Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  Kit told himself that Margo was very young. "A couple of reasons. First, it's your job, as scout, to keep meticulous records. Scholars and tour companies will want to review any data you bring back. Second, if you don't keep records, you could accidentally kill yourself just trying to take a vacation or by, trying to visit another station, or even the wrong gate in the same station."

  "Huh?" She leveled an incredulous stare in Kit's direction. Clearly, she hadn't done enough research. Margo damned small-town libraries, high schools controlled by school boards opposed to things like "Evillution" and a father who'd drunk every penny she might have saved toward a computer to hook into the big information nets.

  Malcolm nodded. "He's right. Even guides have to be careful about that. Every station is built at least as far back as 1910, to get around the problem of people stepping into a time after they were born. That's why up-time lobbies have warning signs. Surely you saw the one on the other side of our Primary? `IF YOU WERE BORN ON OR BEFORE APRIL 28, 1910, DO NOT STEP THROUGH THIS GATE. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU ATTEMPT TO ENTER THE TIME TERMINAL.' The date on that sign changes every day, to match Shangri-las relative temporal location. They had to beef up security about ten years ago when a few desperate senior citizens committed suicide by stepping through, rather than face starvation or terminal cancer."

  "Well, I understand that danger," Margo sniffed, "and I remember seeing TV shows about those poor old couple who killed themselves. But what's this stuff about if you visit some other terminal or the wrong gate?"

  "We're not just trying to scare you off," Kit said quietly. "The temporal position of any station, in its relation to absolute time, is different from any other station's temporal position. Terminals 17 and 56 are absolutely deadly to anyone on Shangri-la. If I tried to visit TT-56, I'd accidentally emerge into last week, when I was very much present at Shangri-la Station, which is currently..."

  He checked the chronometer built into his personal log. "Which is currently April 28,1910, 22:01:17, locale. Tibetan-time zone. Time guides have to be careful, too."

  Malcolm nodded. "It's why we guides tend to specialize in tours through Just a handful of gates leading out of one terminal. I could go to one of the other terminals and look for a scouting job, but I'd have to do careful homework first to be sure which terminals and which tours were safe for me. The Denver and London gates here in La-La Land can be just as deadly. The Denver gate is currently opening into 1885, the London gate into 1888. If I try to take a tourist to Denver during the same week I'd already taken someone else to London three years previously..." He shrugged. "I'd accidentally kill myself. So we keep damned good records of where and when we've been. That little credit card you were issued when you bought your Primary Gate ticket? The one they encoded for you before you came down time? When tourists use the gates, their Timecards are encoded-in both directions-going down time and coming back-so they have a record of when they've been. If the computer catches an overlap, it sounds an alarm."

  Margo's eyes were beginning to take on a glazed look.

  "Careful as the precautions are," Kit added grimly, "there are still accidents, even with the tourists. Time scouts have to be paranoid about it For instance, I could only visit TT-17 if I went up time and stayed for at least a year. TT-17's always twelve months and six hours behind this one, same geographical zone, about a thousand miles north of here. If I went through TT-17's Primary without letting it "catch up" and pass by my last exit from TT-86, I'd never live to see the other side."

  Malcolm said, "There have even been organized-crime murders committed that way, particularly yakuza killings. They select a victim, get them to take out a huge insurance policy naming a gang member as beneficiary, treat them to an Edo Castletown tour out of Shangri-la on a false ID, then some other gang member takes them to Terminal 56 on their own ID, so they shadow themselves in front of witnesses. Instant profit."

  Margo shivered. "Okay. I think I get it."

  "Now that you've been here, you'll have the same problem. The longer you stay, the greater the chance of overlap. The more gates you step through, the more complicated the whole mess becomes. That's why the log is essential."

  Margo rested her elbows on the table. "Okay, point taken. We have to be careful. But I still say you can get run over by a bus, not paying attention. What's the other thing for?"

  Kit sat back in his chair. Was she being flippant to hide fear? Or was she just that silly? Or that stubborn? He wondered how often she'd gotten what she wanted just by smiling that enchanting smile or by coming back with a wisecrack that set people to chuckling. Just what sort of life had Margo known before hunting him up? Given her prickly defenses and that over-sharp tongue; Kit wasn't too sure he wanted an answer.

