"Yes, I do," Kit said quietly. "If I thought there was a way out of it ...but I haven't found one yet. I want her to have a fighting chance."
Sven shook his head. "A woman scout. And a raw kid, at that. My friend, you're crazy." He gave Kit a lopsided smile. "But then, we always knew that. All right. I'll do it. And Kit – keep the Musashi. God knows, I owe you a couple of favors here and there. Just let me look at it now and again and we'll call it even."
Kit, who couldn't have taken the priceless Musashi sword-guard back up time in any case, decided he'd just found Sven's next birthday present `hanks, buddy."
"Sure. Any time you want to go off the deep end, you just let me know. When do you want her to start?"
"Any time you're ready."
Sven sighed. "Well, hell, I guess that's now. Have you eaten dinner?"
Kit shook his head "No, and I suspect Margo's half starved. Why don't I call and see if the Delight has a table open?"
"Sounds good to me. I'll meet you upstairs as soon as I finish locking up down here."
The Epicurean Delight's decor reflected its location in Urbs Romae: mosaic floors, frescoed walls (some of them painted by a muralist who'd spent a year down time studying with ancient master artists), and tables interspersed with genuine Roman-style dinner couches for those with the desire to eat lying down. Live music was provided by an accomplished lyrist dressed in Greek slave's robes. The waiting staff, too, dressed as well liveried slaves. The evening's clientele boasted six instantly recognizable millionaires, one anonymous Japanese billionaire and his current mistress, a member of Great Britain's House of Lords and his current mistress, and three world-famous actresses who chatted animatedly about the down-time research they planned to do in London for their next film.
All in all, it was another typical night at the Delight. Kit noted Margo's eyes widen when the head waiter seated them next to the actresses.
"That's-"
"Yep," Kit said, cutting her off. "Get used to it, Margo," he grinned. "TT-86 is a magnet for the jet set, miserable lot of deadbeats that they are. Just don't plan on joining their ranks and you'll live a happier life. Now, while we wait for Sven to join us ..."
Margo's face took on a shuttered, wary look. "Yeah?"
"Relax, kid, I don't bite. Those three," he nodded toward the actresses, "are here doing role research. You said you wanted to be on stage, right?"
She nodded.
"Good." Kit leaned forward and interlaced his fingers comfortably. "I want you to think of scouting as role research for the most challenging stage play you've ever been cast as lead actress in."
Margo grinned. "That's dead easy."
"No, it isn't. If you flub your lines, there won't be any prompters backstage. You won't have a director to yell, `CUT! Take it from page six ....'You'll be on your own. Your performance won't be judged by a critic, it'll be judged by survival. Your audience will be the down-time people you encounter. Fool them and maybe you'll get back in once piece. Now...about your performance in the gym."
Her eyes flashed. "I'll get better!"
"I'm sure you will. I want you to answer one question for me, but I want you to think about it before you answer."
"I'm listening."
Kit nodded. "I want you to tell me what the goals of a time scout are. Ah, hello, Arley, how are you?"
Arley Eisenstein greeted Margo warmly, welcoming her to TT-86, then recommended the House Special. "Its a new recipe, Egyptian, wonderful. You're my guinea pigs."
Kit smiled. "I'm game. Margo?"
With a combative look in her eye, Margo said, "Anything he's having, I'll have."
"Anything?" Arley said with an up tilted eyebrow.
"Anything."
Arley rubbed his palms together in gleeful anticipation. "Oh, good. This ought to be fun. I'll tell Jacque to get started. Is anyone else joining you?"
"Just Sven, far as I know, but I don't mind company if somebody wants a chair."
"Good, good. The more the merrier," Arley laughed. "Wine? Appetizers?"
Kit glanced at Margo, who was clearly tired but still on edge. "Is this Special of yours poultry, fish, pork, or beef? Or something else altogether?"
Arley winked. "Seafood. Mostly."
"All right, why don't we start with a half-carafe of Piesporter Michelsburg and some fresh fruit and bread and I'll let you choose the wine for the main course?"
