Modest, Margo was not. And finally she could revel in it to her heart's content, the way cats simply fold their bodies into pretzel-twists around anything loaded with catnip.
"Young woman," one of the men began, voice surprisingly deep for the acceptably trendy cadaver he called a body, "are you questioning my judgment? I," he went on, arrogant as a New York cabbie, "either suggested or chose each and every one of these firearms myself." He cleared an Ichabod Crane throat delicately, feigning (and not very well) humility. "NCAA Rifle Team four years running. Harvard."
Harvard? Aw, nuts! I'm losing my touch. She'd have bet for sure he was a Yalie.
She caught and held his gaze squarely, long enough to let him know she wasn't impressed, then replied politely, "Well, sir, I'm sure you were wonderful with a perfectly balanced match rifle—Anscheutz Model 54? Thought so," as he nodded stiffly.
Someone behind the tall professor said, "Wow! A real classic!" to which someone else whispered, "And a college rifle team! Do you have any idea how scarce those are now?"
Margo hid a smile as the man's face went red—though humiliating him would be so easy and so fun, the point was to get the folks to learn. Before the man could turn and chastise the speakers, Margo said forcefully, "An Anscheutz Model 54's a great match rifle—but choosing a gun to bet your life on is a little bit different.
"No," she revised, "a whole lot different."
The professor, his pride clearly damaged, opened his mouth to reply. In the pause, Ann stepped in, a savvy businesswoman smoothing ruffled feathers.
"You'll have to forgive Margo's abrupt manner, Dr. Reginald-Harding. I do assure you, all time scouts are usually a bit . . . direct."
The professor's scowl lightened. Ann Vinh Mulhaney gave him her most winning smile, a sure sign that she personally detested him, all the while coveting as much of his grant money as she could shake loose. "But scouts do know what they're talking about—if they didn't, they wouldn't survive long. And this one," she nodded toward Margo, "has had the best possible training available. I taught her firearms and other projectile weapons, Sven Bailey taught her martial arts and bladed weapons. 'Kit' Carson set up her whole training schedule and did a good bit of the teaching. Then, of course, the best freelance time guide in the business, taught her what the rest of us didn't. Like how to really survive downtime in the East End of London, 1888."
Sounding as if he were sucking lemons, the professor said, "Well then, would you please explain why our firearms are either anachronistic or unsuitable?"
Ooh, bet it hurt your platinum tongue to say that.
"All right." She could be civil if he could, although it cost her considerable effort. But she was learning. It was a skill that would doubtless stand her in very good stead as a scout. It was also, she realized abruptly, a skill her grandfather had perfected long ago to stay alive and had retained as a life-long habit, just to protect himself from crowds of awestruck uptimers gawking and asking him stupid questions. He'd shouted and fumed at her because he knew what she had yet to learn for herself: controlling pride and anger were utterly critical for a scout, something she hadn't realized before.
Good grief! These idiots were actually teaching her something!
"All right. First, open the actions—Ann will assist you, if necessary—and check to be sure your rifle is unloaded."
They went through the drill, she and Ann moving back and forth along the line, correcting here, demonstrating there. Clearly, La-La Land's expert firearms instructor was having the time of her life, taking Margo's orders—for this, too, was a test of everything Margo had learned from her. Good thing I kept studying at college with those books Kit sent.
Margo nodded. "Okay, work the action and look down into the top of the loading mechanism while you do it."
They obeyed, opening and closing the actions slowly.
"Notice anything?"
One of the younger men spoke up first. "The loading ramp flips up, like a toggle. And there is not so much room in the loading ramp and chamber as with many rifles."
"Very good."
The young man started, looking up in brief astonishment; then grinned belatedly. "Thanks."
"Okay, class," Ann took her turn in an astonishingly commanding voice, "anybody guess why the Model 94's feed system is constructed that way?" It was clear that only the younger man had much knowledge about guns in general. He glanced at all the others, finding only blank faces, before clearing his throat. "It would be a fairly smooth way to bring a cartridge into the chamber. Not so many moving parts, I think."
