Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  "As a matter of fact, so do I."

  Oh, God.. .

  He grinned disarmingly, reminding Margo quite suddenly of her high school history teacher. "Most temporal guides do, you know."

  Temporal guide?

  He held out a business card neatly clasped between two fingers. "Malcolm Moore, freelance time guide."

  Margo felt her face flame. "I ...uh ..." Clearly he knew exactly what she'd been thinking and seemed to find it amusing. She took the card hesitantly and risked glancing at it. The card seemed genuine enough. "Uh, hi. I'm Margo."

  If he was offended that she'd withheld her last name, he didn't show it. He said only, "Nice to meet you, Margo, and shook her hand formally. "If you like, I'll take you back to the Down Time."

  She hesitated.

  He pinned. "No charge. I only charge for tours on the other side of time gates."

  "Oh. Okay." Then, grudgingly, because she was embarrassed she hadn't said it sooner, "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it."

  He had a nice smile. Maybe she could trust him, just a little. Should' a worn something else, though. His glance slid across her with inevitable-she almost might have said involuntary-interest. Most guys looked at her that way, thinking she was at least the eighteen she tried to appear rather than the almost-seventeen she was. Yes, she should have worn something else. But the boots were too bulky to pack in her case and she'd wanted to use every possible advantage she possessed when she finally came face to face with Kit Carson .... Well, you made this bed. Lie in it. Margo picked up her case and followed him back toward a corridor she was certain led in the wrong direction, only to emerge in a cross corridor she recognized as the one she'd taken off the Commons. Margo sighed and relegated herself to having to overcome yet another handicap on her quest: a reputation for stupidity. Maybe Mr. Moore wouldn't say anything about having to lead her out by the hand; but she wouldn't bet on it. And she certainly didn't have enough money to bribe him.

  They regained the Commons in silence, for which she was grateful. As they approached an enormous area caged to prevent tourist access, Margo frowned. She'd noticed it before, but only peripherally. Inside the cage was an irregular-shaped hole in the concrete.

  "What's that?" she asked hesitantly, afraid she knew the answer already. Unstable gate ...

  Malcolm Moore glanced around. "What's what? Oh, the unstable gate."

  "I know about those."

  "Yes. Well, the floor collapsed when this one opened under it. A coffee stand fell through."

  She edged closer for a better look and paled The sight was unnerving. Air at the bottom seemed to ripple oddly. Every few seconds, she heard the splash of water. The bones behind her ears buzzed uncomfortably. "Fell through into where?"

  "We think it's the Bermuda Triangle." His voice was flat, completely deadpan.

  "The Bermuda Triangle? Don't jerk me around!"

  "Hey," he held out both hands; "who declared war? Honest, we think it's the Bermuda Triangle. Katie and Jack Sherman almost drowned when the gate opened up the first time. Their coffee shop went straight to the bottom. I was on the rescue team that went through for them. Not only is it an unstable gate, the darned thing leads to a whole nexus of other gates popping open and closed. Picking the right one back to La-La Land was murder. Took us five wrong tries. We almost didn't get back."

  "Oh." Great. Unstable nexus gates, yet. "I know about unstable nexus gates," Margo muttered, wondering why none of her research had turned up that little tidbit. Maybe the government didn't want to scare people? "I've been on time terminals before."

  He appeared to accept the lie. She'd sooner have died than admit she'd sold almost everything she owned-and very nearly a good bit more-to raise the price of a downtime ticket onto TT-86. Margo eyed the hole in the floor with a slight chill of misgiving. Well, adventure was what she was here for, wasn't it?

  "So where's this bar?" she demanded, turning her back on the watery chasm. "I have business with Mr. Carson."

  Malcolm Moore eyed her for one heartbeat longer than he should have-did he suspect anything? ATF had accepted her faked ID without a second glance then he shrugged and jerked his head. "It's down this way, in Urbs Romae. The Roman City," he translated, assuming she wouldn't know the meaning of "urbs."

  Margo muttered, "I know where the word urban comes from." It was very nearly the only Latin she knew, but she knew that.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled nicely when he smiled. Margo decided Malcolm Moore didn't remind her of any of the men she'd known, after all. "Come on. I'll show you where it is. It's a little tricky to spot."

