Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  Then Malcolm told her he'd been in touch with some friends who were in town for the Season. An invitation for dinner had been received and duly accepted. She panicked. "What should I do? What should I say?"

  "As little as possible," Malcolm said dryly.

  She managed a smile. Don't screw this up was the message, loud and clear. Of course; a scout wouldn't have to worry about things like formal social evenings with the British peerage very often .... She dreaded returning to the book work she knew would be waiting for her on the time terminal. Learning by doing was so much more interesting. But she clearly needed some of that tedious cultural and historical reading. She held back a shudder. Margo had learned more about Victorian England in three days than she would have in three years cooped up in some stuffy classroom.

  "Well," she said philosophically, "everyone keeps telling me charity girls are supposed to be demure and silent. I can always blush and stammer out something silly and let you rescue me."

  "That's one solution. In this case, actually not a bad one, since socially you are not yet `out.' Have you been reading the newspapers as I suggested?"

  "They're weird."

  "And the magazines?"

  "No photographs. Just those dull black-and-white etchings."

  "You're supposed to be reading the articles," he said, brows twitching down in exasperation.

  "Well, I can't make sense of half of them."

  "Ah," was all the comment he made.

  "Yeah, yeah, I know. I have a lot to learn."

  "Yes," he said, looking down that extremely British nose of his, "you do."

  "Well, you don't have to rub it in."

  "Mmm, yes, I think I do. We very nearly died in St. Giles and ...Well, the less said about your first riding lesson, the better. An unprepared scout has a very short career.

  If he was aware of the pun, he wasn't smiling.

  Margo sighed. "Okay. I'm trying. Really, I am."

  "I know. Now, about dinner. Let me explain cutlery...: '

  Margo's last three days in London were as glorious as the first four had been miserable and terrifying. She mastered the knack of fluttering her eyelashes and deferring questions with naive requests of her own.

  "Oh, but I'm so dull, you don't want to hear about an orphan. Please, tell me about riding to hounds. I don't understand anything about it and it seems so exciting ...."

  In her school-girl mob cap and pinafore, she wasn't taken seriously by anyone. Even the ladies thought she was adorable.

  "Mr. Moore, what an absolutely delightful child. Your ward is a charm."

  "You really must bring her out in a year or two."

  "Oh, no, not back to that dreadful tropical backwater, surely?"

  And so the evening went, in a wonderful haze of wine, sparkling conversation, and more food than she could possibly eat, course after course of it, with delicate little desserts between. She floated to bed that night and dreamed of long formal gowns, bright laughter, and an endless round of parties and dinners with Malcolm at her side ....

  The next day they went riding again, this time in Hyde Park, with Margo sidesaddle in a long riding habit and Malcolm in immaculate morning attire. Some of the women they'd seen last night at dinner smiled and greeted Malcolm, then smiled at her. Margo returned the greetings with what she hoped was a properly humble air, but inside she was bubbling.

  Hyde Park was glorious in the early morning sunlight, so glorious she could almost forget the horror of disease, squalor, and violent death such a short distance east. Because she was not yet "out" socially, none of the gentlemen they had dined with noticed her, but that was all right. It meant Margo had been accepted as a temporal native. She'd passed a difficult test with flying colors, as difficult in its way as that lethal little confrontation in St. Giles.

  They spent the afternoon window shopping beneath the glass roof of the Royal Arcade on Old Bond Street, which linked the fashionable Brown Hotel to Bond John trailed along as chaperon. Margo gawked through the windows into Bretell's at #12 where Queen Victoria herself bestowed her considerable patronage. Margo left the Arcade utterly dazzled.

  On their final day, Malcolm took her by train down to Brighton, where they wandered along chilly streets and Malcolm pointed out the myriad differences between the city of 1888 and the city where his family had been caught in the great Flood of 1998. They paused within sight of the waterfront. Malcolm gazed out at the leaden spray crashing against the shingle and went utterly silent. Margo found she couldn't bear the look in his eyes. She summoned her nerve and took his gloved hand in hers. He glanced down, eyes widening in surprise, then he swallowed hard.

