Chapter 1 
Chapter 1
It wasn’t difficult to tell visitors from ’eighty-sixers. Visitors were the ones with the round mouths and rounder eyes and steadily decreasing bankrolls. Like refugees from Grandma’s attic, they were decked out in whatever the Outfitters had decreed the current “look of the century.” Invariable struggles with unfamiliar bits of clothing, awkward baggage arrangements, and foreign money marked them even faster than an up-tilted head on a New York City sidewalk.
’Eighty-sixers, by contrast, stood out by virtue of omission. They neither gawked nor engaged in that most offensive of tourist behaviors, the “I-know-it-all-and-will-share-it-with-you” bravado that masks someone who wouldn’t know a drachma from a sesterce, even if his life depended on it.
Which, in TT-86, it might.
Nope, the ’eighty-sixers were the ones who hauled luggage, snagged stray children back from the brink of disaster, and calmed flaring tempers in three different languages in as many minutes, all without loosening a fold of those impossible-to-wrap Roman togas or bumping into a single person with those equally impossible-to-manage Victorian bustles.
’Eighty-sixers were right at home in La-La Land.
Frankly, Malcolm Moore couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
Which was why he was currently threading his way through the Commons of Shangri-la Station, decked out in his most threadbare woolen tunic (the one with the artistic wine and dung stains), his dirtiest cheap sandals, and his very finest bronze collar (the one that read MALCOLUM SERVUS ______).
The blank spot waited for the name of any person offering him a job. Adding the customer’s name would take only seconds with his battery-powered engraver, and he had a grinder in his room to smooth out the name again for the next trip. The metal was currently as shiny as his hopes and as empty as his belly.
Occasionally, Malcolm felt the pun inherent in his name had become a harbinger of plain bad luck.
“Well, my luck’s gotta change sometime,” he muttered, girding metaphorical loins for battle.
His destination, of course, was Gate Six. Tourists were already beginning to converge on its waiting area, milling about in animated groups and smiling clusters. Hangers-on thronged the vast Commons just to watch the show. A departure at Gate Six was an Event, worth watching even for those not making the trip. Tables at little cafes and bars, especially those in the “Roman City” section of the terminal, were filling up fast.
In “Urbs Romae” hot-dog stands took the form of ancient sausage-and-wine-vendor shops visible on the streets of ancient Rome, complete with vats of hot oil in which the hot dogs sizzled. Countersunk amphorae in the countertops brimmed with higher quality wine than anything down time. Better cafes were designed like temples, private courtyards, even colonnaded gardens complete with fountains and flowerbeds. The clink of glassware and the rich scents of coffee, warm pastries, and expensive liquor caressed Malcolm’s nostrils like a lover’s fingertips. His belly rumbled. God, he was hungry. . . .
He nodded to a few friends already seated at cafe tables. They waved and were kind enough not to offer him a seat, since he was clearly dressed for business. As he approached the Down Time’s narrow, dim storefront, half-hidden under the crossbeams of a support for a second-story catwalk (cleverly disguised as “marble” columns and balcony), he spotted Marcus and waved. His young friend was busy setting out shot glasses at one of the window-seat tables the bar boasted. A three-foot porthole affair, it gave the impression of peeping out through the side of an ancient sailing ship.
“Bona fortuna,” the bartender mouthed through the glass; then he touched his temple and winked. Malcolm grinned. Marcus—who possessed no last name—had once expressed a private opinion that anyone who wanted to visit the genuine Urbs Romae was slightly off in the head.
“Go back?” he’d said the one time Malcolm had suggested they combine their respective talents as partners in the freelance guide business. Startlement in his young eyes had given way almost immediately to a glint akin to fear. “You do me honor, friend. But no. Shangri-la is more fun.” The strain around his smile prompted Malcolm to change the subject with a mental note never to raise it again.
Urbs Romae was Malcolm’s favorite part of Shangri-la Station, probably because ancient Rome was his specialty. Beyond the entrance to the Down Time Bar & Grill, the Commons stretched away like the inside of a shopping mall designed by Escher. Two hundred yards across and nearly three times that length, the Commons was a multi-level monstrosity of girders, broad catwalks, ramps, balconies, and cantilevered platforms disguised as an astonishing number of items. Many of them led absolutely nowhere.
Pleasant fountains and pools splashed under the perpetual glow of the Commons’ lights. The occasional ash of color against blue-tiled fountains betrayed the presence of exotic fish kept to graze the algae. Urbs Romae’s floor was a colorful patchwork of mosaics in the ancient style, most of them put together by the enterprising merchants whose shops bordered them. Signs shrouded the walls at random intervals, while staircases stretched upward past storefronts and hotel windows to unpredictable levels along the walls.
Some ramps and catwalks were still under construction or at least seemed to be. A number ended in blank stretches of concrete wall, while others reached islands that floated four and five stories above the main floor, supported by open strutwork like scaffolding around a cathedral under reconstruction. A few ramps and stairways stretched from scattered spots to end in thin air, leaving one to wonder whether they led up to something invisible or down from a hole out of nothing.
Malcolm grinned. First impressions of Shangri-la left most visitors convinced that the time terminal’s nickname, La-La Land, came from the lunatic walks to nowhere.
Large signs bordered several blank stretches, where balconies and catwalks had been screened off with chain-link fencing that made no pretense of blending in with the rest of Urbs Romae. The signs, in multiple languages, warned of the dangers of unexplored gates. The fencing wasn’t so much to keep things from wandering in as to keep other things from wandering out. The signs, of course, were a legal precaution. Most tourists weren’t stupid enough to wander through an open portal without a guide. But there had been casualties at other stations and lawsuits had occasionally been filed by bereaved families. Residents of TT-86 were grateful for their own station manager’s precautions.
