Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  Sue glared at him. "Yes, I do! I also appreciate that it's a cooling corpse. Its parasites are going to start leaving in droves-and I don't want anyone finding a tick the size of their own pinkie or a pinworm the size of a ballpoint pen! Jimmy, scour and disinfect this whole area!

  Malcolm moved hastily away. Tourists abandoned attempts to see the dead 'raptor and crowded around the netted pterodactyl instead. Pest Control was bringing up a forklift hoist and a large wooden pallet to transport it.

  "C'mon, hero," Kit said, taking Malcolm's elbow. "Let's clean you up and look at that wrist." He steered Malcolm through the crowd and hustled him off to Rachel Eisenstein's infirmary. She fussed over the wrist, told him he d sprained it heroically and warned him, "Don't tackle anything more strenuous than dinner for a couple of days, okay?" She suspended his injured wrist in a real sling. His shirt, retired from sling duty, had begun to dry, revealing tears and gore stains. The rest of him, however, was squeaky clean: Rachel had given him a bath in disinfectant and new clothes.

  "Yes, ma'am." He saluted her with his unbandaged hand.

  "Good," Rachel smiled "Now, scoot I have work to do. Some of the tourists were hurt during the ruckus and others are having hysterics. Unstable gates," she grimaced, "are not conducive to integrated psyches. Wish I'd been there to see it. Just my luck I was stuck on call and couldn't leave."

  Kit sympathized, then they left Rachel to the demands of her profession. Once in the corridor, Kit said, "You never did answer. Are you game for the Britannia Gate?"

  Malcolm chuckled thinly "You should know without having to ask. Where shall I take her? A night at the opera? Or maybe a stay in the East End to discourage girlish romantic fantasies?"

  "I leave that to your discretion and wisdom. I would suggest we collect my granddaughter, though, and head over to Connie Logan's. Kid'll need a good down-time kit." .

  Malcolm nodded. "Are we playing tourist for this trip or am I getting her ready for her role as disguised boy?"

  Kit considered. "Again, use your discretion, but I'm inclined to think a little of both."

  "So am I. I'll, uh, meet you at Connie's," he said. "In, say, fifteen or twenty? These pants Rachel gave me, uh, pinch."

  "Make it the Prince Albert and we'll finish lunch before we collar her."

  Malcolm grinned. "Whatever you say, boss! You may shower me with free food and money all you like."

  Kit just snorted "I'd tell you to go soak your head, but you already did. See you at the Albert."

  Connie Logan's establishment was–in keeping with La La Land's reputation-one of the true first-class Outfitters in the business. Connie was young for it, barely twenty-six, but she'd started with an advantage. A theatrical aunt who'd owned a small touring company had raised her in the business of historical costuming, then died and left her with an inventory, a room full of cloth waiting to be turned into historically accurate clothing, considerable skill as a seamstress and designer; and enough money to attract venture capital.

  Connie Logan was sharp, creative, and a delight to 'eighty-sixers. They often laid wagers on what she'd be seen wearing next. The sign over her doorway was short but effective: CLOTHES AND STUFF. A few tourists were stupid enough to prefer shops with fancier names, but not many. On their way across the Commons, Margo admitted that she hadn't been inside yet.

  "I hate to shop when I'm too broke to buy anything," she admitted "It's depressing."

  "What about that barmaid's dress?"

  Her cheeks colored. "Skeeter gave me money for that. He told me to buy it in Costumes Forever because the prices were better. I, uh, haven't been shopping since."

  "Well, you're in for a treat, then." Kit smile but he wondered privately if this scheme would help or only abate matters. When he steered her through Clothes and Stuff's doorway, Margo spent a full minute in the center of the main aisle just staring. Then she gave a low sound of utter ecstasy, turned in a complete circle to gape at shelves, display racks, and glass cases, then ended with a wide-eyed, "Shopper's freaking paradise!"

  She thereupon bolted for the nearest dress racks.

  Malcolm took one look at Kit's face and convulsed with silent laughter.

  "Oh, shut up," Kit groused. "Some help you are."

  "Kit, you have to admit, there's a pretty darned funny side to this. She's eighteen. She's female. She's just been given an expense account in heaven."

  "Oh, great. Make me feel better."

