Kit stooped and eased off her shoes, earning a deep sigh. Connie's feet, clad in tabi socks, were visibly swollen even through the cotton. He rubbed gently. She collapsed bonelessly against the backrest.
"Oh, God ...I love you, Kit Carson."
Kit chuckled. "That's what all the ladies say. Had dinner yet?"
She peeled one eyelid. "No, but I don't have time. Still have a special order for the London run to finish designing and after that I have a new batch of sketches from Rome and some samples that you just wouldn't believe, how gorgeous they are ...."
Kit grinned. "I'll take a rain check, then. Don't forget to order pizza or something."
"Scout's honor." Connie melted another few inches down the bench while Kit finished her feet, then sighed and stood up. She wriggled cotton-clad toes against the concrete. "Blessings on your soul, Kit. I may be able to limp back, now."
"Mind if I ask a stupid question?"
"Shoot."
"How come you tortured yourself into walking halfway down the Commons in those things?"
Connie grinned. "I paced it out beforehand,-to the exact distance of the harlots' processions through Yoshiwara. If I can go the distance in those infernal shoes, anyone can."
Connie Logan wasn't exactly sickly, but she was fragile. Kit scratched the side of his jaw. "Well, I guess you have a point. Still seems a helluva way to design costumes."
Connie laughed. "This, from the man who pioneered masochism into a new art form. Just why did you become a time scout?"
"I cannot tell a lie." He leaned closer and whispered, "Because it's fun."
"There you have it. l get to play dress-up, every day." She stooped for the hideous shoes, then gave him a quick hug full of pins. "Thanks, hon. Gotta go. Oh ...I saw that kid the other day,. with Skeeter Jackson."
Kit groaned.
Connie's brows twitched down. "Good grief, Kit, she really got to you, didn't she? You ought to say something to her. She worships you, and Skeeter's going to get her killed. You wouldn't believe what he had her wearing."
"Great. Since when did I get promoted to greenhorn daddy?"
Connie flashed him a grin. "You don't fool me, Kenneth Carson. You care. It's why we like you. Gotta run."
Kit was still grumbling under his breath long after Connie had vanished back toward her outfitters' shop. "Sometimes," he groused, "this Mr. Nice-Guy rep is more trouble than it's worth." He sighed. "Well, hell." He really couldn't countenance allowing Skeeter Jackson to pass himself off as an instructor of time scouts.
Normally residents didn't interfere in other residents' business dealings. But there was a difference between fleecing obnoxious tourists out of a few dollars and perpetrating negligent homicide. Skeeter, never having been a scout-having rarely even been down time, probably didn't realize just how deadly his current scam was. Kit swore under his breath. He probably wouldn't earn any thanks, but he had to try.
Kit dropped by the Neo Edo just long enough to put away his cue case and be sure Jimmy had the business well in hand, then started asking around for Skeeter. Typically, nobody recalled seeing him. Kit knew some of his favorite haunts, but the rascal wasn't in any of them. Skeeter generally avoided Castletown, since even he didn't care to risk fleecing the wrong person and end up someplace really nasty, minus several fingers. Kit checked all of Skeeter's favorite watering holes in Frontier Town, then hit the pubs in Victoria Station. Nothing. Skeeter Jackson was making himself mighty scarce.
"Well, he's got to be someplace."
With no gates currently open, Shangri-la Station was closed up tight. The only exits were hermetically sealed airlocks leading-if the main chronometers and Kit's own equipment were correct into the heart of the Tibetan Himalayas, circa late April of 1910. The only reason those airlocks would ever be opened would be to escape a catastrophic station fire. And since halon systems had been built into every cranny of La-La Land...
Skeeter hadn't left the station, not unless he'd fallen through an unstable gate somewhere.
"We should be so lucky Kit muttered "Well, genius, now what?" He planted hands on hips and surveyed the breadth of Victoria Station, which wound from one side of Commons to the other in a maze of pseudo-cobbled streets, wrought-iron "street lamps," park-like waiting areas, picturesque shop fronts, and the inevitable cobwebbing of catwalks and ramps which led up to the Britannia Gate near the ceiling.