Ann nodded. "Very good." She glanced at Margo, silently saying, "Over to you."
Margo drew a deep breath for courage and plunged in feet first, her limited experiences gripped in both hands like daggers.
"Yes, you've noticed something very important about the Winchester 94. The 94's feed system does flip like a toggle, or to use an easier analogy, it tips like a teeter-totter every time you shoot, to bring a new cartridge up into the chamber. Okay, everybody lay down their rifles and gather 'round me."
In a moment, she was loosely surrounded by the group. "Now look," she picked up the Model 73 and proceeded to tip it up so everyone could watch, "at the difference here." She worked the lever slowly, so they could see the difference. "On a Model 73 or 76, the feed system just moves straight up and down. Like an elevator. That's important to all of you for your downtime research. Anybody care to guess why?"
Several chewed their lips. The young woman spoke up. "Because somebody'd notice the difference while we're getting our gear together in Denver?"
"Too right. No Old Westerner's going to miss that difference. They pay attention to guns. All guns. For one thing, guns keep 'em alive, and I haven't met a man yet who didn't just love tinkering with the toys—or tools—of his choice."
Both male grad students went red at the unintended double entendre. She ignored them as she ignored most boys. "Now, go get your Model 94s and keep the muzzles pointed toward the ceiling."
Eventually, they all returned to her side, Model 94s held carefully, muzzles rigidly pointed toward the ceiling.
"Okay. Look at the outside of each rifle. This side plate on my Model 73, for instance, doesn't exist at all on your Model 94s. Again, every Old Westerner who notices that your rifles don't have a side plate—and believe me, someone, maybe several someones, will notice! So the second they spot that little detail, they'll know it's something they've never seen before. And they'll get mighty curious about it. Curiosity about your group or your gear is the very last thing you want."
She smiled coldly and drove home the point like hammering in a wooden stake.
"Any Old Westerner seeing these 94s is going to wonder just what in heck they are and where in heck you got 'em. I think the only other Model 94s in existence in 1885 were in a workshop in Ogden, Utah, where the Browning Brothers were just finishing up inventing it. Winchester bought up the rights like a fish snapping up a fly, because the improvements the Browning Brothers had made over the Model 73 and the Model 76 were so good.
"But the Model 94 didn't come out for a while, because Winchester had to buy manufacturing rights from the Browning Brothers, and they had to play with the design a little until it was as good as they could make it, then Winchester had to tool up their factory to accommodate the changes the 94 would require, that sort of thing—all the normal delays between prototype and commercial release."
Before she could say anything else—or any of the paleontologists could draw upon their courage to ask a question—the weapons-range door opened, admitting a cool draft, Malcolm, and closely following him, Kit Carson.
Chapter Eleven
Gasps went up from those who'd seen photographs. Malcolm just grinned, ignoring the sound, which set her heart beating so fast that cute young grad students might have never existed. Malcolm had a breathtaking smile that turned her insides—and occasionally her very bones—to melted marshmallow.
"So there you are!" Malcolm exc
laimed, relief on his long, craggy, sun-and-wind scoured face. "I thought maybe you'd come down here to spar with Sven. We looked. He's miffed."
Margo said smugly, "I'm saving up for that. If he throws me twice, I'll fast for a whole day."
Kit grinned. "I'll make sure you honor that one, my girl."
She put her tongue out, then kissed Malcolm, just thoroughly enough to set him on fire, but not quite thoroughly enough to push him over the edge and carry her out of here. She finally broke the kiss, smiling up into his eyes with a promise of more to come later, then all but crushed Kit's ribcage. It startled him, but he didn't let go before she did. He did lower his head to kiss her hair several times, as though he couldn't believe this was happening.
When she looked up into his eyes, she saw joy and tremendous pain there. "I'll make it up," she whispered, "all of it. I'll even tell you my whole life's story. I should have a long time ago, but I was scared. After class, okay?"
Kit just closed his eyes.
"I'll—yes, please." Then he opened his eyes again, cleared his throat. "I believe you have a class to teach?"
She sighed, then commented wryly, "Yeah. Like everything else I do, it appears to be part of my training."