  She followed, hauling a suitcase that weighed more by the moment. When she had trouble keeping up, he glanced around and slowed his pace slightly to match hers.

  "Are you by any chance planning to visit London? Or Denver?"

  "Why?

  He grimaced expressively. "Just hoping. I'm looking for a client for one of the upcoming tours. We freelancers have to hustle for a job."

  "Oh. No, I wasn't planning a tour. Sorry."

  "Don't mention it." His eyes, however, remained bright with unspoken curiosity. Just how often did Kit Carson get visitors? If the world's most famous time scout turned out to be a cranky recluse ...Given the difficulty she'd had ferreting out recent information on him, he probably was. Well, coping with her father ought to have been training enough to deal with any ill-tempered male ego. That training had gotten her out of New York alive, hadn't it?

  Malcolm Moore led her at least half-way down the Commons, through areas that reminded Margo of history-book pictures. She knew where the various gates led, having researched TT-86 as thoroughly as possible before taking the plunge. This portion of the terminal led to ancient Athens, while the section over there was designed like a city in the High Andes. They passed shops that fascinated with glimpses of exotic interiors. One restaurant was shaped like a South American pyramid; its doorway was a replica of the Sun Gate at Teotihuacan.

  Beyond that, Margo spotted intricate knotted patterns and interwoven mythical beasts carved around shop doorways. One restaurant had been built into a dragon prowed ship, with signs painted to look like Viking runes. The scents wafting out of the restaurants made her empty belly rumble in complaint.

  Should've eaten lunch before I came down time. I bet the prices here are sky-high. At least in New York, she'd been able to buy cheap hot dogs from street vendors. They passed into an area of mosaic floors and Roman style shop fronts, then her guide ducked under a span of fake columns and steel supports and indicated a dim doorway. The clink of glasses and the unmistakable scent of beer wafted out from the interior. There was no shop sign visible anywhere. No wonder she'd missed it. Must be a hangout for residents only, if they don't advertise.

  "Voila," Malcolm Moore said with a courtly flourish and a smile. "The Down Time Bar and Grill."

  "Thanks." She flashed him a quick smile of gratitude, then headed for the dim-lit entrance, leaving him to follow or wander off on his own, whichever he preferred. Her attention was already focused on what she was going to say to the legendary Kenneth "Kit" Carson, the man on whom her entire future-and more depended. Mouth dry, palms wet, Margo gripped her suitcase in one hand and her courage in the other, then charged across the threshold .

  "...so anyway," Ann laughed above the sharp crack of billiard balls from the back room, "he learned a valuable lesson about concentrating on the front-sight post. Marcus, hello, yes, I'll have another."

  Across the table, Sven groaned theatrically. Rachel Eisenstein's musical laughter provided a comical counterpoint to Sven Bailey's gloom.

  "Oh, hush up and finish your beer," Ann told him. "I won fair and square."

  "I know. That's what's so damn depressing."

  Ann winked at Marcus while Rachel sipped from her wineglass and continued to laugh silently. Sven took another pull from his beer mug and sighed. The young bartender grinned and went in search of refills.

  Granville Baxter wande
red in, having to duck under the doorway, and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. His grey business suit was still crisp and neat, but the man who wore it had a wilted look that said, "I need a drink. Now" Rachel waved and indicated an empty chair. Baxter's maternal Masai heritage coupled with a few paternal ancestors who'd been NBA stars gave him a height advantage over every single 'eighty-sixer in La-La Land. Granville Baxter, however, had no earthly interest in sports, other than occasionally sponsoring special Time Tours package deals for rich franchises.

  Time Tours considered Baxter a marketing genius.

  "Mind if I join you?" he asked, ever polite even at the Down Time.

  Sven gestured to one of several empty chairs. "Park em.

  The Time Tours executive sank back with a sigh, fished in a pocket for a handkerchief, and blotted his dark brow.

  "Double-gate day," he said, providing all the explanation any 'eighty-sixer needed.

  Ann waved at Marcus and nodded toward Baxter. The bartender nodded back and drew a stein of Bax's favorite brew.

  "How'd it go?" Sven asked, with a long pull at his own beer.

