Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  "Go 'way!" He sounded drunk. The last time Kit had known Malcolm Moore to get drunk was the night the owner of Time Ho! had fired everyone in his employ, then quietly committed suicide rather than face his creditors.

  "Malcolm! It's Kit! Let me in!"

  "Go the hell away!"

  He considered breaking down the door. Instead, he leaned on the buzzer until the noise drove the younger man to distraction. Malcolm finally snatched open the door. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes were bloodshot He looked like he hadn't slept in a week He gripped a whiskey bottle by the neck like he contemplated breaking it over Kit's head

  "You are drunk."

  "An' I'm gonna be drunker. I'm in no mood for a visit."

  He slammed the door. Kit caught it before it could close all the way.

  "Dammit, Malcolm, talk to me. What the hell happened down time?"

  Malcolm glared at him, then dropped his gaze. All the fight leached out of him. "Ask Margo. Your granddaughter is a lunatic. An impulsive, dangerous lunatic. Worse than you, damn your eyes. And a goddamned, bloody liar-little bitch just turned seventeen, goddammit, not nineteen. Now get out and let me get soused."

  Seventeen? Margo was only seventeen' Kit saw several shades of red. I'll kill her, I swear to God, I'll teach that girl if it's the last thing I ever do not to lie to people who trust her.

  Malcolm was in the act of slamming the door when Kit caught it in one hand. "I, uh, owe you some money."

  Malcolm's bitter laughter shocked Kit speechless. "Keep it I sure as hell didn't earn it."

  The door slammed shut.

  Kit stared at the reverberating panel. All right... He stalked down to the Commons on a hunt for his errant granddaughter. He found her at Goldie Morran's, exchanging her down-time currency for modern scrip. Goldie glanced up and smiled. The smile froze in place. Margo swung around and lost color.

  Kit was out of patience. He backed Margo into a corner so she couldn't bolt and run. "just what the hell happened down time, young lady?"

  "Nothing! I did fine! It's not my fault Malcolms an overbearing, overprotective, chauvinistic..."

  She ranted on at length.

  Kit finally figured it out.

  "You left the tour?" he asked quietly, hardly able to believe his ears.

  "Yes, I did! And I did fine! I'm in one piece, aren't I? I'm sick of being coddled, roped in, restricted, dammit, I proved I can handle myself this trip! I want a real scouting job!"

  Kit couldn't believe it. She'd actually abandoned the tour, run off on her own ... No wonder Malcolm was downstairs getting drunk. Kit was tempted to put Margo straight over his knee and wallop her backside until she couldn't sit. But the fire in her glare told him it wouldn't do any good.

  "That's it," he said coldly. "You are clearly too reckless for your own good. I'd thought you were capable of learning something. I was wrong. Worse, you lied to me. Eighteen hell." Margo lost color. "Pack your things. You're going home."

  "The hell I am! You're just an overprotective, lonely old man too scared to let me try my wings! I'm ready and you're not letting me prove it!"

  They locked glares.

  Goldie intervened quietly. "If I might suggest it, why don't you two go somewhere separately to cool off and think this over? Kit, clearly no harm was done. She's made it back just fine. Margo, why don't you come back later and we'll finish this transaction. You might think about the scare you've given everyone. Now, may I help you, sir? Yes, I can certainly exchange that for you ... ."

  Kit stalked out, leaving Margo to make her own way back to the apartment. He was so angry he couldn't think straight. Of all the bone-headed, childish, idiotic ... He didn't care what Goldie said, Margo was clearly not ready to scout. Goldie had never set foot across a single down-time gate. She had no concept of the dangers that could threaten even an ordinary little tour, particularly when one of the pig-headed tourists abandoned her guides and struck out on her own without knowing so much as half-a-dozen words of the language ... .

  He stormed into the Down Time and snapped out an order for a triple. He knocked it back, then ordered another. Gotta calm doom before I face her again. Goldie'd been right about that much, at least. He couldn't talk to her in this frame of mind He had to recapture his composure, marshall his arguments, decide to approach the very serious problem her rebelliousness had raised.

  But...

  Whatever possessed the brainless little fool to do it?

