"Very little in life usually is," Malcolm said; without a trace of a smile.
"I suppose so. But l don't have to like it."
Malcolm's glance was keen. "No one said you had to, Margo. Do you think I enjoy groveling for a job every day of my life, living on rice and dried beans, and swallowing my pride when people are rude, callous, or downright cruel? But I do it and smile because that's the price of living my dream."
Margo chewed that over as they left Residential behind and emerged into the throng crowding Frontier Town. A kid sporting an oversized cowboy hat and an undersized leather gunbelt drew and fired his pretend six-shooter at a diving pterosaur. It splashed into a nearby fishpond.
"Got him!" the kid crowed.
Unperturbed, the pterosaur emerged with a wriggling goldfish nearly as large as it was. The kid's father laughed and called him over. He practically swaggered back.
Margo smiled. "I'd say he's living his dream, huh?" Then more seriously, "Not too many people ever get the chance to try that, do they? I think you're the first person I ever met who was doing it." Except, maybe, Billy Pandropolous, and his dream was more akin to nightmare for everyone who came close to him. "I envy you.
"You know," Malcolm said quietly, "you may be the first person ever to do that."
"Huh. You got lousy friends, then. They can't see what's right in front of 'em. Money's not everything." She flushed suddenly, realizing she'd just insulted Malcolm's friends-at least one of whom was Kit Carson.
"How right you are," Malcolm said with a smile. "I'm glad you're beginning to see that. Some people never figure it out This way.." He nodded toward Urbs Romae. "Better hustle or we'll be late."
Paula Booker's establishment was tucked away in one corner of the Commons. Margo was expecting a hair styling salon. What they entered looked more like the waiting room of an upscale medical clinic. Just as they entered, two men emerged from an inner sanctum. One assisted the other, who shuffled awkwardly as though his groin hurt. The first one said sympathetically, "You think that's bad, you should see what she did to mine."
"Yeah," the second man said through clenched teeth, "but a whole new foreskin? God, I hurt ...."
Margo stared until they had passed through the outer door and vanished down the Commons.
"What was that all about?"
"Zipper Jockeys." Astonishingly, Malcolm Moore wore the blackest scowl she'd ever seen.
"Zipper jockeys?' she echoed
"They're here for one of the sex tours. Bastards go down time and spend the whole trip brothel hopping. Paula takes revenge on 'em, though. Does corrective surgery on them more than deserve, so their modern circumcisions won't arouse suspicion. Most places TT-86's gates lead to, circumcisions were practiced only by the Jewish. Anti-Semitism being the ugly thing it was in many down-time cultures ..."
"Oh. That's lousy. The anti-Semitism, I mean."
"Yes. Bigotry is. But Zipper jockeys deserve what they get. Paula ranks them down around the level of flatworms, which personally I think is too high on the evolutionary scale. She makes sure they hurt good and hard before they head out to rape women. If she could get away with it, she'd castrate them."
Margo glared after the departing men. "Someone should do something! Someone should stop it!"
"Yes," Malcolm said tightly. "Someone should. Time Tours won't. They make money off the trade. So does the government. A lot of money. Half the Zipper jockeys that go down time have to be quarantine when they come back, until Medical can deal with the venereal diseases they pick up."
"That's disgusting!"
"Personally, I think they should be marooned down time to die from whatever they catch."
No compromise softened Malcolm Moore's voice. All at once, Margo realized how very much she liked this time guide. "Thanks, Malcolm."
He shot her a startled look. "For what?"
"Nothing. Just thanks. What about my hair?"
He shook himself visibly and gave her one last penetrating look, then stepped over to a reception window. "Malcolm Moore, for the 8:15 appointment."
"Have a seat, please."
They didn't have to wait long. The inner door opened to reveal the most astonishing individual Margo had ever laid eyes on. She knew her mouth had fallen open, but she couldn't help it.
"Hi, Paula," Malcolm said, rising to his feet.
"Hello, Malcolm."
Paula Booker was ...
Cadaverous.
That was the only word to describe the cosmetologist's appearance. Tall-she topped out at six feet in flat, surgical-style shoes-and gaunt, Paula's face had hollows like a skull's. White hair wisped around a face the color of a bloodless corpse. But she wasn't old If Paula Booker were a day over thirty-five, Margo would eat her own shoes.
