Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  Malcolm exchanged glances with Kit, who said repressively, "Millions have done just that. The point is, you keep yourself as clean as you can and deal with medical problems when you return. If you return. Why do you think you're required to receive so many inoculations before coming to a time terminal? Up time, we don't even vaccinate for smallpox any longer. It's an extinct disease. Yet even in someplace as relatively sanitary as Denver of the 1890's you could still contract it. Not to mention lockjaw or blood poisoning from a simple cut or scrape. So you take your medicine, keep yourself clean, and hope you don't come back with anything Medical can't handle.

  "Now, I think this charity girl idea's a good one, but that leaves us with another question, Malcolm. Namely, how to explain your association with her. You're known in London."

  "Fairly well, in certain circles," Malcolm agreed.

  "So people will know you wouldn't have a reason to associate with a charity girl of eighteen. And her accent's all wrong, anyway, to pose as a British orphan."

  "The few people I know down time believe me to be an eccentric gentleman from British Honduras-which helps explain away the occasional wobble or two in my accent."

  Margo blinked. He'd sounded astonishingly British during that sentence, which he hadn't before. In fact, given the small amount of stage training she'd had, she'd have bet everything she owned it had been genuine, not affected.

  "How did you do that?"

  "Do what?" He sounded American again, as American as Minnesota winters.

  "Sound British? I thought you were American."

  Malcolm grinned. "Good. I've studied hard to sound like that. Heading down time to Denver with an English accent isn't a good idea. Fortunately I have a quick ear and years of practice. But I was born in England." He cleared his throat and glanced away. "I survived The Flood, actually."

  Margo said breathlessly, "The Flood? From The Accident?"

  Malcolm rubbed the back of one ear. "Well, yes. I was just a kid. We lived in Brighton, you see, near the seaside. We ran a little tourist hostel during the summers. My family was lucky. We only lost my elder brother when the house caved in."

  Margo didn't know what to say. The English coast had been wiped out by tidal waves. All the coastlines of the world had been hit hard. Several dozen cities had been reduced to rubble and the ensuing chaos, rampant epidemics, and starvation had reshaped world politics forever. Margo hadn't been old enough to remember it. She forgot, sometimes, that most of the people on this time terminal did remember the world before the time gates and the accident which had caused them.

  She wondered quite suddenly if that was why her father had been the way he was. Had he blamed himself all those years ago for her brother's death, then found himself unable to cope with the changed world? She shivered, not wanting to sympathize with him, but something in Malcolm's voice had triggered memories of her father during his more sober moments. The look in her father's eyes during those moments echoed the desperate struggle not to remember she saw now in Malcolm's dark eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Malcolm. I didn't know."

  He managed a smile. "How could you? Don't dwell on it. I don't. Now, what were we saying? Oh yeah, my background. The people I know down time think I'm a gentleman from British Honduras, with no visible means of support and no daily job to distract me from gentlemanly pursuits. -I just happen to have a lot of wealthy, scatterbrained friends who pay me visits from the other side of the water, particularly America.." He grinned. "That way it's natural for my tourists to gawk at the sights. Londoners in the 1880's considered Americans boorish provincials just this side of savagery."

  Margo sniffed. "How rude."

  Connie laughed "Honey, you don't know the half of it. Victorian Londoners took class consciousness to new extremes." She gestured to the Britannia section of her shop. "It's why I carry such a varied line of costumes for the Britannia Gate. Clothes said everything about our station in life. Wear the wrong thing and you make me a laughingstock–"

  "Or worse," Kit put in.

  "–or you just blend into the background and become invisible."

  Malcolm nodded "Yes. But you have to be careful. The wrong clothing could get you hauled off to jail or Bedlam Hospital to be locked in with the other madwomen."

  Margo shivered. "What about this charity girl stuff, then?"

  "Well," Malcolm said, glancing at Kit, "given my reputation as something of an eccentric, it wouldn't be out of character for me to sponsor a young girl who'd been orphaned in a cholera epidemic, say, or by one of the tropical fevers that laid so many Europeans low in Honduras. You could be the child of some friend or even a relative. A niece, maybe, brought back to England for schooling."