Nobody wanted the time terminal shut down for slipshod management.
Nobody.
Today’s batch of tourists and guides looked like refugees from Spartacus. Most of the men tugged uncomfortably at dress-like tunics and expended considerable effort avoiding one another’s eyes. Knobby knees and hairy legs were very much in evidence. Malcolm chuckled. Ah, Gate Six. . . . Malcolm wore his own threadbare tunic with the ease of long practice. He barely registered the difference between his business costumes and what he normally wore, although he did note that his sandal strap needed repairing again.
Women in elegant stolas chatted animatedly in groups, comparing jewelry, embroidered borders, and elegant coiffeurs. Others wandered into the gate’s waiting area, where they relaxed in comfortable chairs, sipped from paper cups, and watched the show. Those, Malcolm knew, were rich enough they’d been down time before. First-time tourists were too excited to sit down. Malcolm pushed past the periphery of the growing crowd in search of likely employers.
“Morning, Malcolm.”
He turned to find Skeeter Jackson, clad elegantly in a Greek-style chiton. He held back a groan and forced a smile. “Morning, Skeeter.” After the brief handclasp, he counted his fingernails.
Skeeter nodded to Malcolm’s tunic. “I see you’re trying the slave-guide routine.” Brown eyes sparkled. “Great stains. I’ll have to get your recipe sometime.” Skeeter’s wide smile, which was, as far as anyone had ever been able to tell, the only genuine thing about him, was infectious.
“Sure,” Malcolm laughed. “One quart liquefied mare’s dung, two quarts sour Roman wine, and three pints Tiberian mud. Spread carefully with an artist’s brush, let dry for two weeks, then launder in cold water. Works wonders on raw wool.”
Skeeter’s eyes had widened. “Gad. You’re serious.” His own garments, as always, were fastidiously neat and apparently new. Where he’d obtained them, Malcolm didn’t want to know. “Well, good luck.” Skeeter offered. “I have an appointment to keep.” He winked. “See you around.”
The slim young man grinned like an imp counting damned souls and slipped off into the growing crowd. Malcolm surreptitiously checked his belt pouch to be sure the battery-powered engraver and business cards were still there.
“Well,” he told himself, “at least he never seems to roll one of us ’eighty-sixers.” He glanced at one of several dozen chronometers which depended from the distant ceiling and checked the countdown on Gate Six.
Time to get to work.
The crowd was growing denser. The noise volume increased exponentially. Hired baggage handlers worked to balance awkward loads comprised of odd-sized parcels and sacks and leather satchels, while Time Tours guides double-checked their customer lists and gave last-minute instructions. Ticket takers at the entrance to Gate Six’s main ramp waved through a couple of company executives on their way to check the upper platform. Already Malcolm estimated the crowd at some seventy-five people.
“Too big for a tour group,” he muttered. Time Tours, Inc., was getting greedy. The noise of tourist voices and baggage handlers grunting at their work bounced off girders high overhead and reverberated, creating a roar of confused echoes. At least with a group this size, he ought to be able to find something. He plastered a hopeful smile on his face, fished into the leather pouch at his waist for business cards, and got busy.
“Hello,” he introduced himself to the first prospect, extending a hand to a tall, robust man whose tan and fair hair said “California tycoon.” “Please allow me to introduce myself. Malcolm Moore, freelance guide.”
The man shook his hand warily, then glanced at the business card he’d proffered. It read:
Malcolm Moore, Time Guide
Rome AD 47% London 1888 1 Denver 1885
Other Destinations Available upon Request
Experience Adventure without the Hassle of a Tour Schedule!
Private Side Tours and In-Depth Guide Services for
Individuals, Families, Students, Business Groups
Best Rates In Shangri-la Contact: TT-86 Room 503
The tycoon scanned his card and glanced back up. “You’re a freelancer?” The tone was more dubious than ever.
“My specialty is ancient Rome,” Malcolm said with a warm, sincere smile. “I hold a Ph.D. in Classics and Anthropology and have nearly seven years experience as a guide. The formal tour,” he nodded toward uniformed Time Tours employees taking tickets and answering questions, “includes the Circus Maximus chariot races and gladiatorial combats, but Time Tours is bypassing the extraordinary experience of the . . .”
“Thank you,” the man handed back the card, “but I’m not interested.”
Malcolm forced the smile to remain. “Of course. Some other time, perhaps.”
He moved on to the next potential customer. “Please allow me to introduce myself . . .”
Begging never got any easier.
Given the chill of this crowd, Time Tours had been poisoning their customers against freelancers. Skeeter Jackson, drat the boy, seemed to be doing fine, whatever he was up to in that far corner. His smile glowed brighter than the overhead lights.
By the time the countdown clock read T-minus-ten minutes, Malcolm had begun to consider offering his services as a baggage handler just to pick up enough cash for a few meals, but a man had his pride. Malcolm was a guide and a damned good one. If he lost what was left of his reputation as a professional, his life here would be over. He scanned the crowd from one edge, counting heads and costumes, and decided glumly that he had, in fact, talked to everyone.
Well . . . damn.
A desperate attempt to hold onto the shreds of his dignity sent Malcolm to retreat. He retired from the immediate vicinity of Gate Six, accompanied by a return of nagging worries about how he might pay for his room and the next few meals. Overriding that, Malcolm suffered a keen disappointment that had very little to do with money or the loss of his old, full-time job. Malcolm Moore had no idea how guides for the big outfits like Time Tours felt; but for him, stepping through a portal into another century was a thrill better than eating regularly, almost better than sex.