With those pale eyes and that funereal expression, TT-86's cosmetologist looked very much like a female Lurch, from an unknown branch of the Addams Family Tree.
"How are you this morning?" Paula asked as Malcolm shook her hand.
Even Paula's voice was soft and creepy.
Margo realized how intensely she was staring when both Malcolm and Paula turned and stared back.
"I – uh – "
To Margo's astonishment, Paula started laughing. The sight was so disturbing, Margo actually had trouble getting to her feet. She tripped over her own shoe and stumbled.
"Malcolm," Paula Booker winked, "let's show this young lady my photographs, shall we?"
Margo followed uneasily as Paula Booker escorted them into a private office. One wall was covered literally covered-with photos of one of the most beautiful women Margo had ever seen. Ash-blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, fine bone structure above hollowed cheeks
"My God! It's you!" Margo blurted.
Paula laughed again. "Aren't I a great walking advertisement?"
"You..." Mar go stared from the photos to the apparition before her and back again. "You did that to yourself?"
Paula's grin was a terrifying vision. "Indeed I did. Every morning I put on the finishing touches with makeup."
"But you could've been a movie star! A world-famous model!"
"Oh, I was. A model, that is. It was dead boring," Paula's eyes twinkled. "This is much more fun. And I get to do such interesting plastic surgery, too. I have a medical degree just for that. Somebody Caucasian wants to go to Edo, I doctor them a little and presto, they're virtually indistinguishable from a native-born Japanese. I can alter skin tone, hair color, whatever's required."
Margo thought about the man limping out of Paula's clinic and grinned "That's terrific!" She fluffed her own hair. "What can we do about this? Everyone says I have to dye it."
Paula studied Margo for several moments. "Yes; but we won't want to go too dark, unless you want her looking as funereal as I do?" She glanced at Malcolm. "Black hair with that skin tone will look terrible. Even dark brown is going to make her look anemic."
"Can't be helped. Use your judgment on how dark, but she can't go scouting looking like that."
"No," Paula agreed. "Definitely not. Red hair was associated with witches throughout most of the Middle Ages. Probably one reason red hair is relatively rare today-the gene pool was reduced through burning at the stake. All right, Margo, let's get started. Malcolm, you're welcome to sit in the waiting room. This will take a while."
How long could it take to dye one head of very short hair brown? Margo's answer came when Paula revealed her intention to dye every bit of Margo's hair: bodywide.
"You can't be serious!"
"Dead serious. And you'll need to touch up the roots every four weeks."
"But, but" That seemed to have become virtually the only thing Margo was capable of saying, lately.
Three hours later, Margo emerged, forlorn as a wet cat. She took one look into the waiting room's mirror and burst into tears-again.
"Hey," Malcolm said, rising hastily to his feet, "you look great!"
"No, I don't!" Margo wailed. "I look ...I look awful!"
The mirror revealed a pinched, pale face like an orphan someone had beaten and left for dead in some unspeakable sewer. She'd have died before revealing the ignominy of having hair dye applied elsewhere with a cotton swab.
"Hey, shh. Let's grab a bite of lunch somewhere then change into our costumes and pick up your luggage. We only have a couple of hours before the Britannia Gate opens."
Not even that prospect had the power to dispel the gloom that had settled over Margo. Just one other little consideration she hadn't foreseen in becoming a time scout. To get what she wanted, Margo had to give up being pretty.
That blow, after all the other battles she'd fought through nearly seventeen miserable years of being made to feel stupid, unwanted, unloved, and a burden to everyone who knew her was nearly more than Margo could bear. The solitary, single thing that kept her from breaking down into hysterical tears was the knowledge that such a childish display would destroy her chances of scouting forever.
Her chin quivered despite her best efforts to keep it still, but she held it high. She was going to do this. No matter what it took, no matter how many obstacles Kit Carson threw in her path. She was going to scout or die trying.
And nothing was going to stand in her way.
Nothing.
