Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  Margo dug out her equipment and took the ATLS reading. Malcolm checked her and made a small correction, then showed her how to take a star-fix. She mastered the knack after three tries and proudly entered the readings in her log.

  "There! How did I do?"

  "Your ATLS reading was off far enough you'd have placed yourself in the Irish Sea, but not too bad for a first attempt under field conditions. We'll take readings each night we're here, to give you the practice."

  Malcolm finished entering data into his own log, made certain Margo had properly initiated the chronometer sequence, then put away their equipment.

  "Now what?"

  The tourists had lined up along a garden path and were filing slowly into the house.

  "Time Tours will have made arrangements for cabriolet carriages to take us to various good hotels for the evening."

  "I thought carriages were called hansoms."

  Malcolm smiled. "Hansom cabs are very popular just now, but they're small, two-wheeled affairs. Hansoms cannot carry any significant amount of luggage. Hence the need for something a bit sturdier."

  They joined the line and moved steadily toward the house. Margo wanted to rush forward and explore. She found it increasingly difficult to stand still.

  "Patience," Malcolm laughed. "We've an entire week ahead of us."

  "When will our cab be here?"

  "Our hosts," Malcolm said, glancing a little coldly at the liveried Time Tours guides, "will serve refreshments while carriages are summoned. We'll be departing in small groups at least fifteen minutes apart, to help reduce the chance that anyone will notice the number of people coming and going from this house."

  "How did Time Tours get hold of this place?"

  Malcolm said quietly, "I'm told the spinster lady who owned it had a fit of the vapors the first time the Britannia Gate opened in her garden. When it happened several weeks in a row, she sold the place cheaply to a scout and retired permanently to Scotland. Time Tours bought it from the scout."

  Margo hadn't considered what people down time must think when a gate opened right in front of them.

  "Who was the scout?"

  Malcolm shrugged. "Your grandfather."

  "Oh!"

  "I would suggest," Malcolm said as they moved across the threshold into a surprisingly chilly drawing room, "that we refrain from discussing up-time affairs for the week, as far as possible. You are here to learn, certainly, but discussing anything from up time is very dangerous within earshot of people who understand the language you're speaking. If you must ask a question, keep your voice down and try to ask it where others can't hear you. I'll pass along my advice under the same set of strictures."

  Again, Margo was trying to get the rhythm of Malcolm's new speech patterns. "Very well, Mal-Mr. Moore."

  He patted her hand. "Very good, Miss Smythe. And now, if you would be so kind as to permit me, I will introduce you to London."

  He led her toward a warm coal fire and beckoned to a "servant" who brought steaming cups of tea.

  "My dear, warm yourself while I see about our luggage and transportation."

  He signaled to John, who carried their steamer trunk toward a long front hall where other porters waited. Margo sipped astringent tea, grateful for the warmth; the room's lingering chill surprised her. Other tourists were talking excitedly, admiring the furnishings, the rugs, the draperies, the view out the windows. Margo was a little envious of the women's dresses. One elegantly attired lady smiled and approached her.

  "That's a charming costume," she said. "What is it?"

  Feeling vastly superior, Margo said, "It's one of the most prestigious school uniforms in London, from the Royal Masonic Institution for Girls." She dredged up Connie Logan's lecture and added, "It was founded in Somers Town, London, by a chevalier in 1788."

  "It's delightful. Could I see the whole costume?"

  Margo dimpled and set down her teacup, then slipped off the cape and pirouetted.

  "Oh, look!" exclaimed another tourist. "It's darling!"

  "Where did you get it?"

  "Connie Logan, Clothes and Stuff."

  "I wish I'd thought to dress Louisa like that," one lady laughed. Her daughter, looking dowdy in a plain grey morning dress, was pouting under a stylish hat decorated rather hideously with dead birds.

  "And look at that brooch. What an intriguing design. Is that the school's crest?"

  "Yes. It's a badge. All the charity schools issued them to identify their pupils."