It was that thrill which kept him at TT-86, working every departure, no matter the destination, for the chance to try it again.
Malcolm headed for the shadows of a vine-draped portico, close enough to Gate Six to watch the fun, but far enough away to avoid attracting attention from friends who would want to sympathize. Montgomery Wilkes, looking very out of place in his dark, up-time uniform, strode through the crowd with the singular intensity of a charging rhino. Even tourists scuttled out of his way. Malcolm frowned. What was Wilkes doing out of his inner sanctum? La-La Lands’ head ATF agent never attended a Gate opening. He glanced again at the nearest overhead chronometer board and found the answer.
Ah . . .
Primary, too, was due to cycle. He’d forgotten in the hustle of trying to line up a job that a new batch of tourists would be arriving today from up time. Malcolm rubbed the tip of his nose and smiled. A double-gate day. . . . Maybe there was hope, after all. Even without a job, it ought to be fun.
Down at Gate Six, last-minute purchases were in full swing. Strolling vendors worked the crowd efficiently, burdened down with everything from ropes of “safe” sausages to extra leather satchels for souvenirs, the latest “must-have” survival junk, and local coinage for those stupid enough to leave money exchanges to the last minute.
Malcolm wondered if he should consider a career as a vendor? They always seemed to do well and it would be steady work. Connie, maybe, would give him a job. He shook his head absently as he watched everything from last-minute mugs of coffee to tawdry bits of jewelry exchange hands. Nah, he’d get bored too quickly trying to hold down a mundane job, even here. Setting up his own shop was out of the question. Besides the higher rent for business space and all that hideous government paperwork to cope with, there was the question of where he would get the capital to buy inventory? Investors weren’t interested in ex-guides; they wanted shrewd business acumen and plenty of sales management experience.
Of course, he could always go back to time scouting.
Malcolm glanced involuntarily toward the nearest barricades. The area had been fenced off because the gate hadn’t yet been explored or was inherently unstable. Malcolm had risked down-time explorations into unknown gates as a freelance time scout only twice. A stray shiver crawled up his spine. Kit Carson, the first—and best—of all the time scouts, was famous all over the world. And damned lucky to be alive. Malcolm wasn’t exactly a coward, but time scouting was not Malcolm’s idea of a sane career. He was more than happy to settle for rubbing shoulders with giants and sharing war stories with the real heroes of TT-86 over beer and pretzels.
A strident klaxon sounded, echoing five stories above the terminal floor. Conversation cut off mid-sentence. As abruptly as it had sounded, the klaxon died away, replaced by an amplified voice. Long-time residents leaned forward in chairs, absently twirling half-empty glasses or drawing designs in the condensate on table tops with idle fingertips. The throng in the waiting area paused expectantly.
“Your attention, please. Gate Six is due to open in three minutes. Returning parties will have gate priority. All departures, please remain in the holding area until guides are notified that the gate is clear.”
The message repeated in three other languages.
Malcolm wished his tunic had pockets so he could thrust his hands into them. Instead he crossed his arms and waited. Another ear-splitting klaxon sounded.
“Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in ten minutes. All departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for customs . . .”
Malcolm stopped listening. He’d memorized the up-time departure litany years ago. Besides, departures down-time were always more entertaining than watching a bunch of government agents search luggage. The real fun at Primary wouldn’t begin until the new arrivals started coming through. Malcolm’s gaze found the countdown for Gate Six. Any second now . . .
A hum of sub-harmonics rumbled through the time terminal as Gate Six, the biggest of TT-86’s active gates, came to life. Outside the range of audible sound, yet detectable through the vibration of bones at the base of one’s skull, the sound that wasn’t a sound intensified. Across the Commons, tourists pressed behind their ears with the heels of hands in an attempt to relieve the unpleasant sensation. Malcolm traced his gaze up a pair of broad ramps—one of which descended toward the waiting area from a wide catwalk, the other of which would handle departures—and waited eagerly.
Up at the edge of the catwalk an utterly blank section of wall began to shimmer. Like a heat haze over a stretch of noonday highway, the air rippled. Colors dopplered through the spectrum in odd, distorted patterns. Gasps rose from the waiting area, distinctly audible in the hush. Then a black spot appeared in the dead center of the blank wall.
Tourists gaped and pointed. For most, it was only the second time in their lives they’d seen a temporal gate up-close and personal—their first, of course, being Primary on the down-time trip to Shangri-la. Conversation, which had begun to pick up again in the wake of the first shimmer, died off sharply. Baggage handlers finished tying off their loads. Last-minute transactions led to more money changing hands. More than one guide gulped down the last scalding coffee they’d taste in two weeks.
The spot on the wall dilated, spreading outward like a growth of bread mold viewed on high-speed film. In the center of the darkness, as though viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, Malcolm made out the shape of dim shelves and tiny amphorae stacked neatly in rows at the back of a long, deep room. Then light flared like a twinkling star as someone on the other side lit a lamp.
Tourists on the floor exclaimed, then laughed in nervous delight as a man dressed as a Roman slave, but moving with the purpose and authority of a Time Tours organizer, stepped through. He rushed at them like a hurled baseball, growing in apparent height from a few inches to full size in the blink of an eyelash, then calmly stepped through onto the metal grating. He landed barking orders.