  Kit was nodding. "I like it. All right, choose something appropriate. Connie, why don't you fit her out while Malcolm and I update his wardrobe? If he's going to keep up his reputation in London, I suspect he'll need a new item or two. And you'll need a couple of `ink' getups as well, I think, so your down-time friends don't recognize you when you two go slumming."

  Connie beamed. "Help yourselves. Gosh, I love it when scouts and guides put their heads together and go shopping!"

  Kit groaned. Malcolm laughed. "Don't worry, Kit. I'll try to be gentle with your budget."

  "Pray do, sir," Kit drolled. "It isn't unlimited, you know."

  They strolled off in the direction of the men's clothing. Margo watched them go. "They're..." She pause, suddenly embarrassed.

  "There what?" Connie asked curiously.

  "Nothing," Margo mumbled. She'd been about to say, `There really sweet, aren't they?" but had stopped herself just in time. She'd gotten where she was by being tough and uncaring. Now wasn't the time to let down her guard, not with her dreams almost within grasp. But she couldn't help thinking it. They were sweet. Even Kit, when he wasn't glowering at her for whatever she'd done wrong most recently A flash of insight told Margo he glowered because he didn't really know how to talk to her.

  That was all right. She didn't really know how to talk to him, either, not without a whole retinue of defenses in place. A smart mouth and a lifelong habit of sarcasm skillfully combined with pouting frowns and winning smiles-weren't exactly the most useful skills if she wanted to learn more about this man as a human being, rather than a legend.

  Get real, Margo. Remember the fish pond. Try to get better acquainted with him–with either of them-and you'll have to talk about yourself. The less said on that subject, the better. For everyone concerned.

  Margo sighed unhappily, earning as long, curious look from Connie, then she shook herself free of the mood and said brightly, "Okay, about this charity-girl costume. Show me!"

  Chapter Nine

  BRIAN HENDRICKSON HAD come from a family whose older sons enlisted for life in the Royal Navy. Briana third son born in the islands-had become a historian rather than a sailor. But his military upbringing lingered in a meticulous personality and a tendency to run his library with martial efficiency. His accent, a delightfully odd one, was right at home in La-La Land.

  Kit, taking advantage of Margo's mood after the shopping trip, escorted her from Clothes and Stuff directly to the reference desk in la-la land's library. It was-high time she started learning more than remedial math, firearms history, and martial arts.

  "Brian, this is Margo, my granddaughter. Margo, Brian Hendrickson, TT-86s resident librarian."

  He smiled pleasantly and kissed the air above her hand, Continental-style. "Most pleased to meet you, Miss Margo."

  She blinked, clearly startled. Brian Hendrickson startled most newcomers to TT-86.

  "Where are you from?" Margo blurted.

  A dazzling smile came and went. "It is more a matter of where I am not from, actually. I was born in the British virgins, spent the first three years of my life in Glasgow, then my father was posted to Hong Kong. Let's see ...I've nearly forgotten the Falklands, haven't I? I took my university degrees from Cambridge."

  "Oh." She looked a little round-eyed.
>
  Kit grinned "Which brings us to the reason we're here. She needs advanced lessons."

  "Hmm, yes, I should think so, if rumors are true.

  "They're true," Kit sighed. "Detailed histories, languages, the works."

  The librarian tapped well-manicured fingertips against the desktop. "Yes. I should think Latin to start, followed by French-modern, middle, and old-to cover all bets. And Italian and Greek. And we'd better throw in the main Chinese dialects-"

  "You're not serious?" Margo broke in, her voice echoing the panic in her eyes. "Latin? And ...and Chinese and all those Frenches ...and...

  Brian blinked. "Well, yes, I am serious. Goodness, Miss Margo, you can't expect to scout if you don't speak at least ten languages fluently."

  "Ten?" She glanced wildly at Kit. "TEN?"

  Kit only rubbed the side of his nose. "Well, that's a fairly limited beginning, but yes, ten might prove just barely adequate. I speak twenty fluently and can make myself understood in considerably more than that. I did warn you, Margo. Scouting is a scholarly business, above all else. When you're not down time exploring a gate, you're studying. Constantly "

  "But

  "I don't make up these rules just to upset you."

