
Time Scout
Copyright © 1995
Robert Asprin & Linda Evans
CHAPTER FOUR
The klaxon marking the re-opening of Primary sounded just as Kit
settled down for breakfast in Frontier Town's Bronco Billy Café.
He smiled to himself, wishing a mental bon voyage to the
redheaded Margo of No Last Name. The computerized register of
incoming tourists had shown only "Margo Smith" who held
a transfer ID stamp from New York. In New York City anyone could
get any sort of credentials, could have any fake name tacked onto
one's mandatory medical records, which had to match a person's
retinal scans and fingerprints to get past ATF Security.
After the orbital blowup which had created the time strings that
made temporal travel possible, so many records had been damaged
and destroyed, New York's underworld had cleaned up issuing new
identities. Scuttlebutt had it that new ID's were cheaper than
down-time tickets to a temporal station.
If Smith were Margo's real last name, Kit would eat his shoes.
He hadn't seen her since her arrival-thank God-although he'd heard
from several people she was asking everywhere for a teacher. So
far as he knew, everyone had turned her down flat. Now she'd be
departing for home where she belonged. It was with a sense of
profound relief that Kit banished all thought of Margo "Smith."
He smiled at the waitress, clad primly in a high-collared dress
with a striped, floor-length skirt.
"Morning, Kit," she dimpled. "The usual?"
"Good morning, Bertie. Yes, please, with a side of hash browns."
Bertie poured coffee and produced a copy of this morning's Shangrila
Gazette. Kit was halfway through the "Scout Reports"
section-which comprised at least a third of the small newspaper-when
the klaxon announcing the closure of Primary sounded. Kit grinned.
"Bye, Margo. Have a nice, safe life." He settled deeper
into his chair, sipped coffee, and continued reading the latest
reports from young time scouts who were busy continuing his work
into all manner of unlikely places and times.
"Well, what do you know about that?" Some lucky scout
over at TT73 had pushed a gate into the middle of the Russian
palace built by Catherine the Great and had inadvertently caught
her in flagrante delicto with one of those infamous Russian
boars. . . .
Kit chuckled, then raised a brow at the purported offers generated
in a bidding war between uptime porno outfits. The clever scout
had brought back a videotape. Another scout, over at TT13, had
returned from a hair-raising trip into the European Wurm glaciation
with an anthropologist's ransom in documentation on Cro-Magnon
lifestyles.
Sometimes, Kit really missed his old life.
Bertie returned with his breakfast and a smile. She glanced at
the open newspaper. "I see you found the story on Catherine's
palace."
Kit chuckled. "Yep. Lucky mutt."
Bertie rolled her eyes. "Personally, I think it's disgusting
what the porno outfits are offering him. And who'd want to sleep
with a giant hog? Now, the scout who took the video is another
matter." She winked. "Any lonely time scout needs a
room for the night. . . ."
Kit grinned, knowing Bertie's offer was only a tease, at least
where he was concerned. Kit had a far-flung reputation as the
world's straightest-laced time scout. It made most of the women
on TT86 treat him like a favorite uncle or a third grandfather.
That had its advantages, but sometimes . . .
He sighed and pushed away thoughts of Sarah. Ancient history,
Kit. But he still couldn't help wondering sometimes if he
might have found a way to make it work. Yeah. Right. You weren't
good enough for her, Georgia Boy. Despite the years, their
last fight still had the power to hurt him. And when he'd gone
looking for her, what her father and uncle had said . . .
Kit gave a deliberate mental shrug. She'd made her choices and
he'd made his. He'd been through every conceivable argument over
the years, trying to figure a way it might have gone differently,
and he'd never found one. So Kit picked up his fork, carefully
not allowing himself to wonder what had become of Sarah-or if
she ever thought about him when she read the newspapers or watched
the idiotic docudramas. . . .
Really, Kit told himself sourly, after all this time,
there is no point crying about it. He smoothed the paper,
turned to a fresh page, and dug into the heaping plate of Denver-style
steak and eggs, with a bird's-nest side of golden-brown hashed
potatoes drenched with melted cheese and liberally mixed with
fried onions and green-pepper chunks. Ahh . . . Bronco
Billy's knew how to make breakfast.
Kit was halfway through the steak, cooked rare just the way he
liked it, when a shadow fell across his table. He glanced up-and
nearly choked on a bite of half-swallowed beef.
