In the backyard, the stump of the tree I used for practice so many years ago stood by
the foundations of the old burned barn. The first throw—the knife bounced off the stump. The second
stuck. I threw again and again. The blade was starting to sink a half-inch into the wood, three quarters, a
full inch.

I suddenly felt eyes. I turned and looked. A crow sat on a fence post his black eye watching. The crow
had only one good eye; the other was frosted over. I yelled. He didn't budge but two more crows flew in
to join him on the fence line. I notice my arm was sore and I was drenched in sweat. I went inside
wondering about Ben, the knife and those watching animals.