  Malcolm's long face creased in a wide grin. "I suspect the Neo Edo can support it."

  "Huh. Your taxes aren't due next time Primary cycles." Malcolm's eyes twinkled. "Oh, yes they are. I just don't have enough income for it to matter."

  Kit thumped his shoulder. "Just wait I'll take care of that little problem."

  "Thanks," Malcolm drawled. "I'll go from owing zip to owing a third of whatever you pay me."

  "Well, I could just pay you two thirds of what we agreed on ...."

  "Fat chance. A man's got his pride, after all. Hey, look, Connie has a new line ready for the London season."

  He wandered off to do his own window shopping. Intrigued as always by the content's of Clothes and Stuff, Kit cruised the aisles as well, just to get a feel for what they'd need. Neat racks displayed costumes appropriate to La-La Land's resident gates. Costumes were situated in carefully arranged groupings, neatly labeled as to geographic location, exact time period, and appropriate occupation or social occasion. Items could be either rented (for those on a budget) or purchased (for those with essentially sky's-the-limit funds).

  Shelving units and glass cases held every manner of accessory, including an astonishing variety of footgear, belts, undergarments, gloves, fans, hosiery, hats, coats and cloaks, appropriate equivalents of the modern handbag, jewelry, timepieces, even items designed to conceal weapons: shoulder holsters for guns and knives, belt holsters and sheaths, ankle rigs, even garter-belt sheaths and holsters. One entire case was devoted to wigs and false hairpieces in every conceivable shade, most attached to hairpins or combs to be added as necessary to elegant coiffures. Every one of them was styled after authentic period hairpieces.

  Another section of the shop included appropriately designed luggage, lighting equipment from candle lanterns to oil lamps, sanitary and survival gear, tools, weapons, even historically appropriate eyeglasses. One employee on Connie's payroll did nothing but grind prescription glasses and long-wear contact lenses to order for those who needed them.

  If it had existed down time and people had used it, or if it was necessary to survival and it could be disguised, Clothes and Stuff stocked it or was prepared to manufacture it.

  Connie herself, in direct contrast to her shop, was anything but neat and organized She emerged from the back where she kept her office and design studio, noticed Kit, and waved. Kit chuckled. Beneath a hand basted kimono that gaped open because she hadn't tied on an obi to hold it closet she was clad in bits and pieces of Victorian undergarments. She wore hobnailed Roman "boots" on her feet and an ancient Meso American feathered headdress appropriate for a jaguar priest over long, glossy black hair. Her eyes, a startling Irish blue, sparkled as she came across the shop, clomping every step of the way in her ancient footgear.

  "Hi, Kid What brings you in?"

  He met her beside a glass case containing lace-and-lawn caps, feathered and plain fans, plus silk, leather, and cloth gloves while Margo emitted the most outlandish sounds he'd ever heard a female make off a mattress.

  "What do you think?" he smiled, nodding toward the enraptured girl pawing through a rack of ball gowns.

  "Margo, of course. I'm sending her down the Britannia Gate with Malcolm. Sort of a trial run just to get her feet wet, give her a taste for time travel."

  "Good idea. Hang on a sec, would you? These feathers itch."

  She lifted off the headdress. The glossy black hair came with it. She shook out her own hair, then vanished into the back. When she returned, the kimono had gone as well, replaced by a set of cowboy-sty
le leather chaps, worn over woolen drawers and a boned corset. Occasionally Kit had known her to change clothing five times during the course of a twenty-minute conversation as she tried out various new creations. Across the room, Margo noticed. She stared for a full thirty seconds, round-eyed, then returned to her window shopping with another silly squeal as her attention rested on something else utterly wonderful.

  "Very becoming," Kit drawled.

  Connie laughed. "They`re hideous and the corset is cutting me in half, but I had to be sure the busks and side steels were bent to the right shape before I had William stitch the cover closed."

  "And the chaps?"

  "The customer said they chafed him. I'm testing them out to see what the problem is."

  "Uh-huh."

  Kit, like most 'eighty-sixers, had eventually realized that when she was working, Connie Logan was completely unconcerned about her appearance. And since she worked most of the hours she was awake "What do you mean, do something fun for a change? I love designing clothes!"–Connie Logan was at first glance the most eccentric loon in a time station crammed full of them.

