The look in her eyes, sudden and unexpected, disturbed Kit. Good God, is she going to cry? Kit cleared his throat.
"But I won't be a party to your death, which is likely to be messy and very painful. Did you bother to read any of the scouting reports in this?" He held up the Gazette. "Or the obituaries section?"
Time-scouts' obituaries took up a whole page of the Shangri-la Gazette. The details were often gruesome.
She shrugged. "People die all the time."
"Yes, they do. So do time scouts. Let me tell you how time scouts die, kid. Sam One-Eagle over at TT-37 was killed by the Inquisition. They burned him alive, Margo, after taking all the skin off his back with whips and breaking all his major bones on the rack. His partner crawled back through with burns over most of his body from trying to rescue him. David lived for a month. The nurses said he spent most of it screaming."
Margo had blanched. But her chin came up. "So what? I could get run over by a bus, too, and plane crash victims get toasted just as thoroughly."
Kit tossed his hands heavenward. "Good God, Margo. The Inquisition is nothing to be flippant about. You haven't seen one of their torture rooms. I have. And I have the scars to prove it. Would you like to see them?"
Slim jaw muscles tightened. She didn't say a word.
"And do you have any idea, kid, what gave me away? What got me arrested by those bastards?"
She shook her head.
"A mispronounced word, Margo. That was all. A mispronounced word. And I speak fluent medieval Spanish."
She swallowed; but she had a comeback. "You lived through it."
Kit sighed and pushed his plate away. He wasn't hungry any longer. "Fine. You want to get killed, feel free. Just don't ask me to help you do it. Now scram, before I lose my temper."
Margo didn't say another word. She just stalked out of Bronco Billy's and vanished into the bustle of Frontier Town. Kit muttered under his breath and glared at the passing crowds. just what was it about this kid that needled him so thoroughly? She was every damned bit as stubborn as Sarah and made him very nearly as crazy.
Maybe it was genetic. He never had been able to resist petite women with heart-shaped faces and freckles.
"Huh. Women."
He shook out his newspaper irritably and folded it over to a new section.
"Mr. Carson?"
"What?" he snapped, glaring up at a middle-aged man he'd never laid eyes on. Good God, can't a man eat his breakfast in peace?
"I'm sorry to interrupt..." The man's voice trailed off. "Er, I, that is- Excuse me. I'll come back later."
He was already in the process of stepping away from the table. Kit focused on the slim portfolio he carried, the carefully pressed suit, the expensive shoes ...
"Don't run away," Kit said with a lingering growl in his voice. "Sorry I snapped at you. I just finished a very unpleasant conversation, is all. Please, sit down."
And if you're a reporter, mister, you'll end up wearing what's left of my breakfast ....
"My name is Fisk, Harry Fisk.- He offered a business card, which gave Kit no real clues other than his office was in Miami. "I represent the management of TT-27, located in the Caribbean Basin. We're looking for a consultant..."
Kit heard him out: The job sounded intriguing. A lucrative, full-time consultantship, unlimited trips to a time he was pretty sure he'd never visited, as primary consultant to the Time Tours agent looking to develop a new gate destination, paid apartments at TT-27's finest luxury hotel.. .
It was a magnificent chance to escape Neo Edo's paperwork and the endless stream of raucous, thieving tourists. Kit scratched his chin and thought about it Leaving TT-86 meant leaving friends. And he did owe it to Jimmy and the other retired time scouts in his employment to look after them. He wouldn't sell out to just anyone.
"No," he decided, "I don't think so, Mr. Fisk. I have a hotel to run."
"We would be more than happy to install a full-time manager for the duration of your consultantship, Mr. Carson. Time Tours wants the best for this project."
Huh. Now there was a fat offer. Paradise for as long as he wanted to live in it and he kept his steady income, too. And somebody else did the paperwork. The image of Margo, her face pinched and white as she stood over his table staring him down, flashed through his mind.
Dammit, kid, stay out of my head.
Kit toyed with his cold eggs, scooting them back and forth on the plate with the tines of his fork. He'd been waiting for something like this for a long time.
"No," he found himself saying. "I appreciate the offer, really; but not just now"
Mr. Fisk's face fell-ludicrously. "I really wish you would reconsider, Mr. Carson."