Kit and Malcolm nodded approvingly, Kit adding, "A fine lesson for you to learn—and all on your own, too." Margo wrinkled her nose at him, then turned back to the class of goggle-eyed scientists.
Margo took Malcolm's arm, wrapping it possessively around her waist so he all but surrounded her. Determined to do this right if her tongue shattered from all the gilding one was supposed to learn to master gracefully, she said, "This gentleman with his arm around me is Dr. Moore, Freelance Temporal Guide, sought out by members of the very oldest names and fortunes in the world, men and women who bear European titles of nobility, Americans of the greatest industrial and computer families in the nation, prestigious members of the press and the glittering stars of New Hollywood.
"They seek Dr. Moore for assistance with private tours away from the main Time Tours itineraries so they won't have to endure the endless chatter of the riff-raff who take the same tours. Dr. Moore is also a successful gemstone speculator," Malcolm squeezed warningly, "a doctor of philosophy in both anthropology and classics, and, to my greatest happiness, my fiance."
A few faint groans reached them, bringing laughter to Malcolm's eyes when she glanced up.
Kit, however, was staring at her oddly.
"And this renowned hero," she said, slipping loose of Malcolm's grip just long enough to take her grandfather's calloused hand, "is the most famous recluse on Earth. You are deeply privileged to meet one of the original time scouts who pushed the major gates the first time they began popping open and closed on a regular, stable schedule. Knowing the danger that he might shadow himself, he continued pushing gates until the odds were simply too great, then settled down as owner of one of the world's most prestigious hotels, the New Edo, right here in TT-86, where he pushed most of the tourist gates Shangri-La Station possesses. It is, indeed, my intense pleasure to introduce the legendary Time Scout of Shangri-La Station, Kit Carson." She deliberately left out the fact that he was her grandfather.
Round eyes stared back at Kit, with all the grad students looking as though they might faint in the presence of a living god.
Kit, moving very close to her, muttered, "Where the hell did you learn to speak all that flowery bullshit?"
Margo, eyes flashing, answered in an equally soft whisper, "At that moronic college you sent me to. Make me take etiquette, will you!"
Etiquette was another class she'd been forced to take, in place of the math class she'd needed—badly. Margo had desperately wanted to master her log and ATLS—Absolute Time Locator System—with greater skill, and that meant plowing through mathematics. So, when she could not argue, wheedle, or tempt her way into the class she really needed, above all others, she'd left the registrar's office in a storming rage—and made other plans, which included buying all the requisite books for the class she'd been denied and studying them until slow comprehension dawned for each and every formula or proof the books contained.
With her greater understanding, she performed the same ritual each night: she'd finish supper and rush from the cafeteria back to her room, where she studied until it was nice and dark. If the night sky was clear—as it often was in winter—she'd grab her ATLS and log and jog down to the courtyard which four dormitories completely enclosed. Margo then shot one star fix after another, recording her findings by whispering into her computer log.
She would then return to her room, ignoring the odd looks from other students who'd seen her in the courtyard, talking to herself and pointing a little box at the sky over and over, and the lustful looks of those who didn't care how crazy she was, just so long as they could get their hands on what was beneath her designer jeans that fit her derriere like they'd been sewn on. Margo, completely aware of both types of stare, ignored each equally, regained her room and checked her calculations very carefully, for each star fix she'd shot.
She still wanted that class, but she was getting much better at the mathematic formulae needed to calculate exactly where you were by shooting a star fix. And she had learned her accursed "etty-ket." Got a stinking A+ for it. Some use modern etiquette and oratory is going to be downtime through an unknown gate.
Then she realized there was something wrong with her grandfather's expression. Kit's eyes actually blazed with anger and his sandy eyebrows dove until his entire forehead was a mass of wrinkles—a few of which she, herself, had regretfully put there.
"We'll talk about this later, in private," he muttered. "I want to know everything there is to know about that place. Everything."
At least he's not mad at me, Margo thought cheerfully. Nobody, not even Margo, wanted to be on the downside of Kit Carson's temper. She'd been there all too often to want to find herself there again.