Arley flashed a delighted smile. "Mead. Egyptian mead. I'll send Julie out with the appetizers," Arley promised. He smiled warmly again at Margo, then threaded his way through the Delight, pausing now and again to speak with other clients. Sven Bailey arrived.
"So this is the one, huh?" he said without preamble. His long, shuttered stare brought an uncomfortable flood of color to Margo's cheeks-and a glitter of irritation to her eyes.
"I'm the one what?" she asked coldly.
Sven just grunted and ignored her. He plopped into a chair. "You're sure about this?"
Kit shrugged. "Yep."
Margo glanced from Sven to Kit, then back. She clearly wanted to ask a question and just as clearly wasn't sure she wanted to risk the answer yet. Kit took pity on her.
"Margo, this is Sven Bailey, acknowledged far and wide as the most dangerous man on TT-86."
Margo's eyes widened Sven just snorted. "Damned right I am. Last man who tried to prove otherwise ended up dead." He guffawed, leaving Margo to stare uneasily anywhere but at him. Kit didn't bother to explain that the gentleman in question had been a mad tourist who'd insisted on using the Biddle style of formal knife-fighting, despite Sven's solemn warnings that it would get him killed (which it had, in some filthy little Soho alley, where he'd found out that "knife fencing" and street fighting were not the same animal, after all).
Sven high-signed Julie, who beamed in their direction while balancing a wine carafe and glasses on a silver tray. "Hi, guys," she said brightly, setting down glasses and a perfectly chilled carafe of Piesporter, along with tumblers of ice water. "What'll your poison be, Sven?"
He sniffed at the wine. "Not that. How about a Sam Adams?"
"Any thoughts on dinner? We have a wonderful seafood special tonight, a new dish from ancient Egypt..."
"Hell, no. Let Arley experiment on somebody else. You still doing that beef thing you had in here last week?"
Julie dimpled "We sure are. Rare?"
"Make it moo."
Margo looked like she was about to lose her appetite or worse.
Kit grinned. "What's wrong, kid? No stomach for blood?"
Margo compressed her lips. "I'm fine."
Sven eyed her. "You sure act squeamish for a kid about to try time scouting."
She fidgeted in her chair, but refrained from comment:
"Speaking of time scouting," Kit said, rubbing the side of his nose, "any thoughts about the answer to that question I posed?"
Margo glanced at Sven. She looked suddenly very young and uncertain. Then her chin came up. "Well ...A time scout's job is to find out where a gate leads."
Kit shook his head. "I didn't ask what a scout's job was, I asked what a scout's goals are. That's a little different proposition."
For a second, she looked so tired and hungry and miserable and confused, Kit thought she might cry. He prompted, "Just tell me what pops into your head What's a scout's primary goal?"
"To make money."
Sven let loose an astonishing guffaw that startled diners in a circle three tables deep, then pounded Margo's back with friendly affection. She nearly came adrift from her chair, but managed a sheepish smile. Kit grinned. "Money, eh? Well, yes, if you're lucky. If the gate you push doesn't lead to the Russian steppes in the middle of the last ice age. A few scientists might want a peek, but there's not much commercial potential in a mile-high glacier. What else?"
"To stay alive," she said, with a tiny toss of her short hair.
"Absolutely," Kit agreed.
"You're gettin' there, girl. What else?" Sven asked, taking the bur
den of grilling her off Kit's hands.
She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "Learn stuff about where you are, of course. Do you take a camera?"
Kit thought about Catherine the Great and her Russian boar and winked at Sven. He'd clearly read the same article, judging by the sudden twinkle in his eyes. "Sometimes. Usually not. Cameras aren't essential equipment."
"What else ought to be my goal, then?"
Kit nodded. "Good. You're asking questions." He leaned forward. "Point number one: the kind of karate you've learned in high school might be great for a soldier attacking someone else, but soldiering-fighting battles-isn't the primary goal of a scout."
"Hell, no," Sven muttered. "You want a battle, go live in Serbia or anywhere from Istanbul down to Cairo. Last I heard, Israel was threatening to pop a nuke or two if the Moslem states didn't stop recruiting jihad fighters from down time and I can't say as I blame either side. Gad, what a mess."