Tourists, some looking dazed and ill, others talking animatedly, all of them visibly tired, spilled through the open gate onto the catwalk and down the ramp. Most clutched souvenirs. Some clutched each other. Guides had to remind most of them to slide credit-card-sized timecards through the encoder at the bottom of the ramp. Malcolm grinned again. The ritual never varied. The ones who remembered to “dock out” of Porta Romae were experienced temporal travelers. The ones clutching each other had discovered a deep-seated, unexpected fear of temporal travel, either because it was too dirty and violent for their taste or because they’d spent the trip terrified of making a mistake the guides couldn’t fix.
The ones that looked dazed and ill either hadn’t enjoyed the gladiatorial games as much as they’d thought or were still attempting to overcome the effects of too much boozing and not enough attention to proper diet and rest. Malcolm’s clients never returned up time looking like they needed the nearest hospital bed. Of course, people with the sense to hire a private guide, even for a package deal like Time Tours offered, rarely had the poor judgment to get hung over after a two-week-long binge on lead-laced Roman wine.
Not for the first time, Malcolm permitted himself a moment’s bitter resentment of Time Tours and their whole slick, money-milling operation. If not for their shady, underhanded tricks . . .
“Penny for ’em,” someone said at Malcolm’s elbow.
He started and glanced around to find Ann Vinh Mulhaney gazing up at him. He relaxed with a smile. She must have come straight from the weapons range when the klaxon sounded. She hadn’t bothered to unholster the pistols at her belt or loosen her hair from its confining elastic tie. At five feet, five inches, Ann was a little shorter than Malcolm, but evenly matched with Sven Bailey, who strolled up behind her. He, too, was dressed for the weapons range.
They must’ve just released a new class, probably the one scheduled for London. Sven, who out-massed dainty little Ann by at least two to one despite their matched heights, nodded politely toward Malcolm, then watched the departing tourists with a despairing shake of his head.
“What a miserable bunch they were,” he commented to no one in particular. “Stupid, too, if you’re still here.” He glanced briefly toward Malcolm.
He shrugged, acknowledging the well-meant compliment, and answered Ann’s question. “I’m just watching the fun, same as everyone. How are you two?”
Sven, TT-86’s recognized master of bladed weapons, grunted once and didn’t deign to answer. Ann laughed. She was one of the few residents who felt comfortable laughing at Sven Bailey. She tossed her ponytail and rested slim hands on her hips. “He lost his last bet. Five shots out of six, loser picks up the tab at Down Time.”
Malcolm smiled. “Sven, haven’t you learned yet not to shoot against her?”
Sven Bailey regarded his fingernails studiously. “Yep.” Then he glanced up with a sardonic twist of the lips. ‘Trouble is, the students keep trying to lose their money. What’s a guy to do?”
Malcolm grinned. “The way I hear it, you two split the take.”
Sven only looked hurt. Ann laughed aloud. “What a horrid rumor.” She winked. “Care to join us? We’re heading over to the Down Time to cool out and grab a bite to eat.”
Malcolm was well beyond the stage of flushing with embarrassment every time he had to turn down an invitation from lack of funds. ‘Thanks, but no. I think I’ll see the departure through, then head up toward Primary and try to line up some prospects from the new arrivals. And I’ve got to fix this blasted sandal again. It keeps coming loose at the sole.”
Sven nodded, accepting his face-saving excuses without comment. Ann started to protest, then glanced at Sven. She sighed. “If you change your mind, I’ll spot you for a drink. Or better yet Sven can pick up the tab from my winnings.” She winked at Malcolm. Sven just crossed his arms and snorted, reminding Malcolm of a burly bulldog humoring an upstart chickadee. “By the way,” she smiled, “Kevin and I were thinking about inviting some people over for dinner tomorrow night. If you’re free at, on, say about sixish, stop by. The kids love it when you visit.”
“Sure,” he said, without really meaning it. “Thanks.”
Fortunately, they moved off before noticing the dull flush that crept up Malcolm’s neck into his cheeks. If Ann Vinh Mulhaney had pre-planned a dinner party for tomorrow night, he’d eat his sandal, broken strap and all. Her gesture warmed him, though, even as he rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “I’ve got to get a full-time job with someone.” But not with Time Tours.
Never with Time Tours.
He’d starve first.
Tourists over at Gate Six had started to climb the ramp, each one in turn presenting his or her Timecard to have the departure logged properly. Excited women could be heard clear across the Commons, shrieking and giggling as they plucked up the nerve to step through the open portal. That ritual never varied, either. Scuttlebutt had it that Time Tours had sound-proofed the exits on the other side of all their gates, rather than hush the tourists. He had to chuckle. He couldn’t really blame them. Stepping through that first time was an unnerving experience.
Inevitably—this time about three quarters of the way through the departure—someone fumbled a load of poorly tied baggage. Parcels scattered across the catwalk, creating a major hitch in the traffic flow. Three separate guides, glancing wildly at the overhead chronometer, converged on the mess and snatched up baggage willy nilly. A fourth guide all but shoved the remaining tourists through the open gate. The edges of the gate had begun to shrink slowly back toward the center.
Malcolm shook his head. With years of experience behind them, Time Tours really ought to manage better than that. He grunted aloud. That’s what comes of exploiting stranded down-timers to haul baggage. Somebody really should do something about the poor souls who wandered in through open gates and found themselves lost in an alien world. His old outfit had never used them as grunt labor.
Of course, his old outfit had quietly gone bankrupt, too.