"And Margo," Kit added, without a trace of a smile, "do Grandpa a favor, huh? Cut the etiquette crap and sound like yourself, or I'll drag you over to the gym and slam the living daylights out of you until you start sounding like my grandkid again."
Margo, a little angry, a little relieved, a whole lot aware of how much he loved her—and the only way he knew to express it most of the time—met his gaze with a wicked twinkle in her eyes and a dangerous smile on her lips. "Tsk-tsk, child-beating? Shame on you." Her smile deepened. "As for slamming the living daylights out of me, you could try."
Kit's black scowl was part of the way she always remembered him. Before he could speak, she whispered, "Oh, don't worry, I hate that stuff, too. I'll be good."
Kit relaxed visibly, then grinned and ruffled her hair affectionately. "Okay, fire-eater. Go show 'em your stuff. After you finish introductions." As Margo did not know the names of any of the scientists, she turned to Ann to help. Surely Ann would know the names of her clients.
As the introductions progressed, Margo found that Kit could still surprise her. She told herself she shouldn't have been so startled when Kit greeted each politely—in whatever language they might happen to speak besides English: Yiddish with Dr. Rubenstein, honest-to-God Ukrainian with Vasylko, whose eyes widened until just about all you could see was a vast double pool of blue under a shock of ice-blond hair. Vasylko stammered out his reply in Ukrainian, saying something that caused Kit to smile. A greeting in Arabic brought a flush to Katy's cheeks. Clearly, she remembered enough Arabic to understand what Kit had just said.
Then he turned to assess the other Ph.D. paleontologist. "I've admired your work, Dr. Reginald-Harding. I saw the American Museum of Natural History after The Accident. What you've done to raise money to restore the building, never mind repair and remount the fossil skeletons and other priceless displays approaches the miraculous. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."
Both men shook hands, Dr. Reginald-Harding just a little bit awestruck, if Margo were judging accurately his body language and the stunned look in his eyes. Kit, evidently notic
ing the same thing, gave out his world-famous smile.
Then Kit turned his attention to the remaining graduate student. Adair MacKinnon just stared at him, whole face slack and increasingly red when Kit addressed him in Gaelic.
"No?" Kit sighed. "Ah, well, your education isn't complete, then, anyway, is it? You'll have plenty of time to learn it before earning your Ph.D."
Adair flushed even more and stammered, "Always . . . always meant to learn it, 'cause I've got to, you know, before I become The MacKinnon. Sometimes . . . never mind."
Kit nodded understanding of what Adair had left unspoken.
Introductions completed, Dr. Rubenstein stepped forward immediately, shaking Kit's hand, then Malcolm's. "Gentlemen, it's an honor, believe me. You, sir, are known everywhere," this to Kit, "and you, Dr. Moore are a lucky man. Damned lucky. You both trained this young lady? She's a bit blunt," he said with a smile, rubbing his chin, "but she knows what she's talking about. Very, very well. And her, mmm, 'forceful' suggestions have all been to the point and excellently stated." This time, Samuel Rubenstein smiled at her. "I can see, now, where your excellent education comes from."
Perversely, she was peeved. Not good enough on my own, but the minute Kit Carson strolls in, I'm a sensation. Buddy, you ain't seen nuthin' yet. Outwardly, she said a bit breezily, "Oh, well, there certainly is that, and believe me, their tutoring is profoundly educational"—she could feel the snort Kit held in—"but there's a lot of bookwork, too. A whole lot. So much, you never stop learning. Do you, Grandpa?"
It was the first time she'd ever called him that. He stiffened momentarily, speechless, while he stared down at her.
"That's right," he managed. "Even though I'm retired, I'm still learning, just in case. I've recently tackled an ancient Chinese dialect and Croatian stripped of all Serbian influences, vocabulary, and so on, to add to my other languages, and I've been reading and taking notes from a complete history of the Croatian people, both of which I'll have to transfer to memory sufficiently for instant recall if I ever decide to risk going down that new gate at TT-16. Not a tourist gate, not at all; but the research potential is said to be fabulous." His eyes actually glittered with intense interest.
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