Even Margo had the sense to shiver. What the time strings had done to the incendiary Middle East didn't bear thinking about. A coalition of Moslem and Jewish women had come together to try and stop the fighting, but so far neither side was listening to the voice of sanity. The whole region had been declared off limits after TT-66 had been bombed into oblivion. Kit, like most 'eighty-sixers, had lost good friends during the death of the station.
Kit cleared his throat and defused the sudden chill by pouring wine for Margo and himself. "All right, then," Kit said, "a scout's goal isn't to engage in battle. It's to go someplace, to learn whatever he can, then. get away clean, doing the least amount of damage to the local environment including the denizens of that environment."
"Especially the denizens," Sven said, by way of emphasis. "Anything else is borrowing trouble. Big trouble. If you piss off somebody who can't be killed and you end in a life-or-death situation with them, you'll be the one kissing your backside goodbye."
"Wait a second," Margo said with a frown. "What do you mean, somebody who can't be killed? Anybody can be killed."
"Not exactly" Kit said quietly. "If someone's death would alter history, then that person can't be killed. At least, not by an up-timer. Paradox will not happen. History won't change. People have tried. It never works.
Never. Let's say you try to assassinate somebody famous, like George Washington. Your gun will jam or misfire, or you'll trip at the last second so the knife doesn't hit a vital spot. Something will happen to prevent you from changing anything critical. The tricky part here is, it can happen when you least expect it."
"Like if you get into a fatal fight with somebody who seems unimportant," Sven said quietly. "If their death would affect history, then they won't die. That doesn't mean you won't."
For once, Margo looked worried instead of flippant. She glanced at Sven, then back to Kit. "Okay." It came out surprisingly subdued. "What else?"
"Another point to remember is that we're the outsiders, down time. Even if somebody is unimportant enough that their death wouldn't matter to history, we don't have a moral right to go barging in with a macho attitude that we'll just smash anything that puts us in danger, without taking precautions to avoid problems in the first place."
"The best way to win a fight," Sven put in, "is to avoid fighting in the first place. The real kicker, of course, is learning how to avoid the fight."
Margo chewed one thumbnail. "And if you can't? I mean, what if some psychopathic kook jumps you?"
His cruel comments about Jack the Ripper had clearly made an impression. Kit refilled her wineglass. "That's always possible, of course, and sometimes there may be nothing for it but to break a neck or shatter a kneecap, but most of the time your goal is to be invisible. If you can't be, then your goal is to keep someone from breaking your neck or shattering your kneecap. And, of course, to get the hell back to the terminal in one piece. When it comes to scouts, heroes are just people who confuse cowardice with common sense."
Sven gestured lazily with one thick hand. "Anybody knows that, Kit does. A real running expert on smash and skedaddle. And the only man on the station I can't throw five out of five times, sparring."
Kit chuckled thinly, drawing little circles in the condensate on the tabletop. "Only before I retired, buddy. I wouldn't go near you, right now. -"
"Only proves you should," Sven came back with a grin. "Keep you on your toes. Keep you young."
"Don't rub it in too deep," Kit laughed. "You're not that far behind me. Let's see, how old will you be come June?"
"Old enough," Sven said with a mock glower that fooled no one.
Margo was staring, oogle-eyed, from one to the other. Then quite suddenly she relaxed, as though she'd finally decided Sven didn't plan to pick up his steak knife and do her in between the salad and the main course.
"Now, that's not to say," Kit said with a smile, drawing the discussion back to the topic at hand, "that there's anything inherently wrong with good karate. I've got a black in Sho Shin Ri and another in... Well, I have several and they're all useful now and again. But Aikido which is what happened to you, by the way is probably the perfect defensive art."
Margo did another beautifully executed stationary female flounce and glared at him-although less murderously than in the gym. "That was humiliating."
"So's dying," Sven said laconically.
Margo flushed. "Okay, so I have a lot to learn. That's why I came looking for a teacher. At least it'll be more interesting than math."