  "Ladies," Malcolm smiled, bowing slightly, "if I might rescue my ward, our cabriolet is waiting. Here, let me help you on with that cape, my dear. The night is dreadfully chilly and John neglected to bring along our lap rug."

  A flutter of excited laughter ran through the room.

  "Who is that gentleman?"

  "Oh, I wish our guide sounded like that!"

  "Or looked like him ..."

  "I don't care what Time Tours says, the next time I come here, I'm going to hire him. I don't care what it costs!"

  Malcolm smiled, murmured, "A moment, my dear," and handed around business cards with a polite bow and smile to each lady. He then offered Margo his arm. "A moment's attention to business works wonders, don't you agree?"

  Margo laughed, waved goodbye to her brief acquaintances, then strolled out into the London night on Malcolms capable arm.

  By the time their cab had swayed through five dark streets, thick fog had left them blind. Swirling, foul yellow drifts blanketed the streets. Even the horse vanished from view. Only the soft clip-clop of its hooves assured Margo they weren't drifting along by magic.

  "London stinks," Margo whispered. "Like a barnyard. And that fog smells awful."

  "London is full of horses," Malcolm whispered back.

  "Some hundred tons of manure fall on London streets every day."

  "Every day?'

  "Daily," Malcolm affirmed. "And the fogs have been known to kill hundreds in a single day. If you find it difficult to breathe, you must tell me at once and we'll take a train for the country until the worst of it clears."

  "I can breathe," Margo whispered, "it just isn't pleasant. Are we going to a hotel?"

  "Actually, no. We'll stay at a boarding house near Victoria Station for the night, then rent a flat on the morrow. That will give us privacy to come and go without undue notice. John, here, will be staying on at the flat once we've gone."

  "Mr. Carson be terrible gen'rous, Mr. Moore," John said in the darkness.

  Margo giggled. "You sound so funny."

  "He sounds exactly as he should," Malcolm said sternly. "You do not. Charity schoolgirls are demure and silent, not giggling, brash things given to rude comments."

  "Well, excuse me," Margo muttered.

  "Certainly not. Study your part, young lady. That is an order."

  Margo sighed. Another domineering male ...She almost looked forward to trading the schoolgirl getup for the rough clothes of a country farmer or the even rougher getup of a costermonger. Masquerading as a boy, she wouldn't need to worry so much about observing all these confining social conventions. She began to catch a glimmer of what Kit had meant when he'd insisted women would have a rough go of it trying to scout.

  The sound of water lapping against stone and a hollow change in the sound of the horse's hooves told Margo they were very near the river. The occasional complaining grumble of a steam whistle drifted on the evil yellow fog like the distant cries of dying hounds.

  "Where are we? I can't see a thing."

  "Crossing Lambeth Bridge."

  A few rents in the murk revealed a distant, dark wall. "And that?"

  "Millbank Penitentiary. New Bridewell's not far from here, either."

  "New Bridewell?"

  "A rather notorious prison, my dear. You do ask the most shocking questions."

  Fog closed in again the moment they left the open bridge with its fitful breeze. Margo heard the heavy, muted rumbling of not-too-distant trains. A shrill whistle shive
red through the foul, wet air, so close Margo jumped.

  "Don't be alarmed, Miss Smythe. It is merely a train arriving at Victoria Station."

  "Will we hear that all night?"

  Malcolm's chuckle reached her. "Indeed."

  Fiend. He'd done this on purpose, to leave her groggy and off balance tomorrow. He knew she was already running on virtually no sleep. Well, when you start scouting, you may be short of sleep, too. Consider it part of the lesson. At length, their driver halted. Malcolm left her shivering inside the cold carriage. He made arrangements with the lady who ran the boarding house, then offered his hand and assisted her from the cab.