Margo.
She was dressed conservatively enough in jeans and a semi-see-through
sweater, but wore a look of determined sweetness that didn't fit
the tilt of her chin. "Hello, Mr. Carson. May I join you?"
Kit coughed, still half-choked on the bite in his throat. He grabbed
the coffee cup and gulped, scalding the roof of his mouth and
his tongue. Kit burned the back of his throat, too; but the steaming
liquid dislodged the bite of steak. He wheezed, swallowing while
he blinked involuntary tears. He finally sat back and glared at
her. This was the second time she'd nearly strangled him, catching
him off-guard like that. Christ, I'm losing my touch if a half-grown
kid can damn near kill me twice in two days.
"Still here, I see," he growled, still sounding half
strangled. "I was hoping you'd gone home."
Margo's smile was chilly. "I told you, Mr. Carson. I have
no intention of going home. I'm going to be a time scout and I
don't care what it takes."
He thought about Catherine the Great and her Russian boar and
wondered what this green kid would've done in that situation.
Gone all schoolgirl incensed, or burst in protesting cruelty to
animals?
"Uh-huh. Just how much money have you got, kid?"
Her face flushed unbecomingly. "Enough. And I've applied
for a job."
"Doing what?" Kit blurted. "Serving drinks in that
damned leather miniskirt of yours?"
Margo's eyes narrowed. "Listen, Mr. Carson, I will stay on
this terminal, no matter how long it takes or who I have to find
to teach me. But I'm going to be a time scout. I was hoping I
could persuade you to change your mind. I'm not stupid and I have
some pretty good ideas about overcoming the handicap of my gender.
But I'm not going to stand here and be insulted like some truant
schoolkid, because I am not a child."
You damn near are, Kit groused to himself, impressed with
her tenacity and appalled that she was so determined to die. Kit
sat back in his chair and ran one hand through his greying hair.
"Look, Margo, I admire your determination. Really, I do."
The look in her eyes, sudden and unexpected, disturbed Kit. Good
God, is she going to cry? Kit cleared his throat.
"But I won't be a party to your death, which is likely to
be messy and very painful. Did you bother to read any of the scouting
reports in this?" He held up the Gazette. "Or
the obituaries section?"
Time-scouts' obituaries took up a whole page of the Shangrila
Gazette. The details were often gruesome.
She shrugged. "People die all the time."
"Yes, they do. So do time scouts. Let me tell you how
time scouts die, kid. Sam One-Eagle over at TT37 was killed by
the Inquisition. They burned him alive, Margo, after taking all
the skin off his back with whips and breaking all his major bones
on the rack. His partner crawled back through with burns over
most of his body from trying to rescue him. David lived for a
month. The nurses said he spent most of it screaming."
Margo had blanched. But her chin came up. "So what? I could
get run over by a bus, too, and plane crash victims get toasted
just as thoroughly."
Kit tossed his hands heavenward. "Good God, Margo. The Inquisition
is nothing to be flippant about. You haven't seen one of their
torture rooms. I have. And I have the scars to prove it. Would
you like to see them?"
Slim jaw muscles tightened. She didn't say a word.
"And do you have any idea, kid, what gave me away? What got
me arrested by those bastards?"
She shook her head.
"A mispronounced word, Margo. That was all. A mispronounced
word. And I speak fluent medieval Spanish."
She swallowed; but she had a comeback. "You lived through
it."
Kit sighed and pushed his plate away. He wasn't hungry any longer.
"Fine. You want to get killed, feel free. Just don't ask
me to help you do it. Now scram, before I lose my temper."
Margo didn't say another word. She just stalked out of Bronco
Billy's and vanished into the bustle of Frontier Town. Kit muttered
under his breath and glared at the passing crowds. Just what was
it about this kid that needled him so thoroughly? She was every
damned bit as stubborn as Sarah and made him very nearly as crazy.
Maybe it was genetic. He never had been able to resist petite
women with heart-shaped faces and freckles.
"Huh. Women."
He shook out his newspaper irritably and folded it over to a new
section.
"Mr. Carson?"
"What?" he snapped, glaring up at a middle-aged man
he'd never laid eyes on. Good God, can't a man eat his breakfast
in peace?