  "Thank you, Miss Smythe. I-"

  He couldn't continue.

  Margo found herself moving on instinct. She guided him down the street to a warm inn and selected a seat in the corner. When the innkeeper bustled over, she smiled and said, "Stout, please, for my guardian and might I have a cup of hot tea?"

  "Surely, miss. Is there anything else I can get for the gennleman? He seems a mite poorly."

  Malcolm was visibly pulling himself together. "Forgive me, inn keep," he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand, "but I lost a dear brother not far from here. Drowned in the sea. I ...hadn't been back to Brighton since, you see."

  The innkeeper shook his head mournfully and hurried away to bring the dark beer and a steaming cup of tea. Margo sipped in silence while Malcolm regained his composure.

  "I shouldn't have come back," he said quietly.

  "Don't the tourists come here on holiday?"

  "Not often in February," he smiled wanly. "If one of my guests desires a holiday at the seaside, I generally recommend the Isle of Wight or even Man. I've avoided Brighton. Particularly during February."

  The orbital blowup, Margo knew, had occurred in February, catching Atlantic coastlines in the middle of the night. The loss of life had been devastating even in the relatively sheltered English Channel.

  Malcolm sipped his dark stout again. "You did very well just now," he murmured. "I'm not accustomed to being rescued by someone I'm guiding. You kept me from considerable embarrassment out there. This," he lifted the glass in a tiny salute and gestured at the inn, "was just what I needed: the shock of staying in persona to wake me up and the stout to deaden the hurt. Thank you."

  "I- It just seemed the right thing to do."

  A faint smile creased wan cheeks. "You've a good instinct, then. That's important. More so than you might guess." He drained the last of the stout, then took out his pocket watch. "If we're to make that return train, we'd best be leaving."

  When Malcolm squeezed her gloved hand, Margo felt as though she were flying.

  By the time the scheduled re-opening of the Britannia Gate forced them to leave London, Margo knew she'd found what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. I've done it, I've gone through a whole week down time, and I've come out just fine. She had a lot to learn yet, of course she'd endured humiliation and learned valuable lessons but now that she'd done it, she knew this was exactly what she'd wanted all along.

  You'll see, she promised an unshaven face in her memory, you'll see, damn you. I'll do it. This was harder than. anything you ever did to me, but I did it. And if you do it again.. Just you wait. I'll prove it to you.

  Margo had found where she belonged. All that remained now was to convince Kit Carson. And Malcolm Moore. Margo cast a last, longing glance at the gaslit windows of the Time Tours gatehouse, then stepped boldly through onto the grated platform in La La Land. It felt like she'd come home at last.

  Chapter Eleven

  "THERE ARE," SVEN Bailey told her patiently, "three basic grips in knife fighting." He demonstrated. "The hammer grip is the way most people pick up a knife, even kitchen carving and paring knives. Its a good, solid

  Margo practiced on the slim knife he handed her.

  "Then comes the fencing grip." He shifted the knife in his hand as though he were holding an envelope out to someone else. Hi
s thumb rested on the top of the grip. "This is a deadly grip in the hands of a trained knife fighter, very difficult to defend against. Learn to use it."

  Margo copied the hold on her own knife. It felt odd.

  "Third," Sven shifted his blade again, "we have the icepick grip." He now held the knife upside down, so that the blade lay flat against the length of his forearm.

  "That looks silly," Margo commented. It felt silly, too.

  Sven lifted his forearm toward her. "Would you care to hit my arm with that sharp edge in the way?"

  "Well, no."

  "Right. It guards your arm somewhat. Moreover," he moved with lightning speed, "you can come across your body with a wicked slash and follow up with a powerful stab."

  The knifepoint stopped half-an-inch from Margo's breastbone. She gulped. "Oh."

  "Limited, but useful. You'll master all three grips and the moves useful or unique to them."

  "All right. Where do we begin"

  "With the types of knife blades and what each is useful for." He retrieved the practice knife he'd loaned her, then rummaged in a case he'd brought out to the practice floor. Sven laid out half-a-dozen knives, all carefully sheathed.