  "Oh, you poor dear, you must be tired," the plump lady smiled, ushering them up a long, dark staircase. A gaslight at the landing threw feeble light down the stairwell. Margo had to watch the hem of her dress to keep from tripping in the shadows. "Your guardian said how you'd come all the way from Honduras and then by train, poor thing, orphaned by them terrible fevers, and now he's enrolled you in the School, but can't bear to part company wi' you yet. Such a nice gentleman, your guardian, watch your step, dear, that's good, and here's your room. Mr. Moore's is directly along the hall, there, second on your right. I'll have hot water sent up. And here's your bag, dearie," she said, taking the carpet bag from John and setting it on a heavy piece of furniture that evidently was meant as a dry sink, judging from the basin and pitcher her hostess took from its lower recesses.

  "I'll leave you now to rest and see you at breakfast, dearie. Pull the bell if you need anything."

  And that Margo gaped as the landlady left in a rustle of petticoats and firmly closed the door-was that.

  And she died more than a hundred years ago ....

  Margo shivered, momentarily overcome by the unreality of it. It wasn't at all like watching an old film or even like participating in a stage play. It was like stepping into someone else's life, complete with sounds and smells and the sensation that if she blinked it would all vanish like a soap bubble. But it didn't. She sank down slowly on the edge of a feather tick. Bed ropes creaked. The room smelled musty. Gaslight burned softly behind a frosted globe on the wall. Margo wondered how in the world to turn it off. She untied her hat and took it off then removed the cap and the heavy woolen cape. The once-white cap was grey from coal smoke. She shivered absently. The room was freezing and damp. No central heat.

  "Now what?" she wondered aloud.

  A soft tap on the door brought her to her feet. Margo, clutched the cap in knotted fingers. "Who is it?" Her voice came out shaky and thin.

  "It's Mr. Moore, Miss Smythe. Might I speak with you for a moment?"

  Margo all but flew across the room. She snatched the door open.

  He smiled widely at her expression, then nodded toward the gas light. "See that little chain on the side?"

  Margo peered toward the light. "Yes."

  "Pull it once to turn off the lamp. Don't blow out the flame or your room will fill up with gas and we'll all die rather messily."

  Oh. "Thank you. I-I was wondering about that."

  "Very good. Any other questions before I retire for the evening?"

  Margo had about a million of them, but the only thin that popped into her head was, "How do I get warm. It's freezing in here."

  Malcolm glanced around the room. "No fireplace. No stove, either. The landlady is doubtless afraid of fires and rightly so. But there should be plenty of quilts in that linen press." He pointed to a heavy piece of furniture across the room. "Pile them on and snuggle in. Anything else?"

  Margo didn't dare admit that she wanted – desperately to say "I'm scared." So she shook her head gave him a bright smile.

  "Very good, then. I shall see you at breakfast." He bent and kissed her forehead "Good night, my dear. Lock your door."

  Then he stepped down the hall and entered his room. His door clicked softly shut. A key turned in the lock. Margo stood gazing down the dimly lit corridor for several moments while her brow tingled under the remembered feel of Malcolm Moore's lips.

  Oh, don't be ridiculous! All you need is to pull some stupid schoolgirl stunt like falling for a poverty-stricken time guide. He's too old for you, anyway, and thinks you're silly into the bargain. Besides, you had enough heartache from Billy Pandropolous to swear off men for all time.

  She closed her door and locked it, experiencing a swift prickle of tears behind her eyelids. She didn't want Malcolm Moore to think she was silly. She wanted to prove to him-and everyone else-that she could do this job. Do it and be good at it.

  She lay awake far into the night, listening to the rumble of carriages and wagons through London's filthy streets and wincing at the shriek of steam locomotives. And the whole time she lay there, Margo wondered miserably what that kiss would have felt like against her lips.

  Workaday London enthralled.

  Malcolm made arrangements for a small flat in western London, sever streets east of Grosvenor Square

  , which was itself just east of the ultrafashionable Hyde Park in Mayfair. The West End was where, according to Malcolm-Britain's ten thousand or so members of "Society' (some fifteen hundred families) made their London homes. The houses were splendid, but their construction surprised Margo. Most of them were more like condos than individual houses. Immensely long stone and brick facades took up entire city blocks, subdivided into individual "houses" that each wealthy family owned.