"I'm sorry to interrupt . . ." The man's voice trailed
off. "Er, I, that is- Excuse me. I'll come back later."
He was already in the process of stepping away from the table.
Kit focused on the slim portfolio he carried, the carefully pressed
suit, the expensive shoes . . .
"Don't run away," Kit said with a lingering growl in
his voice. "Sorry I snapped at you. I just finished a very
unpleasant conversation, is all. Please, sit down."
And if you're a reporter, mister, you'll end up wearing what's
left of my breakfast. . . .
"My name is Fisk, Harry Fisk." He offered a business
card, which gave Kit no real clues other than his office was in
Miami. "I represent the management of TT27, located in the
Caribbean Basin. We're looking for a consultant . . ."
Kit heard him out. The job sounded intriguing. A lucrative, full-time
consultantship, unlimited trips to a time he was pretty sure he'd
never visited, as primary consultant to the Time Tours agent looking
to develop a new gate destination, paid apartments at TT27's finest
luxury hotel . . .
It was a magnificent chance to escape Neo Edo's paperwork and
the endless stream of raucous, thieving tourists. Kit scratched
his chin and thought about it. Leaving TT86 meant leaving friends.
And he did owe it to Jimmy and the other retired time scouts in
his employment to look after them. He wouldn't sell out to just
anyone.
"No," he decided, "I don't think so, Mr. Fisk.
I have a hotel to run."
"We would be more than happy to install a full-time manager
for the duration of your consultantship, Mr. Carson. Time Tours
wants the best for this project."
Huh. Now there was a fat offer. Paradise for as long as
he wanted to live in it and he kept his steady income, too. And
somebody else did the paperwork. The image of Margo, her
face pinched and white as she stood over his table staring him
down, flashed through his mind.
Dammit, kid, stay out of my head.
Kit toyed with his cold eggs, scooting them back and forth on
the plate with the tines of his fork. He'd been waiting for something
like this for a long time.
"No," he found himself saying. "I appreciate the
offer, really; but not just now."
Mr. Fisk's face fell-ludicrously. "I really wish you would
reconsider, Mr. Carson."
Kit shrugged. "Ask me again in a week or so. We time scouts
are a changeable lot."
Fisk tightened his lips imperceptibly. "Yes, so I've discovered.
Well, you have my card, but my employers are most anxious to press
ahead with this project and there are other retired time scouts
on my list."
Kit nodded. "I expect there are. And I'm sure most of them
need the job more than I do." He held out his hand. Fisk
shook it, betraying grudging respect in his eyes.
"If you reconsider your position in the next two days, please
let me know."
He had until Primary cycled to change his mind.
Kit didn't foresee that happening.
Mr. Fisk left him with his cold eggs.
"Huh. It was probably a scam, anyway," Kit muttered.
"Too good to be true equals dubious in my book. Besides,
who wants to live in the Bermuda Triangle?" He could do that
by jumping down LaLa Land's unstable gate. He shoved Fisk's business
card into his pocket and tackled his cold breakfast, telling himself
his decision had nothing to do with keeping track of that stupid
little imp, Margo.
Sure it doesn't, Kit. And toadie frogs got wings.
He muttered into his scraggly mustache and finished his morning
paper, determined not to think about Margo or her suicide mission.
Why was it, Kit mourned silently, that all the real trouble
in his life inevitably came skipping in on the coattails of some
irresistibly pretty girl?
If word of this got around . . .
Well, he'd just take his lumps and deal with the snickers. What
Kit Carson did, or didn't do, was his own damned business. Yeah.
Mine and the rest of LaLa Land's. He signalled Bertie for
a fresh cup of coffee and promptly fell to worrying about where
Margo was going to find someone reputable enough to trust with
her life. Maybe he could talk to Sergei or Leon or . . .
No, he told himself, if you won't teach her yourself,
do not try and line up somebody else for the job. Frankly,
he couldn't think of a single time scout who'd be willing to try
it, anyway.
Vastly relieved by that observation, Kit put Margo firmly out
of mind.
Why, Margo wailed silently, does he have to be so beastly?
She'd found a quiet spot under a vine-covered portico in Urbs
Romae where she could sit with knees tucked under chin and indulge
in a good, long cry.
Mom warned me . . .
That only brought fresh misery and a new flood of angry tears.