  "Worse than you," Malcolm had said

  Kit winced and downed another triple Great. That was just great. All he needed to make his life complete was a seventeen-year-old female carbon copy of himself bent on raising hell everywhere she turned her ambitious little gaze.

  He was tempted to haul her kicking and screaming to Primary and toss her bodily through it. But that wouldn't do any good She'd just come back Or go to another station and try it from there. He had to find a way to reason with her, convince her to keep training, that she wasn't ready despite marginal success in surviving Rome.

  The problem was, Kit had no idea how to go about it.

  Everything he did or said only made matters worse.

  So he delayed the inevitable and ordered another triple. just one more for fortitude. Then he'd face her. Lonely old man, she'd called him. Well, that much was true: He was lonely and he was afraid of losing her. But that wasn't the reason he was holding her back. Surely he could find a way to convince her of that?

  Yeah, right, just lake I convinced Sarah to stack by me.

  Kit tightened his hand around the shot glass.

  Why was it, he always managed to find a way to flub the most important relationships in his life?

  He didn't have an answer to that, either.

  Margo couldn't believe it She stood trembling in the corner of Goldie Morran's shop and fought desperately not to cry. After everything she'd been through, after everything she'd proven ... She'd even risked losing the gate ito ask a Time Tours guide to watch over Achilles until she could properly free him the next time the gate cycled. She'd handled every adversity and responsibility chance had thrown at her, doing better than she had any right to expect, but nobody was giving her so much as a moment to explain. They all just assumed the worst and dismissed her as a brainless, incapable fool. Worse, Malcolm had told Kit about her lie.

  She straightened her back against a weight heavier than the whole Himalayan mountain range and forced her chin up. She might have been kicked out of training, but she wasn't quitting. Somehow, Margo would prove herself.

  "Margo?"

  She glanced around to find Goldie Morran watching her. The customers had all departed, their business transacted for the moment Goldie smiled, a sympathetic gesture from one woman to another.

  "Don't take it so hard," the older woman said. "You've clearly proven your mettle. A week down time alone, you said?"

  "Yes. In Rome."

  Goldie nodded. "Why don't we finish that transaction Kit interrupted? I'd like to talk to you."

  Margo fumbled in her belt pouch for the coins she'd brought back to exchange. She thought about selling the Circus gemstone, but decided to send it through with a Time Tours guide the next time Porta Romae cycled Achilles could sell it and use the money to support himself. She was proud of that plan and since ATF would only tax her for it if she tried to take it back through Primary, that was exactly what she intended to do. She might run away from her problems, but she didn't run from responsibility.

  Goldie examined her coins and nodded. "Very nice. So ... you're ready to prove yourself." It wasn't a question.

  "Damn right -I am," Margo muttered "I got along fine-and I don't even speak Latin!"

  Goldie's eyes widened. "That is an accomplishment You should be very proud." Then she glanced at the doorway as though searching for eavesdroppers. "You want to know what I think?" The older woman's eyes were bright, merry.

  "What?"

  "I think you're a budding young scout in need of a place to go. A
nd if you're interested, I think I know just the place you need."

  Margo's pulse quickened. "Really?" Then she cleared her throat and attempted to assume an air of professionalism. "What did you have in mind?"

  "I know of a gate that's in need of a good scout Someone bright and ambitious. Someone who isn't afraid of a challenge. Someone who'll take a few risks to make a lot of money."

  Margo's pulse skipped another few beats. "Why are you telling me?"

  Goldie Morran grimaced and gestured to herself. "I'm not a scout and besides, I'm too old. And frankly, I think you've got what it takes. After all, Kit Carson did train you: You've been taught by the best and as far as I'm concerned, you've demonstrated you have what it takes. You've got fire inside you, girl. Besides," Goldie winked, "I'd like to see a woman finally crack that men's club wide open. Interested?"

  Margo glared at the doorway where Kit Carson had vanished.

  "You bet I'm interested. When do we start?"

  "Is now soon enough? Good First, we allay everyone's suspicions about what you're up to ... ."