  Kit thought she was the most charming nut he'd ever known.

  Even he deferred to her encyclopedic knowledge.

  "London, is it?" Connie asked, peering toward Margo, who had discovered the Roman stolas with their richly embroidered hems. "What's the program? Simple tour? Teaching experience? Test-run scouting trip?"

  "All the above. I leave the outfitting choices to you and Malcolm."

  "But not to Margo?' Connie smiled.

  He rolled his eyes. "Let's see what she picks on her own and judge from that."

  "Fair enough. Rent or buy?"

  "Rent what's rescuable when they get back. I'll buy what's ruined."

  "Okay." Her glance traveled beyond Kit's shoulder to a group of tourists selecting accessories for the dresses they carried. "Oh, damn..." She bolted past Kit's shoulder. "No, no, no, not that fan, that's an evening fan for the opera, what you have there is a morning dress for strolling and paying calls. You'd stick out like an idiot, carrying that around London. Here, what you need is this, or this, or maybe this ...And that pair of slippers is completely wrong, what you need are these side-button boots. Size six? Hmm ...a little narrow, I think. Try this six-and-a-half."

  The astonished tourists gaped at the figure Connie made, her girlish pudginess stuffed into a lawn shift, woolen combinations peeking out from under several layers of petticoats, the tightly laced corset which created unsightly bulges both above and below, topped off with the leather chaps-tied on over the petticoats. The Roman "boots" were icing on the cake.

  "Uh ...thank you..."

  They accepted Connie's choices a bit reluctantly, but obediently sat down to try on the boots.

  Connie came back shaking her head. "If they`d just read the signs ...You have to watch 'em like hawks. Let's check on Margo. Oh, Lord, she's already in trouble ...."

  And Connie was off again, before Kit could open his mouth to add a single comment.

  "No, no, Margo, not that, you've got a charity schoolgirl's cap paired with a lady's tea gown ...."

  "Malcolm," Kit waved to get the guide's attention; "get over here! Connie's on the warpath and we need some decisions!"

  Malcolm, looking for all the world like a truant schoolboy caught in a candy store, hastened over. "Sorry. Just catching up on the newest down-time styles.

  There've been changes in top hats since last season, they're more tapered from crown to brim-and the new dress lounge coats are magnificent, with that new rolled collar. But did you see those hideous woolen jersey Jaeger suits?" Malcolm shuddered. "They wore those things in July and August, even while exercising. No wonder people died of heatstroke."

  "Malcolm, I didn't know you were a clothes horse," Kit teased

  The guide-currently dressed in faded jeans and a cheap T shirt grinned. "Me? Never. But I'd better update my wardrobe before I step through the Britannia Gate or I'll look like an old fuddy-duddy."

  "You are an old fuddy-duddy," Kit laughed, "and so am I. Let's get this over with. Gad, but I hate shopping."

  "Only when you're not stepping through the gate," Malcolm smiled.

  "Too true. Now, about what she'll need-"

  An animal scream lifted from Commons, high and piercing, followed an instant later by a woman's shriek of terror. Kit and Malcolm jerked around, then ran for the door. Surely another new gate hadn't opened? The warning klaxon hadn't sounded and Kit hadn't felt the telltale buzz in his skull bones. Someone started cursing. Then Kit rounded an ornamental garden plot and found a woman in medieval regalia staring at the ceiling and sobbing in rage.

  "They killed her! Goddamn them, they killed her!"

  The men with her, also dressed in medieval garb, were struggling to soothe terrified, hooded falcons on their arms. One bird had already sprained a wing trying to escape its jesses.

  "Who killed whom?" Malcolm blurted.

  A few spots of blood on the concrete and a couple of feathers gave Kit the clue. "I'd say those two bird things Sue couldn't identify made lunch of this lady's falcon."

  The lady in question affirmed Kit's guess in most unladylike language. Malcolm coughed and turned aside to hide a grin. Pest Control came running, Sue Fritchey in the lead

  "What happened?"

  The woman whose valuable hunting falcon had just become a paleo-hawk's dinner told her-scathingly.