The guides who’d snatched up the spilled parcels lunged through and vanished. Moments later, Gate Six winked closed for another two weeks. Malcolm sighed and turned his attention to Primary. He checked the chronometer and swore under his breath. He just had time, if he hustled. He left Urbs Romae behind and half jogged through Frontier Town, with its saloons and strolling “cowboys,” then picked up speed through Victoria Station’s “cobbled” streets, lined with shops whose windows boasted graceful Victorian gowns and masculine deerstalkers. The klaxon sounded, an ear-splitting noise that caused Malcolm to swear under his breath.
“Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in two minutes. All departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for customs . . .”
Malcolm cut across one edge of Edo Castletown, with its extraordinary gardens, sixteenth-century Japanese architecture, and swaggering tourists dressed as samurai warriors. He jogged past the Neo Edo Hotel, skirting a group of kimono-clad women who had paused to admire the mural inside the lobby. The desk clerk grinned and waved as he shot past.
Primary, less than a hundred feet beyond the farthest edge of Castletown, consisted of an imposing set of barriers, armed guards, ramps, fences, metal detectors, and X-ray equipment, plus dual medical stations, all clustered at the bottom of a broad ramp that led fifteen feet into thin air then simply stopped. Malcolm had once wondered why the station hadn’t simply been constructed so that the floor was dead-level even with Gate One, or Primary, as everyone in residence called it.
Upon subsequent interaction with officials from the Bureau of Access Time Functions, Malcolm had decided ATF must have insisted on the arrangement for its unsettling psychological impact Montgomery Wilkes, inspecting everything like a prowling leopard, stood out simply by the sweating hush which followed his rounds.
Malcolm found a good vantage point and leaned his shoulder against the station wall, extremely glad he didn’t work for the ATF agent. He glanced at the nearest chronometer and sighed. Whew . . . Seconds to spare. The line of returning tourists and businessmen had already formed, snaking past Malcolm’s position through a series of roped-off switchbacks. Customs agents were rubbing metaphorical hands in anticipation.
Malcolm’s skull bones warned him moments before the main gate into Shangri-la dilated open. Then up-timers streamed through the open portal into the terminal, while departures cleared customs in the usual inefficient dribble. New arrivals stopped at the medical station set up on the inbound side of the gate to have their medical records checked, logged, and mass-scanned into TT-86’s medical database. The usual clusters of wide-eyed tourists, grey-suited business types, liveried tour guides, and uniformed government officials—including TT-86’s up-time postman with the usual load of letters, laser disks, and parcels—edged clear of Medical and entered the controlled chaos of La-La Land.
“Okay,” Malcolm muttered, “let’s see what Father Christmas brought us this time.” Once a time-guide, always a time-guide. The occupation was addictive.
He double-checked the big chronometer board. The next departure was set for three days hence, London. Denver followed that by twelve hours and Edo a day after that. One of the quarterly departures to twelfth-century Mongolia would be leaving in six days. He shook his head. Mongolia was out of the question. None of that incoming group looked hardy enough for three months in deadly country inhabited by even deadlier people.
Gate Five didn’t get much traffic, even when it was open.
He eyed the inbound crowd. London, Denver, or ancient Tokyo . . . Most of the tourists to Edo were Japanese businessmen. They tended to stick with Japanese tour guides. The only time Malcolm had been to sixteenth-century Edo had been on a scheduled tour for his old company and he’d been in heavy disguise. The Tokugawa shoguns had developed a nasty habit of executing any gaijin unfortunate enough even to be shipwrecked on Japanese shores. After that first visit, Malcolm had firmly decided he’d acquired a good knowledge of sixteenth-century Japanese, Portuguese, and Dutch for nothing.
London or Denver, then . . . He’d have three days, minimum, to work on a client. His gaze rested on a likely-looking prospect, a middle-aged woman who had paused to gape in open confusion while the three small children clustered at her side shoved fists into their mouths and clutched luggage covered with Cowboys and Indians. The smallest boy wore a plastic ten-gallon hat and a toy six-gun rig. Mom glanced from side to side, up and down, stared at the chronometer, and appeared ready to burst into tears.
“Bingo.” Tourist in need of help.
He hadn’t taken more than three steps, however, when a redheaded gamine clad in a black leather miniskirt, black stretch-lace body suit, and black thigh-high leather boots, hauling a compact suitcase that looked like it weighed as much as she did, bore down on him with the apparent homing instinct of a striking hawk: “Hi! I’m looking for Kit Carson—any idea where I might find him?”
“Uh . . .” Malcolm said intelligently as every drop of blood in his brain transmuted instantaneously to the nether regions of his anatomy. Not only did Malcolm have no idea where the retired time scout might be lurking this time of day . . .
God . . . it ought to be illegal to look like that!
Clearly, it’d been far too long since Malcolm had—
He gave himself an irritable mental kick. Just where might she find Kit? He probably wasn’t at his hotel, not this late in the morning; but it was a little early for drinking. Of course, he enjoyed watching departures as much as any other ’eighty-sixer.
The delightful little minx who’d accosted him was tapping one leather-clad foot in an excess of energy. With her short auburn hair, freckles, and clear green eyes, she gave the impression of an Irish alley-cat, intent on her own business and impatient with anything that got in her way. She was the darned cutest thing Malcolm had seen come through Primary in months. He kept his gaze on her face with studied care.
“Try the Down Time Bar and Grill. If anyone knows, the regulars there might. Or you could . . .”
He trailed off. She was already gone, like a bullet from the barrel of a smoking gun. That damned leather miniskirt did evil things to Malcolm’s breath control.
