Evans, Linda - Time Scout 1 - Time Scout

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2024-12-03 3 0 584.99KB 254 页 5.9玖币
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Time Scout
CHAPTER ONE
It wasn't difficult to tell visitors from 'eighty-sixers. Visitors were the
ones with the round mouths and rounder eyes and steadily decreasing bankrolls.
Like refugees from Grandma's attic, they were decked out in whatever the
Outfitters had decreed the current "look of the century." Invariable struggles
with unfamiliar bits of clothing, awkward baggage arrangements, and foreign
money marked them even faster than an up tilted head on a New York City
sidewalk.
'Eighty-sixers, by contrast, stood out by virtue of omission. They neither
gawked nor engaged in that most offensive of tourist behaviors, the
"I-know-it-all-and-will-share-it with-you" bravado that masks someone who
wouldn't know a drachma from a sesterce, even if his life depended on it!
Which, in TT-86, it might.
Nope, the 'eighty-sixers were the ones who hauled luggage, snagged stray
children back from the brink of disaster, and calmed flaring tempers in three
different languages in as many minutes, all without loosening a fold of those
impossible-to-wrap Roman togas or bumping into a single person with those
equally impossible-to-manage Victorian bustles.
'Eighty-sixers were right at home in La-La Land.
Frankly, Malcolm Moore couldn't imagine living anywhere else.
Which was why he was currently threading his way through the Commons of
Shangri-la Station, decked out in his most threadbare woolen tunic (the one
with
the artistic wine and dung stains), his dirtiest cheap sandals, and his very
finest bronze collar (the one that read MALCOLUM SERVUS).
The blank spot waited for the name of any person offering him a job. Adding
the customer's name would take only seconds with his battery-powered engraver,
and he had a grinder in his room to smooth out the name again for the next
trip.
The metal was currently as shiny as his hopes and as empty as his belly.
Occasionally, Malcolm felt the pun inherent in his name had become a
harbinger of plain bad luck.
"Well, my luck's gotta change sometime," he muttered, girding metaphorical
loins for battle.
His destination, of course, was Gate Six. Tourists were already beginning
to
converge on its waiting area, milling about in animated groups and smiling
clusters. Hangers-on thronged the vast Commons just to watch the show. A
departure at Gate Six was an Event, worth watching even for those not making
the
trip. Tables at little cafes and bars, especially those in the "Roman City"
section of the terminal, were filling up fast.
In "Urbs Romae" hot-dog stands took the form of ancient
sausage-and-wine-vendor shops visible on the streets of ancient Rome, complete
with vats of hot oil in which the hot dogs sizzled. Countersunk amphorae in
the
countertops brimmed with higher quality wine than anything down time. Better
cafes were designed like temples, private courtyards, even colonnaded gardens
complete with fountains and flowerbeds. The clink of glassware and the rich
scents of coffee, warm pastries, and expensive liquor caressed Malcolms
nostrils
like a lover's fingertips. His belly rumbled. God, he was hungry ....
He nodded to a few friends already seated at cafe tables. They waved and
were
kind enough not to offer him a seat, since he was clearly dressed for
business.
As he approached the Down Time's narrow, dim storefront, half-hidden under the
crossbeams of a support for a second-story catwalk (cleverly disguised, as
"marble" columns and balcony), he spotted Marcus and waved. His young friend
was
busy setting out shot glasses at one of the window-seat tables the bar
boasted.
A three-foot porthole affair, it gave the impression of peeping out through
the
side of an ancient sailing ship.
"Bona fortuna," the bartender mouthed through the glass; then he touched
his
temple and winked. Malcolm grinned. Marcus-who possessed no last name-had once
expressed a private opinion that anyone who wanted to visit the genuine Urbs
Romae was slightly off in the head.
"Go back?" he'd said the one time Malcolm had suggested they combine their
respective talents as partners in the freelance guide business. Startlement in
his young eyes had given way almost immediately to a glint akin to fear. "You
do
me honor, friend. But no. Shangri-la is more fun." The strain around his smile
prompted Malcolm to change the subject with a mental note never to raise it
again.
Urbs Romae was Malcolm's favorite part of Shangri-la Station, probably
because ancient Rome was his specialty. Beyond the entrance to the Down Time
Bar
& Grill, the Commons stretched away like the inside of a shopping mall
designed
by Escher. Two hundred yards across and nearly three times that length, the
Commons was a multi-level monstrosity of girders, broad catwalks, ramps,
balconies, and cantilevered platforms disguised as an astonishing number of
items. Many of them led absolutely nowhere.