  By the time Kit was ready to face Margo with something approaching calm, the "night" had advanced fairly far. Two additional gates had cycled: Edo and Primary. He'd listened to the familiar announcements regarding gate departures while brooding over his bourbon and marshalling his arguments. Significantly, none of his friends even approached his table. Kit finally left the Down Time and brushed through a crowd of new arrivals gawking at the Commons. When he arrived at his apartment Kit drew a deep breath, then unlocked the door. He expected to find her sulking on the couch. He didn't.

  Margo wasn't there at all. Her things were gone.

  All he found was a scrawled note.

  Sorry for all the trouble. It hasn't been fun. I won't be troubling you again. Margo.

  Kit crumpled the note in his hand.

  Then he sank down onto the couch and cried:

  Chapter Seventeen

  MARGO FELT FREE, absolutely and utterly free, for the first time in her life. Goldie Morran was a true savior. After a quick week up time learning to fly the latest ultralight craze, she'd returned to TT-86 with a load of very specialized equipment all paid for by Goldie. The currency expert had trusted her judgement, relied implicitly on her training, her skills. That alone had been worth all the heartache of the miserable, terrifying week alone in Rome.

  Margo had put hours of planning into this, deciding what to take, how to tackle the problem of overland journey and return, selecting equipment; then came the marvelous moment when she stepped through the gate into the twilight of early evening. Two hired hands trailed after her, hauling equipment.

  I did it! I'm doing it! I'm really scouting!

  ATLS readings widened the grin on Margo's face. "Wow!" The first stars twinkling in the darkening sky allowed her to pinpoint their location. At thirty-two degrees east longitude and twenty-six degrees south latitude, Margo was standing on the southeastern coast of Mozambique in the year A.D. 1542.

  The descending African night was soft, the breeze stiff from offshore. They were very near the coast. Margo easily identified a broad stretch of water nearby from geographical records: Delagoa Bay. Around the curving bay from their position huddled a tiny settlement of ramshackle board houses and a wooden fortress, ail surrounded by a wooden wall. Not a single light burned in the settlement Margo grinned. Like thieves in the night...

  She signaled her two assistants to follow, moving down the curve of the bay until they were out of sight of the primitive little town of Lourengo Marques. Then they unpacked their load and got busy. Margo took charge of the Floating Wing. It was the largest commercially available, a high-tech balloon of transparent, gas-tight Filmar, shaped like a pennant flag laid flat Margo hadn't been able to bring enough helium to inflate it, but she'd studied how to crack hydrogen from water and discovered it was dead easy. She set up the portable generator to power the equipment and got busy.

  While she worked on the balloon, her two assistants worked on the gondola. She wasn't sure she approved of Goldie's choices for these two. The big Afrikaner was all right, she supposed, although he was pushing fifty-six, but she was worried about that damned Welshman. He'd tried to disembowel Margo a few weeks ago, mistaking her for Joan of Arc. Now he worked quietly under the Afrikaner's directions, which consisted mostly of hand signals punctuated by grunts and the occasional word in English. Kynan Rhys Gower had learned a few words of English, thank God, since his arrival from Orleans, but his temperament hadn't improved all that much from a month working in the garbage pits while the ribs Kit had broken healed up.

  When Margo had protested the choice, Goldie explained, "We don't want anyone blabbing our plans. The Welshman's perfect. He needs money and he can't talk."

  "And your Afrikaner?" The Afrikaner could, in fact, speak English, but he usually muttered to himself in his own incomprehensible Afrikaans.

  Goldie grinned. "He'll look down that Dutch Afrikaner nose of his, sniff, call you English, and do his job. I know Koot van Beek. He's exactly what you'll need."

  "Huh. What kind of name is Koot, anyway?" Margo had muttered, drawing laughter from her dignified partner.

  Still, Koot was remarkably cooperative for a close-lipped old man who'd insisted on choosing his own rifle for the journey. He'd even insisted she bring a rifle.

  "But I don't intend to do any hunting," she'd countered, holding up the laser-guided blowgun she'd used in training. After what she'd witnessed in the Circus Maximus, Margo wasn't sure she wanted to hunt anything for her dinner. "The darts for these are dipped in strong anesthetic. I don't want to kill anything down time unless I absolutely have to."