  "All right. There are two very basic blade shapes, with multiple variations. This," he drew a ten-inch, thick bladed knife, "is a Bowie. The spine is thick for strength. This whole side has been cut away, so the knife isn't symmetrical. The curved upper edge is called a false edge. It's often sharpened, but not always. Sometimes these blades have `saw teeth' added. Mostly saw teeth are a sales gimmick, based on bad twentieth-century movies. The teeth are too large to be any good sawing anything. Avoid them. They can get caught on ribs, then you're stuck with no knife."

  "No saw teeth," Margo repeated.

  "The Bowie is an excellent survival knife. it's strong enough to use for camp chores like cutting small branches for firewood if you don't have a hand axe. The blade's thick enough to use as a prybar without too much risk of snapping the tip off. Unfortunately, it has drawbacks as a fighting knife, such as sheer size, lack of a second sharp edge all the way back to the guard, not to mention its worst drawback: its anachronistic as hell most places or times you'd end up in. But you'll learn to use one because we're being thorough."

  "Okay."

  "This, he unsheathed a beautiful, perfectly symmetrical blade some eight inches in length, "is a leaf-point or spear point dagger. The shape is exactly the same as ancient spear points, even the Roman short sword, the gladius. Unlike the gladius, it's. small enough and sharp enough along both edges to make a nearly perfect fighting knife. It'll slash the hell out of anything you cut with it. And it's thin enough and symmetrical enough to make a beautiful stabbing point, although the point isn't strong and it may snap off. A bodkin or stiletto," he drew out a thing like a knitting needle or an ice pick with slim grips, "is a perfect stabbing weapon, designed to stab through the links of chain-mail armor. Its use is limited, however, to stabbing."

  He put away the blades he'd shown her so far.

  "Now, something that's neither Bowie nor leaf-point is the world-famous Randall #1." He slipped a glittering ten-inch blade from a worn sheathe. "Some people will tell you it's a modified Bowie. Bo Randall, who invented it back before World War II, pointed out rightly that the shape of this second edge is nothing at all like a Bowie. It's straight, not curved. He didn't design it as a Bowie and he took great exception to having his knife classified as a Bowie. This is one of the best all-around fighting knives ever made. Again, the problem you have is the anachronistic shape for most of history."

  Margo sighed. "Why am I learning to use knives I won't carry?"

  "Because I'm thorough and careful. Don't argue."

  "What are these others?"

  "This is a skinning knife." It was a relatively flat, wide blade with a thin spine, and very delicate compared to the fighting knives. "It's specialized for skinning an animal. This," the next blade was curved, thick, and shaped nothing like any of the others, "is a hunting knife. Filleting knives," he held up yet another, "are similar to skinners and completely useless for our purpose. Now, this odd-shaped little jewel is a Ghurka."

  It was a strange, zig-zag shape, with an ornate hilt

  "This," he drew a crescent-moon sword blade, "is called a scimitar. You'll learn to use them, but the chances of your running across them are fairly slim because of relatively limited geographical distribution. Now, this Tanto," he drew a blade shaped something like an Exact-O knife, "was designed to penetrate enamel-style armor in the Orient. It has the same tip shape as some Asian fishing knives. Again, limited usefulness as a fighting knife, but we'll work with it because you may run across one if you end up in the Western Pacific Rim. Japanese samurai swords and halberds had the same blade shape, just longer and heavier. Now, last but not least is this little jewel."

  The final knife was a T -handled thing like a corkscrew, but the blade was shaped exactly like the spear-point dagger-except that the whole blade was only three inches long and the inch closest to the handle was little more than a dull-edged, narrow rectangular bar.

  "What's that thing?" Margo laughed

  "A push dagger. Far too many instructors ignore them. That's stupid. The push dagger," he demonstrated the hold, with the T-handle clenched in the fist and the short blade extending beyond the knuckles, "is a very deadly weapon. It's next to impossible to dislodge it from your hand You can slash," he demonstrated rapidly, "or stab with a simple punch, or," he opened his hand, seized her wrist, and without letting go of the knife, said, "you can grab an opponent without cutting them. The push dagger gives you some nice options."