  "I know, I know," she wailed, "I understand that, but..."

  "He's right, Miss Margo," the librarian said quietly. "My steadiest customers are never the tourists. They're the guides and the scouts. Particularly the scouts. They spend hours here every day, learning and learning. In fact, if you'll examine the gentlemen at the computers over there or back in the language labs, you'll discover half the scouts who work out of TT-86 on a regular basis. Excuse me, please."

  Kit glanced around John Merylbone, a fairly new scout despite his age – he was pushing fifty had come up to the desk.

  "Brian, sorry to interrupt, but I need help. I'm looking for information on early British scholars' costumes. I'd heard there was a good general reference by Cunnington and Lucas from 1978."

  Brian stared at the scout for long, unblinking moments, giving the distinct impression that John's request was utterly beneath his notice. Margo whispered, "Isn't that a little rude?"

  Kit smiled. "No, actually he's thinking. Watch."

  Brian started talking. "Well, yes, that's a very good general reference, but it contains a good bit more than you'll need. Covers all manner of charity costumes, through several centuries, actually. I'd recommend Rymer's Foedera, vol. VII, or Statutes of the Colleges of Oxford for the Royal Commission.-that's translated from the Latin, which is useful-or perhaps Gibson's Statua Antigua Universitatis Oxoniensis. Loggan also did some excellent work in Cantabrigia Illustrata and Oxonia Illustrata."

  The librarian was busy jotting down names and titles while he spoke.

  "Good grief! He didn't even use the computer!"

  Kit only smiled "Don't look so horrified Nobody's asking you to learn as much as Brian knows. Nobody knows as much as Brian Hendrickson. He has a photographic memory. Useful for a research librarian on a time terminal."

  "Oh. I was beginning to worry."

  "You do that, "Kit laughed "I like it better when you're worried. Proves you're thinking."

  She put out a pink tongue. "You're mean and horrible. Why does everybody else like you?"

  Kit scratched his head. "Search me. Guess it's my good looks and charm."

  Margo actually laughed. When she relaxed, his granddaughter was a remarkably pretty girl, with no trace of that Irish alleycat glare. He sighed, feeling old before he was ready for it.

  "What's wrong?" Margo asked.

  "Nothing," Kit said, forcing a smile. "Let's set up your study schedule."

  Brian returned from helping the other scout and they got down to business. He assigned Margo a language lab, where she was to spend four hours every other day learning the first of the languages on her list. The next four hours of her library days (after lunch, which Kit agreed to have delivered to her from the Neo Edo so she wouldn't need to leave the library) were to be devoted to detailed historical studies.

  "Let's start her with American history, since that's what she's likeliest to absorb readily," Brian suggested "Then we'll put her on European history, working backwards from the twentieth century. We'll tackle Africa, Asia, South America, India, and the Middle East a little later in the program, after she's settled down into the study routine and is capable of absorbing cultural detail significantly different from her own."

  Kit and Brian agreed she'd be better off leaving the library during the evenings to eat dinner and do homework, and to alternate library days with continued weapons training. With any luck, the physical exercise would leave her tired enough to sleep after homework sessions.

  By the time they were done setting up her schedule, Margo was visibly horrified and trying hard not to show it. She gave him a brave smile as they left the library. "One thing's for sure, life'll never be the same around you. Latin, Chinese, and French, oh my..."

  "Better that than lions, tigers, or bears," Kit chuckled. "Just remember, you can never truly understand a nation or its people until you can speak its language."

  "Right," she sighed, giving him another brave smile. "I just hope scouting is worth all this agony."

  Kit resisted the urge to ruffle her short hair. "I doubt you'll be disappointed. Surprised, probably-almost undoubtedly. But disappointed? No, I don't think so. Time travel is never what people expect it to be. And that," he smiled, "is half the fun."

  "Well, goodness, I hope so. My head already hurts and I haven't even started yet!"