Pleasant fountains and pools splashed under the perpetual glow of the
Commons' lights. The occasional flash of color against blue-tiled fountains
betrayed the presence of exotic fish kept to graze the algae. Urbs Romae's
floor
was a colorful patchwork of mosaics in the ancient style, most of them put
together by the enterprising merchants whose shops bordered them. Signs
shrouded
the walls at random intervals, while staircases stretched upward past
storefronts and hotel windows to unpredictable levels along the walls.
Some ramps and catwalks were still under construction or at least seemed to
be. A number ended in blank stretches of concrete wall, while others reached
islands that floated four and five stories above the main floor, supported by
open strut work like scaffolding around a cathedral under reconstruction. A
few
ramps and stairways stretched from scattered spots to end in thin air, leaving
one to wonder whether they led up to something invisible or down from a hole
out
of nothing.
Malcolm grinned. First impressions of Shangri-la left most visitors
convinced
the time terminal's nickname, La-La Land, came from the lunatic walks to
nowhere.
Large signs bordered several blank stretches, where balconies and catwalks
had been screened off with chain link fencing that made no pretense of
blending
in with the rest of Urbs Romae. The signs, in multiple languages, warned of
the
dangers of unexplored gates. The fencing wasn't so much to keep things from
wandering in. as to keep other things from wandering out. The signs, of
course,
were a legal precaution. Most tourists weren't stupid enough to wander through
an open portal without a guide. But there had been casualties at other
stations
and lawsuits had occasionally been filed by bereaved families. Residents of
TT-86 were grateful for their own station manager's precautions.
Nobody wanted the time terminal shut down for slipshod management.
Nobody.
Today's batch of tourists and guides looked like refugees from Spartacus.
Most of the men tugged -uncomfortably at dress-like tunics and expended
considerable effort avoiding one another's eyes. Knobby knees and hairy legs
were very much in evidence. Malcolm chuckled. Ah, Gate Six ...Malcolm wore his
own threadbare tunic with the ease of long practice: He barely registered the
difference between his business costumes and what he normally wore, although
he
did note that his sandal strap needed repairing again.
Women in elegant stolas chatted animatedly in groups, comparing jewelry,
embroidered borders, and elegant coiffeurs. Others wandered into the gate's
waiting area, where they relaxed in comfortable chairs, sipped from paper
cups,
and watched the show. Those, Malcolm knew, were rich enough they'd been down
time before. First-time tourists were too excited to sit down. Malcolm pushed
past the periphery of the growing crowd in search of likely employers.
"Morning, Malcolm."
He turned to find Skeeter Jackson, clad elegantly in a Greek-style chiton.
He
held back a groan and forced a smile. "Morning, Skeeter." After the brief
handclasp, he counted his fingernails.
Skeeter nodded to Malcolms tunic. "I see you're trying the slave-guide
routine." Brown eyes sparkled. "Great stains. I'll have to get your recipe
sometime." Skeeter's wide smile, which was, as far as anyone had ever been
able
to tell, the only genuine thing about him, was infectious.
"Sure," Malcolm laughed. "One quart liquefied mare's dung, two quarts sour
Roman wine, and three pints Tiberian mud. Spread carefully with an artist's
brush, let dry for two weeks, then launder in cold water. Works wonders on raw
wool."
Skeeter's eyes had widened. "Gad. You're serious." His own garments, as
always, were fastidiously neat and apparently new. Where he'd obtained them,
Malcolm didn't want to know. "Well, good luck," Skeeter offered "I have an
appointment to keep." He winked. "See you around."
The slim young man grinned like an imp counting damned souls and slipped
off
into the growing crowd, Malcolm surreptitiously checked his belt pouch to be
sure the battery-powered engraver and business cards were still there.
"Well," he told himself, "at least he never seems to roll one of us
'eighty-sixers." He glanced at one of several dozen chronometers which
depended
from the distant ceiling and checked the countdown on Gate Six.
Time to get to work.
The crowd was growing denser. The noise volume increased exponentially.
Hired
baggage handlers worked to balance awkward loads comprised of odd-sized
parcels
and sacks and leather satchels, while Time Tours guides double-checked their
customer lists and gave last-minute instructions. Ticket takers at the
entrance
to Gate Six's main ramp waved through a couple of company executives on their
way to check the upper platform. Already Malcolm estimated the crowd at some
seventy-five people.
"Too big for a tour group," he muttered. Time Tours, Inc. was getting
greedy.
The noise of tourist voices and baggage handlers grunting at their work
bounced
off girders high overhead and reverberated, creating a roar of confused
echoes.
At least with a group this size, he ought to be able to find something. He
plastered a hopeful smile on his face, fished into the leather pouch at his
waist for business cards, and got busy.