  Margo widened her eyes and stare at her wrist. "Good God."

  Sven Bailey grinned wickedly and let her go. "Yeah. Isn't it great"

  Margo laughed. "I'm just thinking what a karate punch would be like with that thing in your fist."

  "Exactly You," he pointed with the tip of the push dagger, "will learn to use this very well. It's particularly suited to women who don't have much experience with fighting-but then, that won't apply to you, will it?"

  Margo chuckled ruefully. "Not by the time you're done with me."

  "Right. Now, as to the tactics of knife fighting, forget everything you've ever seen in any movie. Stupid doesn't begin to cover it. Movie knife fighting-like movie

  "Knife-fighting or fist-fighting-will get you killed . Knife fights are dirty, dangerous affairs carried on by people who want to cut your guts open and spill them in the mud. Literally. Unless you're very careful and very good, you'll bleed to death within seconds of losing a knife fight. The idea," he smiled grimly, "is to avoid fighting in the first place. But if you can't, you make damn sure it's the bastard who attacks you who bleeds to death, not you. Knife fighting is, encounter for encounter, far deadlier than any gunfight. If a bad guy shoots you, chances are extremely good you'll live through it.

  "What? Are you pulling my leg?" Margo demanded, thinking of a lifetime's worth of newspaper, magazine, and television news articles.

  "Unless it's a sawed-off shotgun at close range, or the shot hits a vital organ, chances are you'll live given relatively decent medical care. But if you're cut up in a knife fight, shock and blood loss will kill you quick. And I mean quick. In seconds, if you're hit in the right places. One good slash," he traced a finger across her lower arm, "will sever muscles to the bone, cut arteries, veins, may even fracture bone itself. If you're hit across the femoral, the jugular, or the carotids, you're dead. Period. Same with abdominal or chest wounds, most times. You'll bleed out or die of shock before you can get help."

  Margo swallowed. "Wonderful. What happens if some guy jumps me by surprise?"

  Sven held her regard steadily "Easy. You never let anyone jump you by surprise."

  He wasn't kidding.

  "Pay attention to your surroundings constantly. What's potentially hiding in the shadows of that bush? Behind that tree, around that corner, in that doorway? Is the man behind me just strol
ling along for a walk or following me? What about the guy lounging around on the steps up ahead? Pay attention. Somebody takes you by surprise, you've already lost. Remember that exercise I had you practice before you went tripping off to London. Notice everyone else before they notice you."

  Margo flashed back to the attack in St. Giles. If she hadn't been watching so carefully..."All right, point taken."

  "Your homework on alertness is simple but effective. You've tried it once, for a day. Now we get serious about it. For the next week, keep track of everyone you encounter. Strangers, people you know, people who know you. As before, keep a count of how many times they notice you before you notice them, and vice versa. Every time someone sees you and reacts before you do is a potentially lethal encounter you won't walk away from."

  "Isn't that a little paranoid?".

  Sven shook his head. "This is standard training for self-defense on urban streets, never mind military situations. Your job as scout combines features of both. Learn to notice everythin around you. Alertness is half the fight. Being prepare to act on an instant's notice is the other half. No moments of doubt, hesitation, self questioning. Go for a crippling blow whenever you can, but if it comes down to a lethal fight and you're not prepared to kill the other bastard to stay alive ...well, then, you're in the wrong job, kid."

  Margo chewed her lip. Would she be able to pull a trigger? Or cut someone's throat? Martial arts was one thing, with its focus on getting the hell out with minimal damage; knifing or shooting someone was something else. Clearly, she had some soul searching to do.

  "Problems?" Sven asked quietly.

  That question deserved an honest answer. "Maybe. I don't know. I survived St. Giles, but it shook me up. I need to do some heavy thinking tonight."

  Sven nodded "Good That's critical. Unless you're prepared to use deadly force, and I mean prepared here," he tapped her head, "and here," he tapped her chest, "you won't use it when the flag drops on a lethal encounter. You'll be the one carried home. Think it out. Meanwhile, you might as well start learning technique."