She wiped her cheek with the back of one fist and sniffed hugely.
"I won't give up. Damn him, I won't. There just has to be
someone else on this miserable station who'll teach me."
So far, she had struck out with everyone she'd approached, even
the freelance guides like Malcolm Moore. At least most of them
had been nicer about it than Kit Carson. Even a brusque "Get
lost, brat" was kinder than gruesome images of people being
tortured to death.
"I'll bet he doesn't have any lousy scars," she sniffed.
"And Sam One-Eagle probably isn't any more real than these
stupid fake columns. He doesn't want me to be a scout, is all,
so he's trying to scare me."
The thought of returning to Minnesota and the jeers . . .
Never mind her father. . . .
Margo shivered and hugged her knees more tightly.
"Hell will freeze over first."
"Hell will freeze over before what?"
Margo jumped nearly out of her skin. The voice had spoken almost
in her ear. She swung around and found a face peering at her through
the vines. A male face. A gorgeous male face. Margo's personal-defense
radar surged onto full-power alert. She'd had all she wanted of
gorgeous men. But his winning smile was the friendliest thing
she'd seen in two and a half days and after that miserable, gawdawful
interview with Kit Carson . . .
"Hey, what's wrong?" He'd noticed the tears. Whoever
he was, he ducked under the vines and dug for a handkerchief.
"Here, use mine."
Margo eyed him suspiciously, then accepted the hanky. "Thanks."
She dried her face and blew her nose, then wadded up the handkerchief
and offered it back.
"No, keep it. You look like you need it more than I do."
He sat down cross-legged on the floor. "You're still a little
drippy," he added with an attempt at a laugh.
Margo grimaced and blotted her cheeks. "Sorry. I'm not normally
so weepy. But it's been a bad week."
"What's wrong? You look half starved."
Margo sniffed. She was. "Well . . . it's been a couple of
days since I ate."
"A couple of days? Good grief, what happened? Some
con artist steal all your money?"
Margo laughed, surprising herself. "No. I didn't have much
to steal in the first place. And what there was, I've used up.
All I have left is my suitcase and a hotel bill I can't pay tonight."
He tipped his head to one side. "Are you the girl everyone's
talking about? The one who wants to become a time scout?"
"Oh, God . . ." Insult on top of injury.
"Hey, no, don't cry again. Honest, it's okay. I've been looking
for you."
Margo blinked and stared at him. "Why?"
"I'm a scout. I've been looking for a partner."
"Honest?" Her voice came out all watery and breathy.
It couldn't be true-but oh, Lord, how she wanted it to be . .
.
He grinned. "Honest. My name's Jackson. Skeeter Jackson.
I just got back from a quick run up time and heard you were looking
for a teacher. I've been thinking I needed a partner for a while-that's
why I was up time, actually-then I come back and what do I find?
The challenge of a lifetime, right in my own back yard!"
He grinned and held out a hand.
Margo couldn't believe it. A week of her precious six months gone
and all she'd had to show for it was a collection of insults,
and now . . . maybe there was a God, after all. She'd be careful-Billy
Pandropolous, who was enough heartbreak for any lifetime, had
taught her nothing, if not that. But Skeeter Jackson didn't appear
to be hustling her. At least, not yet. She shook his hand. "Mr.
Jackson, if you're for real-well, you'll be a lifesaver. I mean
it. And I promise, I will work as hard as I have to. I'll make
you proud." She ventured a tentative smile, appealing directly
to what men seemed to value most. "I'll even try to make
you rich."
Skeeter Jackson's eyes were warm, friendly. "I'm sure you
will. Come on, let me buy you some breakfast."
He gave her a hand up. Margo dried her cheeks again and gave him
a brave smile. "Thanks. I'll pay you back. . . ."
He laughed and gallantly offered his arm. "Don't mention
it. I'll take it out of your wages."
Margo found herself grinning as she took Mr. Jackson's arm. Maybe,
finally, her luck had changed for the better. Just wait until
Kit Carson heard about this! He'd choke on his eggs again. And
after the way he'd treated her, he deserved it! Dreaming of thrills,
adventure, and plates of heaped bacon and pancakes, Margo accompanied
her new teacher out into the bright, busy Commons of Shangrila
Station.

Copyright © 1995 by Robert Asprin & Linda Evans