Sven grinned. "You don't know math, you'll kill yourself just as dead as a back-street punk with a dirk would. Now, if you really want to kill, Korean Hap Ki Do or Hwarangdo are interesting forms to get into. If you have six or eight years. Of course," Sven rubbed his hands together and grinned, "Kit will tell you the years spent studying Hap Ki Do's art of invisibility would be far more useful to a scout than its fighting style."
Kit ignored the gambit to reopen a favorite discussion. "Unfortunately," Kit told Margo, "you don't have years because you'll be spending most of your time studying, not sparring. So what we'll do is set you up with an Aikido instructor to give you a good grounding in basics and a few specific moves, things that maybe could get you out of tight spots."
Sven punched Margo good-naturedly in the shoulder, causing her to wince. `That's right. Stuff to let you use those damned attractive legs of yours to run like hell."
Margo scowled at Sven. "My legs are none of your business!"
"Oh, yes they are," he grinned, an evil, thickset imp who leaned back and cracked his knuckles while staring her down.
Margo turned a dismayed look on Kit. "He isn't..."
Kit nodded
"Oh, no.. ." She sat back in stunned horror. "My teacher?"
"Yep," Sven said as his beer arrived with the bread and fruit plate. "Tomorrow morning, 7:00 A.m. Dress out and be prompt. Because if you're late, I am going to wipe up the mat with you." Then he laughed. "Hell, I'm going to wipe up the mat with you either way, but if you're late, I'll be irritated when I do it." He held up his glass in a toast. "Enjoy your dinner."
The look of stricken horror Margo tried to hide was comical.
Kit grinned and refilled her wine glass. "Drink up, kid. Tomorrow you go into training, which means no more alcohol." The stricken look deepened.
"None? Not even wine?"
"None," Kit and Sven said simultaneously.
"A muddle-headed scout-" Kit began.
"I know, I know," Margo groaned. "Doesn't live long."
Thus proving she can learn; if she hears it often enough. "After you finish up with Sven, Ann Vinh Mulhaney will be ready for you."
"What does she do?" Margo wailed.
"She shoots the pants off me," Sven chuckled.
Margo just covered her face. "I'm doomed."
Kit tousled her hair, earning a fierce glare. "You could always quit and go home."
"Never!" The alley-cat snarl prompted a grin of anticipation from Sven Bailey.
"Well, then," Kit smiled, "eat your dinner and pay
attention. Uncle Sven and I are about to start your first lesson in survival theory"
She gave them both a dubious glance. "That being?"
Sven guffawed. "When the fight starts, be someplace else. And always remember, nobody watches your butt for you when it's You versus the Universe-and Margo, the universe just don't give a damn. Death's a high price to pay for stupidity or carelessness, but they'll get you eventually if you don't do your job. And that job," he took another sip of his Sam Adams and warmed to the subject, "ain't pushing gates to get rich and famous. Now. The underlying principle of Aikido is real simple. There's you," he dropped a couple of droplets of water into the bowl of his spoon, "and there's the universe." He dropped another couple of drops nearby, carefully balancing the spoon so they remained separated.
"The trick with Aikido is to become one with the universe," he allowed the droplets to run together, "so that nothing catches you by surprise. Master that and you can offer an enemy reconciliation instead of battle: The rest is just vigilance and practice."
Margo was staring dubiously at the water droplets. "You're kidding."
"Nope."
She sighed. "Okay. What do I have to do to snuggle up to the universe? Chant `om' a couple thousand times an hour?"
Sven and Kit exchanged glances. Sven's questioning look clearly said, "Are you sure about this?"
Kit's grimace said "Yeah, dammit, wish I could say otherwise."
"Well," Sven said almost tiredly, "no, you don't chant ,om.' There isn't a secret key, some trick that will do it. Either it happens or it doesn't. The way you begin in Aikido is to start by doing wrist exercises." He demonstrated as Julie made her way toward their table with a heaping tray on which their dinner plates had been cast in the starring role. Sven shook out his napkin. "Why don't you practice that while Miss Julie puts that plate of eels and steamed octopus in front of you?"
Margo swung around in her chair. "What?"
Julie dutifully conjured a dish of baby octopus tentacles artistically arranged around the eels swimming in a garlic sauce that brimmed with unidentifiable spices and grated vegetables.
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