Chapter 3 
Chapter 3
Nothing was working out as she had planned.
Nothing.
Margo cursed her bad timing, bad temper, and bad luck and followed the retired time scout into the dingiest corner of what had to be the darkest, most miserable bar in Shangri-la Station. The atmosphere matched her mood: gloomy as a wet cat and just about as friendly. Even the carved wooden masks which dominated the bar’s primitive decor seemed to be scowling at her.
As for Kit Carson, internationally famous time scout . . .
She glared at his retreating back. He looked nothing like the famous photos Time magazine had published a decade previously, or the even older photos from his days as one of Georgetown’s brightest young faculty members. For one thing, he’d been smiling in those pictures. For another, he’d aged; or maybe “weathered” was a better term for it. Clearly, time-scouting was hard on the health. Moreover, he wasn’t in “uniform.” She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to be wearing, but that drab suit and wilted tie were a considerable letdown. The Time pictorial, the one which had fired her childhood imagination and had given her the courage to get through the last few years, had shown the pioneer of all time scouts in full regalia, armed to the teeth and ready for the Roman arena. The man whose current scowl boded ill things for Margo’s future, the man who had “pushed” the famous Roman Gate—the one right here in Shangri-la Station which Time Tours ran so profitably—was a real disappointment in the hero department.
If legend were accurate, he had nearly died pushing that gate. Margo didn’t put much stock in the legend, now. Kenneth “Kit” Carson didn’t look a thing like a man who’d survived gladiatorial combat. Long, thin, and wiry, he wore that rumpled business suit the way a convict might wear his uniform and sported a bristly mustache as thin and scraggly as the rest of him. His hair—too long and combed back from a high, craggy forehead—was going grey. He slouched when he walked, looking several inches shorter than the six-foot-two she knew him to be. He darted his gaze around the dim room like a man searching for enemies, rather than someone looking for a private table in a perfectly ordinary bar.
He didn’t look like a retired hero or a retired history professor. He looked like a thoroughly irritated, dangerous old man, past sixty at least. Margo, at sixteen and forty-some weeks, swallowed hard and told herself, Get a grip. Remember the speech you rehearsed. Unfortunately, not only had the body of her speech fled, so had the carefully prepared intro, leaving her floundering for words as she set down her case and scooted into the booth her life’s hero had chosen. He’d already taken a seat at the very back. The booth reeked of beer and cheap smoke.
The bartender, a good-looking young man with a great smile, arrived with a tumblerful of bourbon and an expectant air. He slid the bourbon unerringly across the dimly lit table toward Kit Carson, then turned to her.
“Uh . . .” She tried to think what she ought to order. Make a good impression . . . Margo vacillated between her favorite—a raspberry daiquiri—and something that might rescue the shreds of her reputation with this man. She hadn’t seen prices listed anywhere and tried to estimate how much this interview was going to cost. Oh, hell . . . Margo threw caution to the winds, figuring decisiveness was better than looking like a dithering idiot. “Bourbon. Same as Mr. Carson’s.”
The waiter, a dim shape at best in this hell-hole of a corner, bowed in a curiously ancient fashion and disappeared. Kit Carson only grunted, an enigmatic sound that might have been admiration or thinly veiled disgust. At least he hadn’t asked if she were old enough to drink. The bourbon arrived. She knocked back half of it in one gulp, then sat blinking involuntary tears and blessing the darkness.
Gah. . . .Where had they distilled this stuff?
“So . . .” She sensed more than saw movement across the table. “You said you had a business proposition?” The voice emanating from the dark was about as warm as a Minneapolis January. “I might remind you, young lady, I’m taking time out of a busy schedule at the Neo Edo. I already have a business to run.” This wasn’t going well at all.
I’m not going to give up! Not that easily! Margo cleared her throat, thought about taking another sip of her drink, then thought better. No sense strangling again and cementing her doom. Her hands were trembling against the nearly invisible bourbon glass. She cleared her throat again, afraid her voice would come out a scared squeak. “I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Carson, because everyone agrees you’re the very best time scout in the business.”
“I’m retired,” he said drily.
She wished she could see his face and decided he’d chosen this spot deliberately to put her off balance.
Cranky old . . .
“Yes, I know. I understand that. But . . .” Oh, God, I sound like an idiot. “I want to become a time scout. I’ve come to you for training.” She blurted it out before she could lose her nerve.
A choked sound in the darkness hinted that she’d caught him mid-sip. He gave out a strangled wheeze, coughed once, then set his drink down with a sharp click. A match flared, revealing a thin, strong hand and a stubby candle in a glass holder. Carson lit the candle, fanned out the match, then just stared at her. His eyes in the golden candle glow were frankly disbelieving.