  "It's an ATLS. Absolute Time Locator System. That `gizmo' you mentioned reading about. It works on a combination of geo-magnetic sensors and star-charting systems. The ATLS places you more or less exactly in time and geographic location, relative to absolute Greenwich time."

  "More or less?" Margo echoed. "Isn't it precise?"

  "Scouts always fudge by at least twenty-four hours in both directions when using the ATLS, just to be sure. Most of us build an even larger safety margin in, because as good as the ATLS is, it isn't absolutely precise. It can't be. Our lives are riding on how closely we cut it. Without it-and the personal log-we couldn't function at all. Even time touring would be impossible, because the tour companies need scouts to push new tour routes. The ATLSs casing gives it the same kind of protection your personal log has."

  Margo was frowning at the ATLS. "If it's so dangerous to step through, why not just put the ATLS on a long pole and shove that through, then let it do its thing?

  That way nobody'd ever have to risk going `poof'."

  Kit shook his head. "It isn't that simple. For one, you have only a fifty-fifty chance of a gate opening at night. If it opens during the day, you can't take a star fix, so the long pole idea would be useless. Or it might be a cloudy night no stars. We could roboticize the whole thing, I suppose, and send it through to take the proper magnetic and star-fix readings, but it would cost a ton of money for each robot and there are thousands of unexplored gates with new ones opening all the time. Anything could still go wrong and recovering the robot might prove impossible. Frankly, human scouts are cheaper, more reliable, and have the advantage of being able to gather detailed social data no robot could. That's important particularly when scholarly research or potential time touring is involved.

  "We," he tapped his breast bone, "are expendable. We're independent businessmen, on nobody's payroll. No insurance company in the world will touch us, not even Lloyd's of London. That's another downside to scouting. No health coverage, no life insurance, no disability policies. You sign on for this job, you take your chances. There is a guild, if you care to pay the dues, but the treasury's almost always empty. Time scouts tend to suffer catastrophic illnesses and injuries with depressing frequency. I hope," he added grimly, "that you have a high pain threshold and don't faint at the sight of blood-yours or anyone else's."

  Margo didn't answer. But her chin came up a stubborn notch, despite sudden pallor beneath already fair skin.

  Kit sat back. "Huh. I'll give you credit for guts, girl. All right, let me show you how these operate."

  He and Malcolm took her step by step through the operation of both machines, although they couldn't shoot a star-fix from inside La-La Land The personal log she caught onto fairly quickly. The ATLS' geo-magnetic sensors gave her trouble.

  "No, you're plotting that reading backwards, Margo. You've just put yourself half a continent off target, which means you've Just calculated the time zone completely wrong, as well. Run it again."

  "I hate math!" Margo snapped "How was I supposed to know I'd need all this crap?"

  Malcolm visibly suppressed a wince. Very gently, Kit took the ATLS from her. "All right. We'll begin by having you hone up on basic skills. I'll schedule study times for you in the library. And not ju
st for remedial math. You'll need language skills, historical studies, costuming and customs, sociological structures..."

  Margo was looking at him in wide-eyed horror.

  "Let me guess," Kit said drolly. "You thought time scouting was a way to avoid college?"

  She didn't answer, but he could read it in her eyes.

  "Kid, if you want to be a time scout, the first thing you have to become is a scholar. Scouts are a rough and ready bunch-we have to be-but most of us started life as historians or classics professors or philosophers or anthropologists. We're the best-educated bunch of roughnecks this side of eternity."

  Malcolm laughed. "I have a Ph.D. in Roman antiquities."

  Margo sat back and crossed her arms. "This is maddening. If I'd wanted a Ph.D., I've have gone to school. All I want to do is explore neat places!"

  Kit started to say something that would have been entirely too heartfelt, but Malcolm beat him to the punch.

  "Fame and fortune and adventure?" he asked in a voice dry as fine wine.