Kit shrugged. "Ask me again in a week or so. We time scouts are a changeable lot."
Fisk tightened his lips imperceptibly. "Yes, so I've discovered. Well, you have my card, but my employers are most anxious to press ahead with this project and there are other retired time scouts on my list."
Kit nodded. "I expect there are. And I'm sure most of them need the job more than I do." He held out his hand. Fisk shook it, betraying grudging respect in his eyes.
"If you reconsider your position in the next two days, please let me know."
He had until Primary cycled to change his mind.
Kit didn't foresee that happening.
Mr. Fisk left him with his cold eggs.
"Huh. It was probably a scam, anyway," Kit muttered. "Too good to be true equals dubious in my book. Besides, who wants to live in the Bermuda Triangle?" He could do that by Jumping down La-La Land's unstable gate. He shove Fisk's business card into his pocket and tackled his cold breakfast, telling himself his decision had nothing to do with keeping track of that stupid little imp, Margo.
Sure it doesn't, Kit. And toadie frogs got wings.
He muttered into his scraggly mustache and finished his morning paper, determined not to think about Margo or her suicide mission. Why was it, Kit mourned silently, that all the real trouble in his life inevitably came skipping in on the coattails of some irresistibly pretty girl?
If word of this got around ...
Well, he'd just take his lumps and deal with the snickers. What Kit Carson did, or didn't do, was his own damned business. Yeah. Mine and the rest of La-La Land's. He signaled Bertie for a fresh cup of coffee and promptly fell to worrying about where Margo was going to find someone reputable enough to trust with her life. Maybe he could talk to Sergei or Leon or ...
No, he told himself, if you won't teach her yourself, do not try and line up somebody else for the job. Frankly, he couldn't think of a single time scout who'd be willing to try it, anyway.
Vastly relieved by that observation, Kit put Margo firmly out of mind.
Why, Margo wailed silently, does he have to be so beastly? She'd found a quiet spot under a vine-covered portico in Urbs Romae where she could sit with knees tucked under chin and indulge in a good, long cry.
Mom warned me ...
That only brought fresh misery and a new flood of angry tears. She wiped her cheek with the back of one fist and sniffed hugely. "I won't give up. Damn him, I won't. There just has to be someone else on this miserable station who'll teach me."
So far, she had struck out with everyone she'd approached, even the freelance guides like Malcolm Moore. At least most of them had been nicer about it than Kit Carson. Even a brusque "Get lost, brat" was kinder than gruesome images of people being tortured to death.
"I'll bet he doesn't have any lousy scars," she sniffed. "And Sam One-Eagle probably isn't any more real than, these stupid fake columns. He doesn't want me to be a scout, is all, so he's trying to scare me."
The thought of returning to Minnesota and the jeers ...
Never mind her father ....
Margo shivered and hugged her knees more tightly.
"Hell will freeze over first."
"Hell will freeze over before what?"
Margo jumped nearly out of her skin. The voice had spok
en almost in her ear. She swung around and found a face peering at her through the vines. A male face. A gorgeous male face. Margo's personal-defense radar surged onto full-power alert. She'd had all she wanted of gorgeous men. But his winning smile was the friendliest thing she'd seen in two and a half days and after that miserable, gawdawful interview with Kit Carson ...
"Hey, what's wrong?" He'd noticed the tears. Whoever he was, he ducked under the vines and dug for a handkerchief. "Here, use mine."
Margo eyed him suspiciously, then accepted the hanky. "Thanks." She dried her face and blew her nose, then wadded up the handkerchief and offered it back.
"No, keep it. You look like you need it more than I do." He sat down cross-legged on the floor. "You're still a little drippy," he added with an attempt at a laugh.
Margo grimaced and blotted her cheeks. "Sorry. I'm not normally so weepy. But it's been a bad week."
"What's wrong? You look half starved."
Margo sniffed. She was. "Well ...it's been a couple of days since I ate."
"A couple of days? Good grief, what happened? Some con artist steal all your money?"
Margo laughed, surprising herself. "No. I didn't have much to steal in the first place. And what there was, I've used up. All I have left is my suitcase and a hotel bill I can't pay tonight"
He tipped his head to one side. "Are you the girl everyone's talking about? The one who wants to become a time scout?"