  Koot had muttered under his breath and insisted she bring a rifle, anyway. She'd stowed it away with gear she didn't plan to use unless an emergency threatened.

  Koot worked quietly in the starlight, assembling the PVC gridwork that would serve as the platform of their gondola. While Kynan finished tightening connections, Koot attached the ducted fans which would provide propulsion and steering capability. The triangular lifting wing began to swell against the restraining cables as it filled with buoyant hydrogen gas.

  The hydrogen was one reason Margo had chosen PVC for the platform. She didn't want metal fittings anywhere on her ultralight. Metal fittings might generate sparks. For the duration of their journey, they would be paranoid about fire prevention. She eyed the slowly filling gas bag and wished again they could have transported in enough helium to do the job, but wishing was pointless. They had what they had and Margo was darned proud of her ingenuity.

  Their airship was finally ready. Kynan had covered the PVC gridwork with a "floor" of ripstop nylon to prevent things from falling through. Koot attached cables to the hydrogen wing, then helped Kynan load on their supplies. Margo shut down the generator and packed it in the wheeled crate it had come in, then returned it to the vicinity of the gate. Next time the gate cycled, Goldie would send some down timer through to retrieve it.

  Margo ran through her checklist one last time. Food. Water purifying equipment. Picks and shovels. Her little M-1 carbine and ammunition for it. Blowgun and anesthesia darts. Extra batteries for the laser sight. Koot's .458 Winchester bolt-action rifle. Emergency medical kit. Lightweight sleeping bags and mosquito netting. Ballast they could dump later on when the gas bag inevitably leaked some of its buoyancy ... . Yes, they had everything.

  Margo had even made certain they were all inoculated against cholera, hepatitis, typhoid, meningitis and diphtheria. They'd begun anti-malarials well before departure. And even with the extremely good water filters she'd purchased, she wasn't taking any chances on contracting bilharzia – she planned to boil all local source water for a minimum of ten minutes before using it. The idea of becoming infected with vicious parasitic worms in her bloodstream left Margo queasy. Malcolm and Kit had trained her too well to take stupid risks.

  "Are we ready?" Margo asked brightly.

  Koot van Beek turned from sling
ing his rifle across his back. He grunted in the moonlight. "Yes, English. We're ready."

  The transparent airship, a ghostly sight in the moonlight, strained against its cables. Margo grinned, then climbed onto the gondola platform and made sure everything was secure. She gestured the Welshman to a place near the front of the platform. He eyed the gas bag straining overhead with an uneasy glance, then muttered something entirely incomprehensible and took his seat. One hand strayed to the case which held his heavy longbow and quiver of arrows. Margo shrugged. They were the weapons he was most familiar with, so she hadn't begrudged him the privilege of bringing them along. How Goldie had weaseled them out of Bull Morgan was something Margo would like to have known.

  "Okay, everyone, this show is about to hit the road!"

  Margo signaled Koot, who loosened his tether at the same moment she loosened her own cable. The airship rose silently into the starlit African night. A strong offshore wind pushed them steadily into the interior. Margo waited until they were well out of sight of the little bayside community below, then fired up the ducted fan engines..

  Their noise shattered the night. Kynan covered his ears and glanced over the edge of the platform. He lost all color in the silvered moonlight. The airship dipped and plunged in the air currents like a slow-motion roller coaster. Poor Kynan squeezed shut both eyes and swallowed rapidly several times. Margo grinned and handed him a scopolamine patch, showing him how to put it on, then steered a course northward around the edge of Delagoa Bay for the mouth of the legendary Limpopo River.

  Margo thrilled as the dawn came up, spreading fingers of light across the heart of Africa. Beneath their floating platform the distant Drakensberg mountains snaked away southward along the rugged Wild Coast. Directly below, the Limpopo glinted in the early light, a treacherous ribbon of water navigable only during flood stage. According to her ATLS readings, they had emerged in early December, the beginning of the summer season in this part of sub-Saharan Africa. Far to the south, clouds boiled up over the mountains. Flickers of lightning split the predawn sky as the Drakensbergs roared with another of their legendary storms.