“You what?”
The question came out flat as a Minnesota wheatfield. He hadn’t moved and didn’t blink.
“I want to be a time scout.” She held his gaze steadily.
“Uh-huh.” He held her gaze until she blinked. His eyes narrowed to slits, while his lips thinned to the merest white line under the bristly mustache. Oh, God, don’t think about your father; you aren’t facing him so just hang onto your nerve . . .
Abruptly he downed the rest of the bourbon in one gulp and bellowed, “Marcus! Bring me the whole damned bottle!”
Marcus arrived hastily. “You are all right, Kit?”
Kit, no less. The bartender was on first-name basis with the most famous time scout in the world and she was left feeling like a little girl begging her father for a candy bar.
Kit flashed the young man that world-famous smile and said, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just leave the bottle, would you? And get a glass of white wine for the lady. I think she damn near choked on that bourbon.”
Margo felt her cheeks grow hot. “I like bourbon.”
“Uh-huh.” It was remarkable, how much meaning Kit Carson could work into that two-syllable catch-phrase.
“Well, I do! Look, I’m serious—”
He held up a hand. “No. Not until I’ve had another drink.”
Margo narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t an alcoholic, was he? She’d had enough of dealing with that for several lifetimes.
The bartender returned with the requested bottle and a surprisingly elegant glass of wine. Kit poured for himself and sipped judiciously, then leaned back against worn leather upholstery. Margo ignored the wine. She hadn’t ordered it and would neither drink it nor pay for it.
“Now,” Carson said. His face had closed into an unreadable mask. “You’re serious about time scouting, are you? Who jilted you, little girl?”
“Huh? What do you mean, who jilted me?” Her bewildered question opened the door to as scathing an insult as Margo had ever received. “Well, clearly you’re bent on suicide.” Margo opened her mouth several times, aghast that nothing suitable would come out in the way of a retort. Kit Carson grinned—nastily. “Honey, whoever he was—or she was—they weren’t worth it. My advice is get over the broken heart, go back home, and get a safe little job as a finance banker or a construction worker or something. Forget time-scouting.”
Margo knocked back the bourbon angrily. How dare he . . .
She sucked air and coughed. Damn, damn, damn. . . .”I wasn’t jilted by anybody,” she gritted. “And I’m not suicidal.”
“Uh-huh. Then you’re crazy. Or just plain stupid.”
Margo bit dawn on her temper. “Why? I know it’s a dangerous profession. Wanting to scout doesn’t make me a loon or a fool. Lots of people do it and I’m not the first woman to take on a dangerous job.”
Carson poured a refill for himself. “You’re not drinking your wine.”
“No,” she grated. “I’m not” She held out the empty bourbon glass. He held her gaze for a moment, then splashed liquid fire and waited until she’d choked it down.
“Okay,” Carson said, in the manner of a history teacher warming to a lecture, “for the moment, let’s rule out stupid. After all, you did have the sense to look for an experienced teacher.”
Margo was sure she was being subtly insulted, but couldn’t nail down why. Something in the glint of those cynical eyes . . .
“So . . . that leaves us with crazy, which is a word that clearly sets your pearly white teeth on edge.”
“Well, wouldn’t you be insulted?”
That world-famous grin came and went, like an evil jack-o’-lantern in the dim candle glow. “In your situation? No. But clearly you are, so an explanation is in order. You want to know why you are crazy? Fine. Because you’ve got about as much chance of time-scouting as Marcus, there, has of becoming an astronaut. Kid, you’re flogging a dead horse.”
She turned involuntarily and found the gorgeous young Marcus near the front of the bar. Smiling and waiting on new customers, he looked like a perfectly ordinary college-age guy in jeans and a T-shirt. Margo glared at the retired time scout. “That’s a pretty big insult, don’t you think? It’s clear he’s a friend of yours.” Then she twigged to the name, the not-quite-Italian accent, the curious bow he’d given Kit. Marcus was still a popular modern name, but it had been a popular name in ancient Rome, too. “Oh. Down-timer?”
Carson nodded. “Roman Gate. Some asshole tourist decided it would be fun to buy a slave and brought him through to La-La Land, then dumped him and vanished up time before the ATF could arrest him. Not only does Marcus have no legal standing whatsoever, he literally could never overcome the handicap he’s carrying in terms of education, ingrained superstitions, what have you. He’s an ancient Roman slave. And if you don’t know what that means, not only here,” he tapped his temple, “but also here,” he tapped his heart, “then you have no business even trying to become a time scout.”