"Oh, God..." Insult on top of injury.
"Hey, no, don't cry again. Honest, it's okay. I've been looking for you."
Margo blinked and stared at him. "Why?"
"I'm a scout. I've been looking for a partner."
"Honest?" Her voice came out all watery and breathy It couldn't be true-but oh, Lord, how she wanted it to be...
He grinned. "Honest. My name's Jackson. Skeeter Jackson. I just got back from a quick run up time and heard you were looking for a teacher. I've been thinking I need a partner for a while-that's why I was uptime, actually-then I come back and what do I find The challenge of a lifetime, right in my own back yard!" He grinned and held out a hand.
Margo couldn't believe it. A week of her precious six months gone and all she'd had to show for it was a collection of insults, and now ...maybe there was a God, after all. She'd be careful-Billy Pandropolous, who was enough heartbreak for any lifetime, had taught her nothing, if not that. But Skeeter Jackson didn't appear to be hustling her. At least, not yet. She shook his hand. "Mr. Jackson, if you're for real-well, you'll be a lifesaver. I mean it. And I promise, I will work as hard as I have to. I'll make you proud." She ventured a tentative smile, appealing directly to what men seemed to value most. "I'll even try to make you rich."
Skeeter Jackson's eyes were warm, friendly. "I'm sure you will. Come on, let me buy you some breakfast."
He gave her a hand up. Margo dried her cheeks again and gave him a brave smile. "Thanks. I'll pay you back ....
He laughed and gallantly offered his arm: "Don't mention it. I'll take it out of your wages."
Margo found herself grinning as she took Mr. Jackson's arm. Maybe, finally, her luck had changed for the better. Just wait until Kit Carson heard about this! He'd choke on his eggs again. And after the way he'd treated her, he deserved it! Dreaming of thrills, adventure, and plates of heaped bacon and pancakes, Margo accompanied her new teacher out into the bright, busy Commons of Shangri-la Station.
Chapter Five
THE DOWN TIME'S pool room was a snoop's paradise. Thanks to the acoustics, it was possible to hear snatches of several conversations at once. Kit had always wondered if the place had been purpose-built. He lined up a shot, called it, and put the two ball neatly in a side pocket. Out in the bar proper, somebody was laughing about an invasion of grasshoppers at TT-37.
"Came right through a random gate into Commons. Tourists screaming, Station Pest Control tearing hair and swearing. Must've killed a million of 'em, minimum. Took days to sweep 'em all up in another corner, Robert LI's unmistakable bass voice rumbled, "...so when Wilkes said that, Bull told him all ATF courtesy passes were canceled, effective immediately ...."
Kit grinned. Another wrinkle in the continuing saga. The station manager's battle to keep ATF's nose where it belonged-out of everybody else's business-had spawned an entertainment form unique to La-La Land. Known as "Bull Watching," it involved avid betting on the outcome of any random encounter between Bull Morgan and Montgomery Wilkes.
Kit called and sank another ball, then lined up his next shot. Over in the corner, Goldie Morran frowned, looking every inch the disapproving dowager one might see on the Paris Opera House's grand marble staircase opening night, dressed to the nines and staring down that long, thin nose of hers like a Russian aristocrat. Even the hair-a particularly precise shade of purple Kit still associated with seventh-grade English teachers and aging duchesses-contributed to the overall impression.
Goldie eyed the line of Kit's cue stick and sniffed. "I knew I would regret this game. You're too lucky."
Kit chuckled. "Luck, dear Goldie, is what we make it." The next ball he called rattled musically into the far corner pocket. "As you, of all people, should know"
She only smiled, a thin hawkish smile that spoke volumes to those who knew her well. Kit suppressed the urge to look for the knife about to plunge into his back. He lined up his next shot and was just about set when Robert LI's voice interrupted from the doorway.
"Ah, Kit, there you are."
La-La Land's antiquarian, a long-time friend, knew that interrupting a game for anything less than catastrophic emergency was considered a hanging offense. Particularly when the opponent was Goldie Morran. Playing Goldie took concentration if you wanted to leave the room still wearing the shirt you'd come in with. Kit had momentary visions of Tokugawa samurai pouring through the Nippon Gate into the Neo Edo's main lobby, demanding room service.