Chapter Ten
VICTORIA STATION HADN'T yet recovered from the damage of the unstable gate, but the worst debris had been hauled away and repairs had begun. Margo, palms sweating, clutched the handle of her frayed carpet bag. Malcolm smiled down at her, causing a sudden trip hammer lurch under her breastbone. Malcolm Moore, dressed as a wealthy Victorian gentleman, was enough to set Margo's; pulse racing.
He grinned suddenly. "You look nervous."
"I am nervous. This is real. It isn't a stage play, it's real. Do you get used to it?"
Malcolm's eyes took on a faraway look as his gaze focused on something Margo couldn't see. "No," he said softly. "You don't. At least, I don't. I could've found any number of teaching positions up time, particularly with my scouting and time guiding credentials in addition to my degrees. But I don't want to go back. Stepping through a gate..." He grinned again. "You'll see."
The air began to buzz. Margo pressed a hand to the bones of her skull. "Ow."
"Any moment, now."
Malcolm sounded even more excited than Margo felt, which was saying quite a lot. She checked her "uniform" again to be sure everything was in place. Under a heavy walking cloak, Margo's deep azure dress and starched white pinafore were immaculate. A pretty white cap and an enormous straw hat mercifully covered her hideous brown hair. Thick knitted stockings, ankle length boots, and fingerless mittens completed the ensemble, topped off by a beautiful badge in which a crown and the letters R.M.I.G. enclosed a setsquare and compasses.
"This," Connie Logan had told her with a smile, "is a particularly prestigious school uniform."
"What does R.M.I.G. stand for?"
"Royal Masonic Institution for Girls."
Malcolm, it turned out, was a Freemason, both in real life and in his down-time persona.
"I've found it helps enormously," he'd told her. "If you're in trouble-and it's very easy to fall into trouble, even- for an experienced guide having a network of sworn brothers dedicated to a creed of helping those in need can literally be a lifesaver."
"Are all guides and scouts Masons?" Margo asked, wondering with a sinking sensation if this would be yet another barrier to be overcome.
"No, but quite a few are. Don't worry about it, Margo. Membership isn't required."
At the time, Margo had felt relieved, but now, reviewing the details of her costume again, she wondered if anyone down time would expect her to know secret rituals or anything. Maybe this uncertainty had been part of Kit's plan? To impress upon her how much she had to learn? Margo shifted the carpet bag to her other hand and stiffened her back-although slouching was all but impossible, anyway, what with the horrid undergarments that were already pinching and chafing.
Doubtless physical discomfort was just another part of Kit Carson's plan to discourage her. Well, it wasn't going to work.
The air began to shimmer up near the ceiling. Well dressed men and women stirred excitedly. Then the gate began to cycle. Rather than opening out of the wall, darkness grew out of thin air right off the end of the high, gridwork platform, a ragged hole, a widening maw...
Margo gasped. Through it, she could make out the colors of twilight, the twinkle of a high, lonely star. Nearer at hand, a breeze stirred barren, low-hanging branches. She could see-but not hear-dead leaves which gusted into view. A warm, golden glow appeared, then a dark shape occluded the lantern light
Titters of laughter ran through the crowd when a figure in a tall hat and opera cape stepped through, rushing at them like an oncoming train. The gentleman doffed his hat politely to the waiting crowd below. "Your patience, please, ladies and gentlemen."
Tourists had begun to emerge from the Britannia Gate. Women in smart dresses, men in evening suits, ragged servants hauling steamer trunks, carpet bags, and leather cases, young women dressed as housemaids, all poured through onto the platform and made their way down the ramp to the Commons floor. Many were smiling and chatting. Others looked grim. Still others staggered with assistance from Time Tours employees.
"Never fails," Malcolm murmured. "Always a few come back sick as dogs."
"I won't," Margo vowed.
"No," Malcolm agreed dryly. "You won't. That's what I'm here for."
She suppressed a huff, wanting to point out that she didn't need a nursemaid, but even she realized she did need a reliable guide. And then, before she expected it, their turn came.
"Oh," Margo said excitedly, "here we go !'"