  "Its a law," Malcolm explained, "passed after the Great Fire of 1666. Not only fewer combustible materials, but this construction plan was adopted to help combat the spread of another disastrous fire."

  "How bad was it?"

  Malcolm said quietly, "Most of London burned. Only a tiny corner of the city was spared. One of its blessings , of course, was that the fire evidently destroyed the plague, since there haven't been any outbreaks since then. Cholera, on the other hand, remains a serious difficulty."

  Margo gazed in rapt fascination at the long, mellow facades, the immaculately clean walks, the ladies being assisted by liveried footmen into carriages for their round of "morning calls." They were gorgeous in heavy silks, furs, and luxuriant feathered hats. Margo sighed, acutely conscious of her charity-school costume and short, dyed hair; but she didn't let that spoil the fun of watching the "quality" pass by.

  "We're far enough from the heart of Mayfair," Malcolm told her once they had settled into the six room flat, "to go unnoticed in our seedier disguises, but close enough to avoid the filth and crime of the East End and allow me to continue my persona as independent gentleman."

  "Have you been here before?"

  "Not this particular flat, no; but this general area, yes. I bring my tourists here rather than to a hotel, unless they insist otherwise. Living in a flat and buying vegetables and fish from the markets gives one rather a better feel for life here. Unpack your things, Miss Smythe, and we'll begin our work."

  He had John hire a carriage and horses for the week while they unpacked. Malcolm arranged with the landlady for deliveries to be made from a reputable chandler to victual them with staples. Once the food arrived, he showed Margo how to prepare a British style luncheon for a country outing.

  "A country outing?" Margo asked excitedly. "Really?"

  Malcolm smiled. "I doubt it's what you have in mind. Pack that set of tweeds for me, would you? That's a dear. And bring along that loose shirt, those trousers, and that pair of boots for yourself. Yes, those. As a scout, one of the most important things you'll need to know is how to handle horses. I'm going to teach you to ride."

  The closest thing to a horse Margo had ever ridden was a carousel at the state fair. And only then because her neighbors had taken her with their kids, pitying a child whose father spent most of what he had on liquor and, eventually, worse.

  "I don't know anything about horses," she said dubiously.

  "You will." Malcolms cheerful smile removed the hint of threat.

  The horses John hired-four altogether-came in two distinct pairs. As John shook out
the reins over the carriage horses, Malcolm explained

  "Those are cobs, sturdy draft horses used for pulling loads. This isn't the fanciest carriage available, although it's smart and very up-to-date in keeping with my persona here."

  "What's it called?"

  "It's a four-wheeled brougham, with a hard top," he rapped the ceiling with his knuckles, "which will make it easier for you to change your attire without being noticed. This is the family vehicle of the 1880's, very respectable."

  "And the horses tied behind?" They were much sleeker than the stocky carriage horses.

  "Hacks. General riding animals, not nearly as expensive or handsome as hunters, but much easier to manage and cheaper to rent for those who don't care to feed a horse year-round, pay for its stabling, a groomsman, a blacksmith..."

  "Expensive, huh?"

  "Very. That's why livery stables do such a brisk business hiring animals and carriages."

  Margo thought about what Connie had said on the subject of class distinction and decided to risk a question. "What do the really rich people think about people who hire carriages and horses?"

  Malcolm's mobile features lit up. "Very good, Miss Smythe! Generally, we're snubbed, of course. Anyone with pretensions to society keeps a carriage and horses of his own. I am absolved through the eccentricity of my comings and goings from Honduras. Providing I ever acquire the capital, I intend to take out a long-term lease on a small house where I might entertain guests: All my down-time acquaintances urge me to do so, in order to keep a permanent staff rather than relying on the vagaries of agency people."

  Margo wondered how much that would cost, but didn't quite dare ask. That seemed like an awfully personal question and she was still feeling very uncertain in the aftermath of that harmless kiss last night.

  "Speaking of money, do you remember my lecture on currency?"