  She flushed

  Kit felt like cheering. "That's fine," he told her. "But you have to pay the dues. And we have an agreement, Margo. You do what I tell you, when I tell you, or you don't set that first pretty pink toe across the threshold of a gate."

  She pouted at the ATLS. Then sighed "All right. I'll go to the library. Isn't there anything to this job besides studying?"

  "Sure. Kit sat back. "Plenty, in fact. How much martial arts training have you had?"

  She shrugged. "High school stuff: I have a belt."

  "What kind, which discipline?"

  "Brown belt, Tai Kwan Do."

  Kit grunted. All flying kicks and damn near no full contact sparring, not compared to what she'd need. Tai Kwan Do spent too much time "pulling" its punches short to give a student a taste of what it was like to hit-or be hit. He saw the chance for an object lesson that might just sink home.

  "All right. Let's go."

  "Go? Go where?"

  Kit returned the log and ATLS to their leather satchel. "We're going to the gym. I want to test how much you know-"

  "You ...now?"

  Kit grinned. "Yep. What's the matter, Margo? Afraid an old man will whip you?"

  Slim jaw muscles took on a marble hardness. She came to her feet and planted hands on hips. "No. I'm not afraid of anybody or anything. Where's the damned gym?"

  "Watch your language," he said mildly. "The gym is in the basement, next to the weapons ranges."

  Her eyes widened. "Weapons ranges?" Her expression hovered somewhere between excitement and dismay. "You mean, like guns and stuff?"

  Kit exchanged glances with Malcolm, who rolled his eyes. Kit forcibly held back a sigh. "Yes, Margo. I mean exactly like guns and stuff. If it can be shot, slashed with, or jabbed into someone, you're going to learn how to use it."

  "Oh."

  Clearly, this was another aspect of time scouting his granddaughter had not considered. She looked like she'd rather have picked up a live cobra than picked up a weapon. Good. Maybe this would convince her to quit. Given the set of her jaw, Kit rather doubted that, but it made for a pleasant fantasy. He had a sinking feeling nothing he did or said would dissuade her.

  Margo said primly, "If we're going to spar, I'll need to visit the lady's room first."

  Malcolm shot to his feet and hovered at the back of her chair, but didn't quite offer to take her hand to assist her. Kit glowered. Margo gave Malcolm a sweet smile that left Kit's glower even darker. Malcolm had the good grace to look sheepish as Margo made her way through the crowded bar. Very nearly every eye in the place followed her progress. Kit shook his head. The dress had to go. Preferably into the trash. Or maybe over Skeeter Jackson's head.

  "How about you, Malcolm? You coming to the gym, too?"

  The freelance guide chuckled. "Just try and get rid of me. I wouldn't miss this for a full-time job."

  "You," Kit muttered, "are a pain in the neck."

  "Hey, don't blame me," Malcolm laughed. "You're the one who agreed to teach her."

  "Yeah, I did. I figure it's either teach her or bury her."

  Malcolm's laughter vanished. "Yeah. I know. You need help, you let me know"

  Kit gave him a pained smile. "I'll do that. I figure I owe you."

  Malcolm groaned. "How come I have a bad feeling about this?"

  "Because," Kit punched his shoulder, "your luck stinks."

  The younger man chuckled. "Well, I won't argue that. All right, here she comes. Smile, Grandpa."

  Kit muttered, "You'd better salute when you say that, mister." Malcolm just laughed. Kit said forlornly, "I will never live this down. Never." He pasted on what he hoped passed for a smile. "Okay, Margo, let's go."

  Phase One underway.

  And a lifetime's worth of worrying yet to come.

  Chapter Seven

  NEWS TRAVELS FAST in a small town.

  And despite its enormous size for a complex under one roof, TT-86 was, in fact, a very small town, as isolated in some ways as a medieval village. There was no live television, no live radio, no satellite hookups to talk to relatives left behind. Electronic recreation was available, of course, for a price. Most private quarters had televisions and laser-disk players and nearly every resident owned some kind of computer.