“Well.” He rested hands on hips. “If that doesn’t . . .” He couldn’t imagine why a girl that age—and in a tearing hurry, besides—would be looking for Kit Carson of all people. “Huh.” He tried to put her out of his mind and turned to find his bewildered tourist with the cute kids. He needed a job worse than he needed a mystery.
“Oh, bloody hell . . .” Skeeter Jackson, the louse, had already collared the scared family and was hard at work playing with the youngest kid. Mom was beaming. God help them.
He considered warning her, then glanced down at his artistically filthy tunic and swore again. Compared with Skeeter Jackson’s groomed appearance, he didn’t stand a chance. Maybe he could get her aside later and explain the difference between reliable guides and the Skeeter Jacksons of this world. Malcolm sighed. The way his luck had been running lately, she’d slap him for maligning that “nice young man.”
He decided maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take Ann up on her offer, after all. Malcolm strolled down the Commons on a reverse course through Castletown, Victoria Station, and Frontier Town. He entered Urbs Romae just as the klaxon for closure of Primary sounded, warning everyone that TT-86 was about to be sealed in again for another couple of days, at least. Up ahead, the pert little up-timer looking for Kit sailed straight past the Down Time without spotting it. He grinned and decided to see how long it took her to holler for help.
Just what did she want with Kit Carson?
Whatever it was, Malcolm had a feeling the next few days were going to prove most entertaining.
Margo thumped down the long, cluttered concourse, berating herself as she went. “Honestly,” she fumed, “the first person you ask is a guy in a Roman tunic and slave collar? He’s probably some poor down-timer who wandered through an unstable gate, like the articles warned about. Stupid, greenhorn idiot . . .”
Margo did not enjoy looking like a fool.
“No wonder he took so long answering. Probably had to translate everything I said first. At least he spoke some English. And I’ve got the right station, that’s something to celebrate,” she added under her breath, glancing in restrained awe at the sprawling complex which stretched away in a maze of catwalks, shops, waiting areas, and cross-corridors that led only God knew where. The care she’d taken to research a time terminal’s layout didn’t begin to convey the reality of the place. It was enormous, bewildering. And none of the information she’d found described the private sections of a terminal, visible in tantalizing glimpses off the Commons. She found herself wanting to explore . . .
“First,” she told herself sternly, “I find Kit Carson. Everything else is secondary. That Roman guy said he might be at some bar, so all I have to do now is find him. I can talk anybody into anything. All I have to do is find him. . . .”
Unfortunately, she didn’t find the Down Time on the main concourse or any of the balconies connected to it. Margo set down her heavy suitcase, panting slightly, and scowled at an empty set of chairs clustered around a closed gate.
“What Down Time Bar and Grill?” Grimly, Margo picked up her case again, regretting the decision to stuff everything into one piece of luggage. She looked for a terminal directory, something like she’d always found at ordinary shopping malls, but saw nothing remotely resembling one. She didn’t want to betray complete ignorance by asking someone. Margo was desperate to give the impression that she was worldly, well-traveled, able to take care of herself.
But the Down Time Bar and Grill was apparently close kin to the Flying Dutchman, because it didn’t appear to exist. Maybe it was down time? Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody’d put a bar on the other side of a time gate. Finally she started hunting down the maze of cross-linked, interconnecting corridors that formed the private portion of TT-86. Stairways led to corridors on other levels, some of them brightly lit, others dim and deserted Within minutes, she was hopelessly lost and fuming.
She set the case down again and rubbed her aching palm. Margo glared at a receding stretch of corridor broken occasionally by more corridors and locked doors. “Don’t these people believe in posting a directory somewhere?”
“May I help you?”
The voice was polite, male, and almost directly behind her.
She spun around.
The guy in the tunic. Oh, shit. . . . Ever since New York, she’d been so careful—and this was a down-timer, God knew what he’d try to pull—
“Are you following me?” she demanded, furious that her voice came out breathy and scared instead of calm and assured.
He scratched the back of his neck under the thick bronze collar. “Well, I couldn’t help but notice you passed the Down Time, then took a really wrong turn off the Commons. It’s easy to get lost, back here.”
Margo’s heart pounded so hard her chest hurt. She backed away a step. “I ought to warn you,” she said in a tone meant to be forbidding, “I know martial arts.”
“As a matter of fact, so do I.”
Oh, God . . .
He grinned disarmingly, reminding Margo quite suddenly of her high school history teacher. “Most temporal guides do, you know.”
Temporal guide?
He held out a business card neatly clasped between two fingers. “Malcolm Moore, freelance time guide.”
Margo felt her face flame. “I . . . uh . . .” Clearly he knew exactly what she’d been thinking—and seemed to find it amusing. She took the card hesitantly and risked glancing at it. The card seemed genuine enough. “Uh, hi. I’m Margo.”
If he was offended that she’d withheld her last name, he didn’t show it. He said only, “Nice to meet you, Margo,” and shook her hand formally.
“If you like, I’ll take you back to the Down Time.”
She hesitated.
He grinned. “No charge. I only charge for tours on the other side of time gates.”
“Oh. Okay.” Then, grudgingly, because she was embarrassed she hadn’t said it sooner, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He had a nice smile. Maybe she could trust him, just a little. Should’a worn something else, though. His glance slid across her with inevitable—she almost might have said involuntary—interest. Most guys looked at her that way, thinking she was at least the eighteen she tried to appear rather than the almost-seventeen she was. Yes, she should have worn something else. But the boots were too bulky to pack in her case and she’d wanted to use every possible advantage she possessed when she finally came face to face with Kit Carson. . . . Well you made this bed. Lie in it. Margo picked up her case and followed him back toward a corridor she was certain led in the wrong direction, only to emerge in a cross-corridor she recognized as the one she’d taken off the Commons. Margo sighed and relegated herself to having to overcome yet another handicap on her quest: a reputation for stupidity. Maybe Mr. Moore wouldn’t say anything about having to lead her out by the hand; but she wouldn’t bet on it. And she certainly didn’t have enough money to bribe him.