Malcolm gallantly offered his arm. Margo laughed and accepted it, then laughed again when he insisted on carrying her carpet bag. Their "porter," a husky young man named John, took charge of their hefty steamer trunk. Margo slid her Timecard through the encoder, then hurried up the long ramp at Malcolm's side while John waited with the other baggage handlers. Margo paused at the very threshold of nothingness, mortified that her hindbrain whispered, "If I step off, there's nothing there but a five-story drop to the floor."
She screwed shut both eyes and followed Malcolm off the edge of the platform. For an instant she thought she was falling.
"Open your eyes!" Malcolm said urgently.
She opened them and gasped. The ground was rushing at her
Malcolm steadied her through. "That's a girl," he said encouragingly.
Margo shuddered with sudden cold.
"Are you quite all right, my dear?"
Margo blinked The smiling, relaxed Malcolm with the easy American voice had gone completely. In his place stood a distinguished British gentleman peering anxiously down at her.
"Uh–yeah."
Very gently, Malcolm drew her to one side, making room for other tourists. "Margo, the proper response to such a question is not 'Uh, yeah.' That's terribly anachronistic here."
Margo felt her cheeks burn. "All right," she said in a low voice. "What should I have said?"
"You should have said, `Yes, sir, thank you kindly, it was just a passing dizziness. Might I have your arm for a moment more, please?' To which I would naturally respond by offering to escort you to some place of rest where I might fetch you a glass of water or stronger spirits if such might be required."
Margo was so fascinated by the archaic speech patterns and the wonderful sound of his voice, she almost forgot to pay attention to what he'd actually said. "All right. I mean, very well. I'll ...I'll try, Malcolm, really I will."
"Ah-ah," he said with a smile. "Here, I am Mr. Moore. You are Miss Margo Smythe, my ward. Never fail to call me Mr. Moore. Anything else would be seen as unforgivably forward."
Behind them, the gate had begun to shrink. Porters rushed through with the last of the luggage, then the gate into La-La land vanished into a tangle of brown vines and a high stone wall. For a terrible instant, Margo experienced
complete panic. We're out off...
Then Malcolm high-signed John, who joined them and set the trunk down with a sigh. " 'at's good, Mister Moore, sir."
Malcolm grinned. "Good show, John. Your Cockney's coming along nicely."
"I been Join' a study on it, sir." John's eyes twinkled. Malcolm had introduced him as a graduate student who planned to stay down time for several months working on his doctoral dissertation on the London underclass. He and Kit had come to an agreement: John would "work" as a manservant for Malcolm and Margo during their week in London, doing whatever was required of him. In return, Kit would front him the money for the initial gate ticket. He'd provided for his own living expenses and gear.
"Where are we?" Margo asked quietly. She stamped her feet to keep them warm.
"In the private garden of a house near Battersea Park at Chelsea Reach."
"Chelsea Reach?"
"A stretch of the Thames. We're across the river from where we shall need to be for most of our stay."
Gas lights illuminated a garden where the tourists now milled excitedly. Time Tours guides dressed as liveried servants organized sixty-some people into a double line, gentlemen escorting ladies, while the porters struggled with heavy trunks. They carried luggage into a three-story, graceful house where gas lights burned warmly. The interior seemed warm and inviting compared with the damp, frigid garden.
"It's cold," Margo complained
"Well, it is late February. We shall have a hard frost tonight or I'm no judge of weather."
She tucked her hands inside the cape. "Now what?"
"First, fetch out your ATLS and log, please." He glanced toward the darkening sky. "We'll need to take readings and start our trip chronometers running. Remember, Miss Smythe, it is essential that you start your trip chronometer running very quickly after passing a gate. And shoot an ATLS and star-fix as soon as possible. And as I suspect we'll have fog soon, do hurry with it. London generally does in the early evenings."
"But we already know exactly when we are," Margo pointed out.
"On a tour, yes. As a scout, you won't. You'll have to determine that as the opportunity arises. Just because your Timecard was togged in for the Britannia Gate, doesn't mean you may skip this ritual. Most gates you'll step through as a scout won't have an encoder available yet, for the simple reason that you'll be the first one stepping through it. And when you come through in broad daylight, you'll have to wait until nightfall to update your exact geo-temporal reading."
Time Scout Page 17