  Bax – who had occasionally said dire things about his parents' decision to name him "Granville" grimaced. "Baggage troubles again. Other than that, pretty smooth. Oh, we had the typical three or four who decide they want to switch tours after they get to the terminal and we had one woman who threw up all over a whole family on the other side, but nothing too rough. Forgot her scopolamine patch. I'll tell you, though, if my new baggage manager doesn't get his act together by the London departure, he's going to go begging a job somewhere else. -Oh, Marcus, bless you."

  Half the beer vanished in one long gulp.

  Ann sympathized. One transfer, one promotion, and one family crisis had led to four new baggage managers for Time Tours at TT-86 in the past six months. Bax's own job might be on the line if baggage handlers screwed up again. Rich tourists tolerated very little in the way of mistakes from hired underlings. Even geniuses were expendable if the right tourist pitched a loud-enough fit.

  Marcus set out the rest of the drinks.

  "So," Bax asked, "any problems at Medical with the new arrivals?"

  Rachel had just begun to reply when a startling young woman clad entirely in black leather and lace, with short, auburn hair and a suitcase gripped like a set of nunchucks, charged through the doorway on a direct course for their table.

  "Hello," she said, from halfway across the room, "I'm looking for Kit Carson. I was told he might be here."

  Ann and Rachel exchanged glances. Even Bax lifted one brow. "No," he said in a friendly fashion. "I'm afraid he isn't, unless he's in back playing billiards."

  The young woman swung around, clearly ready to interrupt the game in progress. Every male eye in the room followed the swing of her short skirt.

  "No, he isn't back there," Ann said, forestalling her. "That's Skeeter and Goldie, trying to out scam one another."

  The crack of billiard balls underscored the statement: The red-haired girl all but scowled. "Any idea how I can find him? It's important."

  "Well," Bax scratched the back of his head, "you could pull up a chair and wet your throat until he gets here." He looked hopeful. "He'll be here, probably sooner than later. Kit always stops by, especially on gate days."

  Whoever she was, this girl didn't look in the mood to hang around and wait. Marcus, in his delightfully accented English, volunteered, "He has the hotel. He is there?"

  Her eyes brightened. "Hotel? Which hotel?"

  Sven set his mug on the table with a faint click of glass on wood. "The Neo Edo. It's right on the Commons, down by the big fish pond, with an entrance that looks like-"

  She was gone before he could finish.

  "Well," he said into the astonished silence.

  Before anyone else could speak, Malcolm Moore stepped into the bar. He was still dressed for business and wore a wicked grin. "I see by the open mouths you've all met Margo. Anybody find out why she's looking for Kit?"

  "Margo? You know her?" Bax demanded. "Who is she?"

  Malcolm dragged over an empty chair. Ann highsigned Marcus for another beer. "No," he admitted with a chagrined air, "I don't know her. She came barreling through Primary and collared me right off, asking about Kit, then promptly got lost back in Residential looking for the Down Time. I was hoping maybe she'd told you guys why she wants to find Kit. Prickly little cactus blossom, isn't she?"

  Sven laughed at the look on Granville Baxter's face. "Bax, she'd put you in an early grave. Stick to Time Tours if you want to die young."

  Bax shot him a look of utter disgust and studied his beer.

  "Well," Malcolm nodded thanks when Marcus brought him a chilled mug, "I get the feeling things are going to be lively for a while." He saluted the group with his beer and grinned.

  "You," Sven Bailey muttered, just said a freakin' mouthful. The sixty-four thousand dollar question is, do we warn Kit?"

  Ann and Rachel exchanged glances, Bax choked on his beer, and across the bar even Marcus started to laugh. Malcolm chuckled. "Poor Kit. Well, let's put it to a vote, shall we? All in favor?"

  Solemnly, but with eyes twinkling, Kit's friends cast their votes with their hands. Malcolm plucked a few threads from the raveling hem of his tunic. "Short thread does the honors."

  Malcolm, of course, came up short. As always. He sighed, took the inevitable ribbing with a long drag at his beer, and headed for the phone.