A tourist in a garish bar-girl costume left the Prince Albert Pub and fumbled in a small purse that would have been more appropriate for an American frontier matron. Slim white shoulders rose above a shocking neckline. Kit couldn't see her face. A drooping bunch of black feathers from a hat that should have been paired with a tea gown hid her features. The hemline of her dress was cut rakishly high enough to reveal shoes that were completely out of period.
"Huh. She went to a lousy outfitter."
The tourist closed her purse, then turned on an emphatic stilt heel. Kit groaned. It figured.
Margo ...
"Well, Connie did warn me." He squared metaphorical shoulders and moved to intercept her, stepping out from behind a "street lamp" into her path. "Hi."
Margo glanced up, badly startled, and teetered on high heels. Kit let her regain her balance.
"Oh. It's you." Belatedly, she said, "Hi." Then her chin came up. "I found a teacher."
"Yes, I know. That's why I want to talk to you."
Margo's eyes widened. "You do?" Almost instantly, suspicion flared. "Why?"
Kit sighed. "Look, can we just declare a truce for about fifteen minutes?"
She eyed him narrowly, then shrugged. "Sure." She tossed her head slightly to bounce feathers out of her eyes.
Kit started to say, "That hat's on backwards," then bit his tongue. He didn't want to antagonize her. He wanted to save her life. So he suggested, "Let's go over to the library. It's quiet. We shouldn't be interrupted."
Margo eyed him curiously. "Why are you taking the trouble? I thought you hated me."
"Hated you? I don't hate anybody, Margo. Time scouts can't afford the luxury of hate."
Or love ...
Margo's eyes had gone curiously wide and vulnerable. "Oh. Well, I'm glad."
Kit recalled what Connie had said-"she worships you" and sighed. He wasn't cut out to be anybody's personal hero.
"Come on, Margo. The sooner I get this said, the sooner you can tell me where to jump off, then we can both call it quits." He eyed her unhappily. "And contrary to what you clearly believe, I don't enjoy hurting people's feelings."
For once, she didn't come back with a sharp remark. She just followed him wordlessly toward the library.
Margo knew time terminals had libraries. Tourists, guides, and time scouts all used them, to one degree or another. Her original legwork had revealed that time terminal libraries were among the most sophisticated research facilities in the world. But Skeeter Jackson hadn't suggested they go there and she hadn't given it much thought. Margo had never been fond of books. She preferred direct, dramatic action and firsthand experience. Poring through dusty, musty pages nobody had cracked open in fifty years only made her crazy. Besides, all those experts disagreed anyway, and a time scout's job was to go places and find out what the truth was.
Still ...
La-La Land's library overawed.
Margo repressed a delicate shudder and didn't even try to calculate the number of books contained in this ...the word "room" seemed inadequate. And computer terminals, too, with recognizable CD-ROM and video drives, all voice-activated. Judging from the snippets of soft-voiced commands she heard from a dozen busy users, they were programmed for multiple-language recognition. The computers drew Margo's attention more thoroughly than any of the books.
Mr. Carson-she had trouble thinking of him as "Kit"-spoke briefly with a slim, dark-skinned man in his mid-thirties, then steered her toward the back.
Several private cubicles had been built into the back wall, complete with computer and sound-board hookups.
> "What are these for?"
"Language labs," Carson said quietly. "I take it you haven't been here yet?"
Margo detected no particular edge to his voice, but the question irritated her. "No. Skeeter has me busy doing important things." Like earning a living to pay for the equipment I'm going to need.
"Uh-huh. This one's empty." He pushed open a door and held it for her.
Margo fluffed inside and took the only chair. Her nemesis closed the door with a quiet click of the latch.
"Now. About this teacher of yours..."
"I suppose you're going to tell me how he's charging more than I can afford and what a fool I am and how I'll starve before I get my first big contract with Time Tours or some other outfit. Well guess again. He's not charging me anything but an advance on expenses and most of what I need I'm earning with the job he helped me find. He wants a partner."
Kit Carson just looked at her. He leaned against the door, crossed his ankles comfortably, and looked at her like she was the most recalcitrant, lame-brained child he'd ever encountered. It made her mad.