  "Uh-oh. I was afraid of something like this. Where are they now? Ah ...there. Okay. Jimmy, Bill, Alice, we need capture nets and tranks, stat. We let those things keep feeding, we won't have any pterosaurs or Ichthyomises to study. And maybe a tourist will get hurt."

  That last had clearly been an afterthought. Kit hid a grin. The tourist who'd lost her falcon began demanding reimbursement. Someone called Bull Morgan to mediate.

  "C'mon, Malcolm. Looks like the fun's over. We have a trip down time to plan."

  Margo, not surprisingly, hadn't even heard the ruckus. She was still flitting from rack to rack, cooing and all but drooling on the clothes. Even Connie was laughing at her. Kit shook his head. An unlimited expense account in heaven ...

  "Well, let's see what our prodigy's chosen, shall we?"

  "Don't I get an opinion?" Margo demanded. The three faces ranged against her grimaced simultaneously. If Margo hadn't been so flaming angry, it would've been comical. "Well, don't I? I'm going to be the one wearing these"

  She held out the ridiculous embroidered smock; the baggy pants with their hideous flap front that fell open if a buttons popped loose-never mind the rags she was supposed to tie around her knees to hold the pants off the ground-then kicked at the scuffed, wide-toed leather boots. The shapeless felt hat was so pitiful she couldn't even bring herself to look at it

  "This is only one of the outfits you'll be wearing," Malcolm Moore told her, sounding infuriatingly patient.

  "But they're ugly!"

  "You're not in training to be a fashion model," Kit said sternly.

  Margo subsided, but not happily. "I know"

  "Now, about the choices you made," he continued, "Connie has a few words."

  "Starting with the ball gown," the outlandish outfitter said, hanging it back on its rack. "The first word is `No.' Your job isn't to go down time and party it up. It's to learn scouting. If you want to revisit London later for a vacation, on your own time and money, fine. Until then, the party dresses stay here."

  Margo sighed. "All right. I'm supposed to go down time and be miserable."

  "Not at all!" Connie said, somewhat sharply. "You have a remarkably negative attitude, Margo, for someone who's been given the chance to go down time for free. Britannia Gate tours cost several thousand dollars each."

  Margo felt her cheeks burn. She hadn't thought of it quite like that. "I'm sorry. It's just I got so excited when you said I could go and that we could pick out clothes ...." She turned an appeal for forgiveness on Kit. "I'm sorry, really I am. I was just so disappointed afte
r I saw those," she pointed to the glittering silks, velvets, and satins, "then you said what I would get to wear was these."

  The humble farm clothing–men's farm clothing lacked only mud to make the hideousness complete.

  "Apology accepted," Kit said quietly. "Once you learn your trade, Margo-and you have a great deal yet to learn-you can play dress-up as often as you like. But not while you're on the job. Never while you're on the job."

  Margo felt like crying. She'd been rude and ungrateful her temper always got her into trouble – and they were being desperately nice to her. It wasn't a situation she was accustomed to. She felt lost as to how she ought to respond.

  Connie Logan said more kindly, "Here, let's see what else we can find. Malcolm, what about having her pose as a charity girl?"

  "We'd need a chaperon for that," Malcolm said slowly, "but I like the charity girl idea. Her hair's short and that'll either have to be disguised or explained. Charity girl is the perfect cover. As for a chaperon, I could hire someone from an agency and rent a flat for the week we'll be there."

  "I don't understand," Margo said. "What's a charity girl? Why would that make a good cover story for me?"

  "Poverty-stricken children-orphans, children with destitute parents-were sometimes taken in by charitable institutions," Malcolm explained "There were dozens of schools supported by patrons and patronesses. Children wore uniforms and numbered badges to identify them.. Because sanitation was a problem and head lice were common, even girls' hair was cut short."

  "Head lice?" Margo grabbed the sides of her head, instinctively trying to protect her scalp from an invasion of vermin.

  Kit cleared his throat "Sanitation in Victorian London was quite a bit better than many places you'll end up as a scout. Head lice-and other nasties–can be eliminated once you get back."

  Margo just stared, overcome with an intense desire to be . She hadn't thought about lice. The more she studied for this job, the clearer it became there was a great deal she hadn't thought about.

  "Well, I'm not quitting," she said stubbornly, straightening her spine. "Nobody ever died from having head lice!"