  Chapter Two

  GOVERNMENT PAPERWORK WAS only one of many things about running a time-terminal hotel which Kit Carson hated. A laundry list of his favorite complaints, carefully filed away in one corner of his mind where they wouldn't distract, included laundry bills, the price of food brought in past customs, the cost of replacing towels, ashtrays, and plumbing fixtures carted off by the guests, a work force likely to vanish at a moment's notice, crushing boredom interspersed with ulcer-generating crises, and-near the top of the list tourists.

  Paperwork, however, was the thing he despised most.

  He'd almost rather have returned to academia.

  The Neo Edo's executive office, larger than some modern, up-time homes, was one of the features of his current career that made it tolerable. His office boasted a video wall with panoramic real-time views of the Commons and equally panoramic taped views of multiple down-time vistas. A wet bar stocked with illegal bottles of liquid ambrosia (which both Kit and his predecessor, the builder of Neo Edo, had brought back up time) was available any time the job grew too hairy.

  Priceless paintings and art treasures rescued from palaces, destroyed by the Onin Wars in fifteenth century Kyoto graced Kit's office, which also boasted pristine tatami rice mats on the floor and the clean, uncluttered look of sliding paper-screen walls and delicately carved woodwork.

  The office's best feature, however, was a recessed light well which cast realistic-looking "daylight" over a miniature Japanese dry-landscape garden. The serene arrangement of raked white sand, upright stones, and elegantly clipped topiary which filled an entire corner of the office rested the eyes and soothed the soul.

  It was Kit's salvation on paperwork days. He would periodically sit back in his chair, nurse a good bourbon, and contemplate the symbolic "islands" the rock formations represented, floating in their withered "sea" of sand. It gave Kit intense pleasure to symbolically consign the drafters of the requisite government forms to a long life marooned on one of those miniature desert islands, without hope of rescue.

  Talk about the perfect Zen hell ....

  The phone call interrupted him halfway through a form designed to require an entire battery of expensive lawyers to decipher. Kit grinned despite the fact that the call had come through on the "Panic Button." He tucked the receiver between shoulder and ear, allowed his gaze to stray to the corner garden, and said, "Yeah, Jimmy?"

  Jimmy Okuda, at the front desk, was the only person with direct access to that particular intercom line. A call on the Panic Butt
on usually meant another jump in Kit's blood pressure; today, the distraction was more than welcome.

  "Call from Malcolm Moore, Kit."

  "Malcolm?" What was Jimmy doing, buzzing him on the Panic Button for a call from Malcolm Moore? "Uh ...put him through."

  An outside line flashed as Jimmy transferred the call. What on earth could Malcolm Moore want? Kit had offered him a job more than once, only to be refused politely but firmly. Kit pressed the button. "Malcolm? Hello, what can I do for you?"

  "Kit, sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing, but you're going to have a visitor in about five minutes."

  "Oh?" Malcolm's tone invited all sorts of speculation. From the background noise, Malcolm was calling from the Down Time. That could mean anything might be on its way. Just as Kit had started reviewing lethal potentialities from his down-time adventures-and wondering where he'd left the soft body armor he'd used in his scouting days-Malcolm said, "An up-timer's looking for you."

  "Up-timer?"

  Malcolm chuckled thinly. "Some day, Kit, I will get you to tell me about that deal in Bangkok. Yeah,. an uptimer. Real impatient, too. We took a vote and decided you deserved a warning before this one collared you." Malcolm was laughing at some inside joke to which Kit was clearly not privy.

  "Uh-huh. Thanks, I think."

  "Don't mention it. What're friends for? Relieve our curiosity, would you? Sven says he'll buy, if you'll tell."

  Kit raised a brow. If Sven Bailey was that curious, something decidedly odd was up. "I'll let you know. Thanks for the warning."

  Malcolm hung up. Kit shoved back his chair. Whoever was on his way, meeting the guy face to face, cold, was not Kit's idea of good strategy. He paused at the doorway to slip on his shoes, thought about his attire and hastily exchanged his comfortable kimono for a business jacket and slacks, then headed down to Neo Edo's main desk. "Jimmy, Malcolm says an up-time visitor is headed this way. Tell 'em I'm out, would you? I want to be scarce for a few minutes. Lay a false trail or something."