"Don't smirk at me, you egotistical-!"
"Margo," he formed a classic "T' shape with his hands, "time out, remember? No insults, no temper tantrums. And I'm not smirking."
"Huh. Could'a fooled me." But she subsided. He was trying to be nice for a change; the least she could do was listen. "Okay, go on."
"Skeeter Jackson has told you he's a time scout, looking for a partner. True or false?"
"True." She bit one fingernail, then folded her arms and tried not to fidget. "What of it?"
"He's not a time scout. Never has been, never will be. Frankly, he's neither crazy nor stupid and he knows his limits."
Oh, no...
"Are you calling Mr. Jackson a liar?" she asked quietly.
His smile held a certain strained quality. "Yes. And before you say anything, I'd like to point out that liar's not the worst thing he's been called. Backstabbing cheat comes a little closer."
"How dare you-"
"Shut up and listen!"
The indolent pose had vanished Margo shut up. She'd never heard such cold authority in anyone's voice. He wasn't angry just relentless. And Margo was scared.
After Billy Pandropolous ...
"Skeeter Jackson is a con artist. A two-bit operator who makes his living fleecing tourists. If there's a scam on the books, he's used it. Currency exchange scams, luggage theft, pick pocketing, black-marketeering, you name it."
Margo didn't want to hear any more. Every word he clipped off reduced her closer to the status of gullible fool-again.
"Skeeter doesn't touch 'eighty-sixers, which is the only reason Station Security tolerates him. He's probably wanted in half the sovereign nations in the world on various charges. Nothing violent, nothing dangerous ...until now."
"What do you mean?" Even Margo realized how petulant she sounded.
"If I thought all you'd lose was the shirt off your pretty back, I'd let you have all the rope you want to hang yourself. But if you keep `studying' with Skeeter Jackson, then walk through an unexplored gate thinking you're a time scout, you won't come back."
"Well, you didn't leave -me much choice, did you? I did come to you first, if you'll recall."
He nodded. "Yep. And I gave you a fair assessment of your chances. I just thought you deserved to know how deadly this little game of yours is. Walking in with eyes wide open is a little different from being conned. Like I said before, I don't want your death on my conscience.
"Thanks for caring!" Margo snapped. "I can do without your advice, if that's all you've got to say!"
He sighed and didn't offer to move.
"Well? Are you leaving or what?"
"Just what is he teaching you?"
Margo crossed her arms again. "None of your business. If you won't teach me, why should I bother answering questions you'll just charge me money to answer?"
His eyes narrowed. "Don't be insulting. Who picked out that ensemble you're wearing?"
She just glared at him. Clearly, she'd made some mistakes-and vowed she'd die a torturous death before she admitted it.
"Okay," he muttered, "the kid gloves come off. Let's say Skeeter sends you -through the `safest' tourist gate there is, just for practice. If you walk through the Britannia Gate wearing that getup, the first thing that's going to happen is some well-bred lady on the other side will either scream or faint. Whores don't generally stroll through Battersea Park."
Margo paled, then flushed bright red. "I'm not a whore! And I'm not wearing this dress in London, you'll notice! I'm wearing it for a bunch of drunken tourists in Victoria Station! Besides, what's wrong with it? Skeeter showed me photos."
"Margo, you look like a two-bit trollop in that thing. Skeeter likes skin and he doesn't have the faintest idea what decently bred Victorian women wore. If he had a photo, it was of a Denver saloon trollop. Denver cathouses are among the few down-time attractions Skeeter Jackson has visited."
Margo wanted to hide. At least she'd had the sense to tell Skeeter no the couple of times he'd suggested ...
"Margo, you've just illustrated my point for me: you don't know what you're doing and neither does Skeeter. If you'd tried walking through the Britannia Gate in that dress, here's what would've happened: After some poor, shocked matron had a fit of vapors, her outraged gentleman companion would have called for a constable. You'd either have ended up in the Old Bailey for peddling your wares in the wrong part of town or landed in an asylum. Street walkers who went mad from syphilis weren't handled particularly gently.