They regained the Commons in silence, for which she was grateful. As they approached an enormous area caged to prevent tourist access, Margo frowned. She’d noticed it before, but only peripherally. Inside the cage was an irregular-shaped hole in the concrete.
“What’s that?” she asked hesitantly, afraid she knew the answer already. Unstable gate . . .
Malcolm Moore glanced around. “What’s what? Oh, the unstable gate.”
“I know about those.”
“Yes. Well, the floor collapsed when this one opened under it. A coffee stand fell through.”
She edged closer for a better look and paled. The sight was unnerving. Air at the bottom seemed to ripple oddly. Every few seconds, she heard the splash of water. The bones behind her ears buzzed uncomfortably. “Fell through into where?”
“We think it’s the Bermuda Triangle.” His voice was flat, completely deadpan.
“The Bermuda Triangle? Don’t jerk me around!”
“Hey,” he held out both hands, “who declared war? Honest, we think it’s the Bermuda Triangle. Katie and Jack Sherman almost drowned when the gate opened up the first time. Their coffee shop went straight to the bottom. I was on the rescue team that went through for them. Not only is it an unstable gate, the darned thing leads to a whole nexus of other gates popping open and closed. Picking the right one back to La-La Land was murder. Took us five wrong tries. We almost didn’t get back.”
“Oh.” Great. Unstable nexus gates, yet. “I know about unstable nexus gates,” Margo muttered, wondering why none of her research had turned up that little tidbit. Maybe the government didn’t want to scare people? “I’ve been on time terminals before.”
He appeared to accept the lie. She’d sooner have died than admit she’d sold almost everything she owned—and very nearly a good bit more—to raise the price of a down-time ticket onto TT-86. Margo eyed the hole in the floor with a slight chill of misgiving. Well, adventure was what she was here for, wasn’t it?
“So where’s this bar?” she demanded, turning her back on the watery chasm. “I have business with Mr. Carson.”
Malcolm Moore eyed her for one heartbeat longer than he should have—did he suspect anything? ATF had accepted her faked ID without a second glance—then he shrugged and jerked his head. “It’s down this way, in Urbs Romae. The Roman City,” he translated, assuming she wouldn’t know the meaning of “urbs.”
Margo muttered, “I know where the word urban comes from.” It was very nearly the only Latin she knew, but she knew that.
The corners of his eyes crinkled nicely when he smiled. Margo decided Malcolm Moore didn’t remind her of any of the men she’d known, after all. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is. It’s a little tricky to spot.”
She followed, hauling a suitcase that weighed more by the moment. When she had trouble keeping up, he glanced around and slowed his pace slightly to match hers.
“Are you by any chance planning to visit London? Or Denver?”
“Why?”
He grimaced expressively. “Just hoping. I’m looking for a client for one of the upcoming tours. We freelancers have to hustle for a job.”
“Oh. No, I wasn’t planning a tour. Sorry.”
“Don’t mention it.” His eyes, however, remained bright with unspoken curiosity. Just how often did Kit Carson get visitors? If the world’s most famous time scout turned out to be a cranky recluse . . . Given the difficulty she’d had ferreting out recent information on him, he probably was. Well, coping with her father ought to have been training enough to deal with any ill-tempered male ego. That training had gotten her out of New York alive, hadn’t it?
Malcolm Moore led her at least halfway down the Commons, through areas that reminded Margo of history-book pictures. She knew where the various gates led, having researched TT-86 as thoroughly as possible before taking the plunge. This portion of the terminal led to ancient Athens, while the section over there was designed like a city in the High Andes. They passed shops that fascinated with glimpses of exotic interiors. One restaurant was shaped like a South American pyramid; its doorway was a replica of the Sun Gate at Teotihuacan.
Beyond that, Margo spotted intricate knotted patterns and interwoven mythical beasts carved around shop doorways. One restaurant had been built into a dragon-prowed ship, with signs painted to look like Viking runes. The scents wafting out of the restaurants made her empty belly rumble in complaint.
Should’ve eaten lunch before I came down time. I bet the prices here are sky-high. At least in New York, she’d been able to buy cheap hot dogs from street vendors. They passed into an area of mosaic floors and Roman-style shop fronts, then her guide ducked under a span of fake columns and steel supports and indicated a dim doorway. The clink of glasses and the unmistakable scent of beer wafted out from the interior. There was no shop sign visible anywhere. No wonder she’d missed it. Must be a hangout for residents only, if they don’t advertise.
“Voila,” Malcolm Moore said with a courtly flourish and a smile. “The Down Time Bar and Grill.”
“Thanks.” She flashed him a quick smile of gratitude, then headed for the dim-lit entrance, leaving him to follow or wander off on his own, whichever he preferred. Her attention was already focused on what she was going to say to the legendary Kenneth “Kit” Carson, the man on whom her entire future—and more—depended. Mouth dry, palms wet, Margo gripped her suitcase in one hand and her courage in the other, then charged across the threshold.
“. . . so anyway,” Ann laughed above the sharp crack of billiard balls from the back room, “he learned a valuable lesson about concentrating on the front-sight post. Marcus, hello, yes, I’ll have another.”