  But in order to satisfy the craving for live entertainment, 'eighty-sixers resorted to a time-honored form of recreation first invented by bored cave dwellers who found themselves stuck in cramped quarters with nowhere to go. 'Eighty-sixers gossiped. About everythin. Tourists, other stations, down-time mishaps and adventures, each other ...

  Someone had once laughingly suggested that station management install "backyard fences" in the residential sections. The jokester had immediately initiated a six-month wrangle over where, what color, who would pay for them, wood vs. chain-link, and installation vs. maintenance logistics, until Bull Morgan had finally put his authoritative foot down in the middle of the ruckus and quashed it with a succinct "No fences!"

  Long-time 'eighty-sixers still occasionally grumbled over it.

  Kit had no more than opened the gym door than someone called out, "Hey, Grandpa! Hows the arthritis?"

  Kit shot back a time-honored response and told Margo, "That way. You'll find clean gym shorts and T-shirts at the window. Tell 'em to put it on my bill."

  "Okay."

  At least nobody wolf-whistled at Margo's stilt-heeled progress toward the women's shower room. Kit changed and emerged to find Malcolm leaning easily against one wall. Margo had not yet put in an appearance.

  "Aren't you going to spar with us?" Kit asked with a wolfish grin.

  Malcolm feigned surprise. "Me? End up wrestling around on the floor with your grandkid? Kit, stupid I ain't."

  "You're twenty years younger than I am, dammit Dress out. If you're short of pocket cash, I'll pay for the rental. Hell, I'll pay for the sparring session. If we knock her flat enough, maybe she'll give up."

  "Well, okay. It's your party. But I wouldn't count on it. She does remind me a little of you."

  Kit tossed his towel at Malcolm's head. The younger man grinned, caught it, and tossed it right back, then headed for the shower room. Margo emerged decently clad in shorts, a loose T-shirt, and rented cotton-soled shoes. She moved well, but that might just have been youth and an unfortunate tendency toward exhibitionism. Clearly, she was perfectly well aware that every male eye in the room was on her.

  Huh. It's not bad enough she's my granddaughter, but she has to be sexy as a minx, too. And legally old enough to make her own decisions if the age on her ID were accurate. She looked eighteen, anyway. He'd tackle her about her exact age later. Kit tried to adjust himself to the uncomfortable new mindset as she crossed the last couple of yards and came to a halt. She balanced lightly on the balls of her feet. "Well, are you ready?"

  Kit shook his head. "Malcolm's joining us. I want to watch you two spar first. Then you and I will pair off."

  She didn't look happy abou
t that.

  Malcolm finally arrived. "Okay, boss. Shoot."

  "Let's see what the two of you can do, shall we?"

  Malcolm nodded and gave Margo a formal bow. She returned it in classic sportsmanlike fashion-and Malcolm charged Half-a-second later, Margo grunted sharply. Her back connected with the mat. Kit shook his head and tsk-tsked.

  "Margo, didn't your instructor ever teach you to keep your eyes on your opponent?"

  She glared up at him from an extremely indelicate position with Malcolm between her knees. He'd pinned her wrists to the floor. "How was I supposed to know he'd cheat?"

  Malcolm grinned. "This isn't a dojo, Miss Margo."

  "And it sure as hell ain't a high school match," Kit added dryly. "We're here to see how you can fight. If you want to discuss customs and courtesies in the competitive arena, go talk to an etiquette master."

  Malcolm rose easily. Margo scrambled to her feet, mastering a huffy glare on the way up. "All right," she muttered "Let's see you try that again. This time, I'll be watching."

  Malcolm moved in fast and grappled her, using classic Greco-Roman grappling styles. The unexpected move completely flummoxed Margo. She staggered backward, trying to extricate herself from wrestling holds she didn't have the strength or technique to break.

  "Hey! What is this?" She tried stamping on Malcolm's instep. He picked her up, leading to chuckles from across the gym. Interested spectators had halted all pretense of continuing any workouts.

  Kit suppressed a grin, wisely deciding that laughing at her would be a mistake. Wordlessly, he separated them. Margo stood glaring and huffing for breath. Malcolm offered a polite bow which she ignored icily.

  "All right," Kit said, stepping off the mat once more, "let's see what else you can do."