"What is it?" he asked warily.
Robert lounged against the door frame and idly inspected his fingernails. "Seen the Wunderkind lately?"
The Wunderkind could refer to only one person: Margo.
Oh, great. Now what's she done?
In her four days at La-La Land, she had managed to set more tongues wagging than Byron and his sister had in four months of Sundays.
"Uh, no." He lined up his shot again. "Don't much care if I ever do, either."
He began the shot.
"Well, she's been hanging around with Skeeter Jackson. Says he's going to teach her to time scout."
The shot went wild. Kit's cue actually raked the felt table, leaving an ugly mar in its smooth surface. He swore and glared at his so-called friend, then at Goldie. She widened her eyes and shrugged innocence, reminding Kit unpleasantly of Lucrezia Borgia that night he'd accidentally surprised her in the infamous walled garden ....
"Huh."
Kit surrendered the table with as much grace as he could muster and said goodbye to the game. Robert LI, whose maternal Scandinavian heritage-fair skin and rosy cheeks-was overshadowed by a Hong Kong Chinese grandfather's legacy, only grinned. A completely scrutable scoundrel, he settled his shoulder more comfortably against the doorframe to watch. During the next two minutes, Goldie ran the table, hardly pausing for breath between shots. She -spun the final shot off Kit's scratch, giving the ball just enough English off that long mar in the felt to sink it with a rattle like doom.
"Tough luck," she smiled, holding out one thin-boned hand.
Kit dug into his pocket and came up with the cash, paying her off wordlessly. Robert, still standing in the doorway, grinned sheepishly as she passed him on the way out.
"Sorry, Kit."
"Oh, don't mention it. I just love ruining a perfectly good pool table and losing a week's profits."
"Well, gosh, Kit, I just thought you'd laugh. How was I to know you'd take the news so personally? Don't tell me the famous Kit Carson has fallen for that redheaded imp?"
Wisely, Robert made himself scarce. But the antiquarian chuckled a
ll the way out to Commons. Kit muttered impolite words under his breath. With such friends ...He unscrewed the sections of his cue stick and slipped them into their leather case, then settled up the damages with Samir Adin, the night manager.
"You what?" Samir asked in gaping disbelief.
"I scratched. Here, this ought to cover the cost of refelting it."
"You scratched. Unbelievable. Did I miss the earthquake or something?"
Kit scowled. "Very funny Frankly, I'd say it hit at least 7.5 on the Richter. Had Goldie's name all over it. Give me a Kirin, would you?"
Samir chuckled and dug for a cold bottle. "I keep telling you, Kit. If you want to beat Goldie Morran, play her when she's unconscious."
Kit downed the Kirin in five long swallows and felt better immediately. "Well, a man can dream, can't he? Hillary had Everest, Peary had the Pole, and I cling to the dream of beating Goldie Morran at pool."
Samir, a deeply sympathetic soul, broke into song, giving him a stirring rendition of "To Dream the Impossible Dream."
"Oh, you're no help," Kit grinned. "Why do I come in here, anyway?"
Samir chuckled. "That one's easy. All time scouts are gluttons for punishment. It's in the job description." .
Kit laughed. "You've got me there. I wrote the damned thing."
Samir thumped him on the back byway of condolences and sent him on his way. Kit shoved hands into pockets, cue case tucked under one arm. Well, that story ought to be a nine-day wonder. It'll be all over La-La Land by bedtime. He strolled glumly through Urbs Romae, going nowhere in particular, then sniffed appreciatively at the scents wafting from the Epicurean Delight. Dinner sounds good, after that beer. Hmm...
He wondered what Arley Eisenstein had written on didn't make corporate decisions. He just dealt with the field problems and gritted his teeth while making the home office a ton of money.
Kit eased Connie down to the bench. "There," he smiled. "All safe and sound."
She winced and wriggled to avoid pins, then sighed. "Thanks a million. Computer design may be my forte, but it just doesn't take the place of field testing. Sometimes," she grimaced at her feet, "it's a little rough on body and soul."
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