Across the table, Sven groaned theatrically. Rachel Eisenstein’s musical laughter provided a comical counterpoint to Sven Bailey’s gloom.
“Oh, hush up and finish your beer,” Ann told him. “I won fair and square.”
“I know. That’s what’s so damn depressing.” Ann winked at Marcus while Rachel sipped from her wineglass and continued to laugh silently. Sven took another pull from his beer mug and sighed. The young bartender grinned and went in search of refills.
Granville Baxter wandered in, having to duck under the doorway, and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. His grey business suit was still crisp and neat, but the man who wore it had a wilted look that said, “I need a drink. Now.” Rachel waved and indicated an empty chair. Baxter’s maternal Masai heritage coupled with a few paternal ancestors who’d been NBA stars gave him a height advantage over every single ’eighty-sixer in La-La Land. Granville Baxter, however, had no earthly interest in sports, other than occasionally sponsoring special Time Tours package deals for rich franchises.
Time Tours considered Baxter a marketing genius. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, ever polite even at the Down Time.
Sven gestured to one of several empty chairs. “Park ’em.”
The Time Tours executive sank back with a sigh, fished in a pocket for a handkerchief, and blotted his dark brow.
“Double-gate day,” he said, providing all the explanation any ’eighty-sixer needed.
Ann waved at Marcus and nodded toward Baxter. The bartender nodded back and drew a stein of Bax’s favorite brew.
“How’d it go?” Sven asked, with a long pull at his own beer.
Bax—who had occasionally said dire things about his parents’ decision to name him “Granville”—grimaced. “Baggage troubles again. Other than that, pretty smooth. Oh, we had the typical three or four who decide they want to switch tours after they get to the terminal and we had one woman who threw up all over a whole family on the other side, but nothing too rough. Forgot her scopolamine patch. I’ll tell you, though, if my new baggage manager doesn’t get his act together by the London departure, he’s going to go begging a job somewhere else—Oh, Marcus, bless you.”
Half the beer vanished in one long gulp.
Ann sympathized. One transfer, one promotion, and one family crisis had led to four new baggage managers for Time Tours at TT-86 in the past six months. Bax’s own job might be on the line if baggage handlers screwed up again. Rich tourists tolerated very little in the way of mistakes from hired underlings. Even geniuses were expendable if the right tourist pitched a loud-enough fit.
Marcus set out the rest of the drinks.
“So,” Bax asked, “any problems at Medical with the new arrivals?”
Rachel had just begun to reply when a startling young woman clad entirely in black leather and lace, with short, auburn hair and a suitcase gripped like a set of nunchucks, charged through the doorway on a direct course for their table.
“Hello,” she said, from halfway across the room. “I’m looking for Kit Carson. I was told he might be here.”
Ann and Rachel exchanged glances. Even Bax lifted one brow. “No,” he said in a friendly fashion. “I’m afraid he isn’t, unless he’s in back playing billiards.”
The young woman swung around, clearly ready to interrupt the game in progress. Every male eye in the room followed the swing of her short skirt.
“No, he isn’t back there,” Ann said, forestalling her. “That’s Skeeter and Goldie, trying to outscam one another.”
The crack of billiard balls underscored the statement. The red-haired girl all but scowled. “Any idea how I can find him? It’s important.”
“Well,” Bax scratched the back of his head, “you could pull up a chair and wet your throat until he gets here.” He looked hopeful. “He’ll be here, probably sooner than later. Kit always stops by, especially on gate days.” Whoever she was, this girl didn’t look in the mood to hang around and wait. Marcus, in his delightfully accented English, volunteered, “He has the hotel. He is there?”
Her eyes brightened. “Hotel? Which hotel?” Sven set his mug on the table with a faint click of glass on wood. “The Neo Edo. It’s right on the Commons, down by the big fish pond, with an entrance that looks like—”
She was gone before he could finish.
“Well,” he said into the astonished silence.
Before anyone else could speak, Malcolm Moore stepped into the bar. He was still dressed for business and wore a wicked grin. “I see by the open mouths you’ve all met Margo. Anybody find out why she’s looking for Kit?”
“Margo? You know her?” Bax demanded. “Who is she?” Malcolm dragged over an empty chair. Ann high-signed Marcus for another beer. “No,” he admitted with a chagrined air, “I don’t know her. She came barreling through Primary and collared me right off, asking about Kit, then promptly got lost back in Residential looking for the Down Time. I was hoping maybe she’d told you guys why she wants to find Kit. Prickly little cactus blossom, isn’t she?”
Sven laughed at the look on Granville Baxter’s face. “Bax, she’d put you in an early grave. Stick to Time Tours if you want to die young.”
Bax shot him a look of utter disgust and studied his beer.
“Well,” Malcolm nodded thanks when Marcus brought him a chilled mug, “I get the feeling things are going to be lively for a while.” He saluted the group with his beer and grinned.
“You,” Sven Bailey muttered, “just said a freakin’ mouthful. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is, do we warn Kit?”
Ann and Rachel exchanged glances, Bax choked on his beer, and across the bar even Marcus started to laugh. Malcolm chuckled. “Poor Kit. Well, let’s put it to a vote, shall we? All in favor?”
Solemnly, but with eyes twinkling, Kit’s friends cast their votes with upraised hands. Malcolm plucked a few threads from the raveling hem of his tunic. “Short thread does the honors.”
Malcolm, of course, came up short. As always. He sighed, took the inevitable ribbing with a long drag at his beer, and headed for the phone