“I’m not an uneducated slave dumped up time to cope with alien technology,” Margo countered. “It’s a helluva lot easier to understand ancient superstitions than it is to comprehend physics and math. And I got brilliant grades in dramatics, even had a chance to work off-Broadway.” The half-truth sounded convincing enough; at least her voice had held steady. “I came here, instead. Frankly, I don’t see how your argument holds water.”
Carson sighed. “Look. First of all, there is no way I’m going to shepherd some greenhorn scout, regardless of who they are or how brilliant at dramatics they think they are, through the toughest training you’ve ever imagined, any more than I’m going to try to hammer some sense into that empty little head of yours.” She bristled silently. “Second, you’re a woman.”
Congratulations, she fumed silently. An MCP, on top of everything else. You and my father should start a club. “I know all the arguments—”
“Do you?” Brown eyes narrowed into an intricate ladder of lines and gullies put there by too much sun and too many years of hard living. “Then you should’ve had the sense not to waste my time. Women can’t be time scouts.”
Margo’s temper flared. “You’re supposed to be the best there is! Why don’t you stop quoting all the doom-sayers and find a way! From what I’ve gathered, you had to retire but didn’t much like it. Think what a challenge it’d be, training the first woman time scout in the business.”
His eyes glinted briefly. Interest? Or acknowledgement of spunk? Impossible to tell. . . . He knocked back his bourbon and gave her a long, clear-eyed stare. Margo, determined to match him, knocked back her own. This was getting easier. Either that or her throat was numb. The edges of Carson’s face had begun to waver a bit, though. Bad sign. Definitely should’ve had lunch.
Carson, evidently sober as a stone, tipped more bourbon into his tumbler. Gamely she held out her glass. Very gently, he closed his hand around it and pushed it to the table.
“Point one: you’re drunk and don’t have the sense to quit. I will not ride herd on a greenhorn trying to prove a point to the whole world.” Margo flushed. “Point two: the role of women down time, just about anywhere or anywhen you might land, is . . . less than what we’d consider socially respected. And women’s mobility in many societies was severely limited. Then there’s the problem of fashion.”
Margo had thought all this through and had a counterargument ready, but Carson wasn’t slowing down long enough to voice it. She sat and listened helplessly while the man whose accomplishments had given her the courage to keep going nailed down the coffin lid on her dreams.
“Women’s fashions change radically from locale to locale, often from year to year. What happens if you go scouting through an unknown gate and show up a couple of centuries off in clothing style? Or maybe a whole continent off? Any idea how ridiculous you’d look in 200 b.c. China, wearing an eighteenth-century British ball gown? You’d stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Maybe—probably, even—you’d end up dead. Quite a few societies weren’t real tolerant of witches.”
“—But—”
“At best, you’d end up in prison for life. Or even more fun, in some asshole’s private harem. Just how fond of rape are you, Margo?”
She felt like he’d punched her. Painful memory threatened to break her control. Margo was shaking down to her fingertips and Carson, damn him, wasn’t done yet. In fact, the look in his eyes was one of growing satisfaction as he noticed the tremor in her hand.
He leaned forward, closing in on the kill. “Point three: I will not train a nice kid and turn her over to the likes of some of the brutes I’ve encountered. Even the nicest down-time men often have a nasty habit of beating their favorite women for cardinal sins like talking too much. Whatever your reasons, Margo, forget ’em. Go home.”
The interview was clearly over.
Kit Carson didn’t quite condescend to pat her head on the way out. He left her sitting in the candle-lit booth, fighting tears of rage—and worse—of crushing disappointment. Margo downed a big glass of bourbon and vowed, One day you’re gonna eat those words. Cold and raw, you’ll eat “em. She couldn’t bear to glance in the direction of his friends. Margo flinched inwardly at the spate of laughter from a crowded table across the room. She closed her hand around the bourbon bottle, gripping until he fingers ached She was not a quitter. She intended to become the world’s first woman time scout. She didn’t care what it took.
The bill, when Marcus the displaced slave presented it, represented a third of everything Margo possessed in the world, even minus the glass of white wine. She was being charged only for the bottle of bourbon. Margo groaned inwardly and dug into her belt pouch for money. How she was going to pay for a room now . . .
“Well,” she told herself, “time to put Plan B into operation.”
Find a job and settle in for a long, hard battle to find someone willing to train her. If Kit Carson wouldn’t do it, maybe someone else would. Malcolm Moore, maybe. Freelance time guide wasn’t what she had in mind, but it was a start. If, of course, he could be convinced to help train his own competition . . .
Margo poured another shot of bourbon. As long as she was paying for it . . .
Clearly, this would be a long, long day.