Margo didn't want to hear any more. Rose-colored balloons of hope broke with every word, but Kit Carson showed no inclination to stop. "Let's even suppose you didn't get nailed by the law. That by some miracle you actually found the slums where that getup might look more appropriate. Do you even know what they were called Never mind where they were? If you stumbled into them by sheer chance, you'd still be in trouble. Because some whore would carve you up for encroaching on her territory or some tough would decide to make you his meal ticket-after trying out the wares for himself first. Unless, of course, you were really lucky and the Ripper decided you were a likely looking target."
Margo went cold all over. Jack the Ripper? She couldn't help glancing at her dress, any more than she could hide an involuntary shudder. Carson, to give him his due, didn't crack a smile. He just nailed home the point like a vampire hunter pounding in the stake.
"The Ripper liked his victims helpless. Most psychopaths do. Step through the Britannia Gate without training or a guide; and you'll end up looking more helpless than any other walker on the street. Believe me, it won't be long before Red Jack starts having a bloody good time gutting you like a market fish."
"STOP!" Margo had covered her ears.
He stopped.
Margo was breathing as hard as she did after a sparring session in the dojo. Kit Carson, curse him, might have been sipping tea at a garden social for all the emotion he betrayed. I won't give up! I can't! Margo literally had nowhere else to go. And she was running out of time. Her six months were nearly one sixth gone already.
"I can take care of myself," she said stubbornly. "Skeeter's all I've got left. Any teacher's better than none and you won't help me."
He straightened up from the door. -That's right, kid. I won't. And if I let you stick with Skeeter, he'll get you killed. Not even he realizes what he's setting you up for. Believe me, when I catch up to that young fool, I'll roast his ears good."
"What?" She came to her feet, shaking to her pinched toes as panic set in. She was out of money, out of hope, out of everything. If Kit forced Skeeter to kick her out ..."You can't! If you bully him off the job ...You just can't!"
Blue eyes glinted like hard sapphires. "Oh, yes I can."
"Dammit!"
"Don't you have any brains in that decorative little head of yours?" He took a step forward, evidently intent on opening her skull to look.
She held her g
round. "I will not give up! And you don't have any right to interfere! It's my life, not yours. I'll risk it as I please, Mr. Hot-Shot Retiree!"
He flushed. "Look, you stubborn little-"
"Stubborn?" Margo laughed shrilly. Then, before she could quite believe she'd said it, Margo heard herself say, "Well, if I'm stubborn, I come by it honestly! With you for a grandfather, what else could you..."
Kit Carson halted mid-stride. His face collapsed into a tangle of weathered lines, aging him ten years in an instant. Despite the tan, he had blanched the color of dirty snow.
A knot of panic condensed in Margo's belly, the germ of a glacier. Shit ...oh, shit, me and my big mouth ...
For at least ten thudding heartbeats, he just stood there, looking like a stray word might knock him to the ground. Piercing blue eyes had lost their focus. Margo groped uncertainly for the chair and shoved it aside, anxious to put room between herself and the forceful man who would be coming out of shock any second.
Empty blue eyes focused slowly on her face. His brows came together. He studied her for another thudding stretch of heartbeats. Margo didn't know what to say or do to fix this. When he drew a halting sip of air, she braced for the worst, but he didn't say anything. He seemed incapable of speech. After a moment, he shut his eyes. Then, without a single word spoken, he turned and opened the door. He left her standing behind the chair, feeling like she wanted to die and get the hurting over with, rather than face what she'd just done.
Kit didn't hear or see much of anything. He navigated the library on autopilot and found Brian Hendrickson behind the main reference desk. He located the desk by bumping into it.
"Good afternoon, Kit. What can I- Dear God, what's wrong?"
The librarian's face swam into focus. Kit gripped the edge of the reference desk until his knuckles hurt. "Am I awake?"
"Are you what?"
"Am I awake?"
Brian blinked. "Uh – yes?"
Kit swore. His belly did another drop into oblivion. He wished for the tiniest of moments he could follow it. "I was afraid of that." He left Hendrickson gaping after him and literally ran into Margo halfway back to the cubicle. She staggered, blinking tears, then made to cut around him.
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