  Kit laughed. "That's because you're stretching your brain, possibly for the first time. Cheer up. By the time you're done, not only will you have the equivalent of several Ph.D.'s you didn't have to pay some university to earn, you'll have the ability to do field research most Ph.D.'s still can't afford to do. Education," he smiled, "is never a waste of time."

  She gave him an odd look, but said nothing. Kit found himself fervently hoping London convinced Margo she needed every bit of the "brain work" he and Brian had outlined. Margo loose for a week in London, even with Malcolm Moore along to protect her ...Kit was so apprehensive, before he went to bed that night he found himself standing in the living room doorway, just watching her sleep.

  Young, vulnerable ...

  He turned away silently and went to bed.

  But not to sleep.

  Malcolm came for Margo early in the morning the day the Britannia Gate was due to open.

  "Hi!" The world was wonderful this morning. Today was the day she would finally step through a gate into history.

  "Sleep well?" Malcolm asked.

  Margo laughed. "I was so excited I hardly closed my eyes all night."

  "Thought as much," he chuckled. "Kit up yet?"

  "In the shower."

  "All packed?"

  "Yes!"

  "Good. We have one last appointment before we go."

  Uh-oh. Margo regarded him suspiciously. "What is it?

  A pained smile came and went. "You're not going to like it, but I think it's vital."

  "What?"

  "We need to visit Paula Booker."

  Margo wondered who the devil that was. "For?"

  "Your hair."

  Margo touched her short, flame-colored hair. "What's wrong with my hair?"

  "Nothing-for here and now. Everything, for down time. That color stands out We want to be inconspicuous. The less noticed you are, the better."

  "What are you going to do about it? Dye it?" Margo asked sarcastically.

  "Yep.."

  She stared "Oh, no."

  Malcolm sighed. "I knew this wouldn't be well received. That's why I wanted Kit's opinion."

  "On what?" Kit asked, emerging from the bathroom. He was-uncharacteristically-clad only in a towel. His hair was still wet and he hadn't shaved yet Margo stared, knowing it was rude, but she couldn't help it

  There were scars. Terrible ones.

  "Margo's hair," Malcolm said. "I think P
aula should dye it."

  Margo managed do drag her gaze off Kits whip-scarred torso and met his gaze. He ignored her stricken look and merely studied her critically. "Yes," he said slowly, "I didn't think it was too important yet, but you're probably right. She's awfully noticeable."

  "Thanks for the compliment," Margo muttered. The last thing she wanted to be was "noticeable" if attracting attention earned her scars like Kit's, but the timing was rotten. She'd spent the last twenty-four hours trying hopelessly to memorize Latin declensions and conjugations and whatever else all those verb and noun forms were called. All those fickle, changeable word endings left her head spinning. She'd tried-really tried and now as a reward they wanted to dye her best feature some hideous, drab color to match the clothes they'd picked for her to wear.

  Margo wanted to cry or scream at something or wail about how monstrously unfair it was. Instead, she swallowed it raw. Time was ticking away and she was still very little closer to scouting than the day she'd stepped through Primary into La-La Land with a heart full of bright hopes and no notion how murderously difficult it was going to be.

  You'll see, she promised. When we get to London, you'll see. I'll prove to you both I can do this.

  "Okay," she said finally. "I guess I go downtime looking like a mud hen. Sven keeps telling me, be invisible. I should've seen this coming, huh?" Then, in a bright tone that turned a bitter complaint into a cheery joke, she said, "Let's get this over with and get down time before I'm too old to enjoy it!"

  Kit laughed and even Malcolm chuckled. Margo swept out of the apartment before she gave it all away by crying. Malcolm caught up and fell into step.

  "You know, Margo,- he said conversationally, "it might help to think of this as the biggest game of dress-up you ever played."

  She glanced up, startled. "Dress-up? Oh, good grief, Malcolm, I haven't played dress-up since-" She broke off abruptly, recalling the beating her father had given her for liberating her mother's makeup . "Well, not in a long time," she temporized, covering the stumble she'd made with a bright smile. "It's just you caught me off guard and ...well ...nothing's like I expected it to be. Nothing."