"Hello," he introduced himself to the first prospect, extending a hand to a
tall, robust man whose tan and fair hair said "California tycoon." "Please
allow
me to introduce myself. Malcolm Moore, freelance guide."
The man shook his hand warily, then glanced at the business card he'd
proffered. It read:
Malcolm Moore, Time Guide
Rome AD 47 3 London 1888 3 Denver 1885
Other Destinations Available upon Request
Experience Adventure without the Hassle of a Tour Schedule!
Private Side Tours and In-Depth Guide Services for
Individuals, Families, Students, Business Groups
Best Rates in Shangri-la
Contact: TT-86 Room 503, #111-1814
The tycoon scanned his card and glanced back up. "You're a freelancer?" The
tone was more dubious than ever.
"My specialty is ancient Rome," Malcolm said with a warm, sincere smile. "I
hold a Ph.D. in Classics and Anthropology and have nearly seven years
experience
as a guide. The formal tour," he nodded toward uniformed Time Tours employees
taking tickets and answering questions, "includes the Circus Maximus chariot
races and gladiatorial combats, but Time Tours is bypassing the extraordinary
experience of the..."
"Thank you," the man handed back the card, "but I'm not interested."
Malcolm forced the smile to remain. "Of course. Some other time, perhaps."
He moved on to the next potential customer. "Please allow me to introduce
myself..."
Begging never got any easier.
Given the chill of this crowd, Time Tours had been poisoning their
customers
against freelancers. Skeeter Jackson, drat the boy, seemed to be doing fine,
whatever he was up to in that far corner. His smile glowed brighter than the
overhead lights.
By the time the countdown clock read T-minus-ten minutes, Malcolm had begun
to consider offering his services as a baggage handler just to pick up enough
cash for a few meals, but a man had his pride. Malcolm was a guide and a
damned
good one. If he lost what was left of his reputation as a professional, his
life
here would be over. He scanned the crowd from one edge, counting heads and
costumes, and decided glumly that he had, in fact, talked to everyone.
Well ...damn.
A desperate attempt to hold onto the shreds of his dignity sent Malcolm in
retreat. He retired from the immediate vicinity of Gate Six, accompanied by a
return of nagging worries about how he might pay for his room and the next few
meals. Overriding that; Malcolm suffered a keen disappointment that had very
little to do with money or the loss of his old, full-time job. Malcolm Moore
had
no idea how guides for the big outfits like Time Tours felt; but for him,
stepping through a portal into another century was a thrill better than eating
regularly, almost better than sex.
It was that thrill which kept him at TT-86, working every departure, no
matter the destination, for the chance to try it again.
Malcolm headed for the shadows of a vine-draped portico, close enough to
Gate
Six to watch the fun, but far enough away to avoid attracting attention from
friends who would want to sympathize. Montgomery Wilkes, looking very out of
place in his dark, up-time uniform, strode through the crowd with the singular
intensity of a charging rhino. Even tourists scuttled out of his way. Malcolm
frowned. What was Wilkes doing out of his inner sanctum? La-La Land's head ATF
agent never attended a Gate opening. He glanced again at the nearest overhead
chronometer board and found the answer.
Ah...
Primary, too, was due to cycle. He'd forgotten in the hustle of trying to
line up a job that a new batch of tourists would be arriving today from a
time.
Malcolm rubbed the tip of his nose and smile A double-gate day ...Maybe there
was hope, after all. Even without a job, it ought to be fun.
Down at Gate Six, last-minute purchases we're in full swing. Strolling
vendors worked the crowd efficiently, burdened down with everything from ropes
of "safe sausages to extra leather satchels for souvenirs, the latest
"must-have" survival junk, and local coinage for those stupid enough to leave
money exchanges to the last minute.
Malcolm wondered if he should consider a career as a vendor? They always
seemed to do well and it would be steady work. Connie, maybe, would give him a
job. He shook his head absently as he watched everything from last-minute mugs
of coffee to tawdry bits of jewelry exchange hands. Nah, he'd get bored too
quickly trying to hold down a mundane job, even here. Setting up his own shop
was out of the question. Besides the question of higher rent for business
space
and all that hideous government paperwork to cope with, where would he get the
capital to buy inventory? Investors weren't interested in ex-guides, they
wanted
shrewd business acumen and plenty of sales management experience.
Of course, he could always go back to time scouting.
Malcolm glanced involuntarily toward the nearest barricades. The area had
been fenced off because the gate hadn't yet been explored or was inherently
unstable. Malcolm had risked down-time explorations into unknown gates as a
freelance time scout only twice. A stray shiver crawled up his spine. Kit
Carson, the first and best-of all the time scouts, was famous all over the
摘要：

TimeScoutCHAPTERONEItwasn'tdifficulttotellvisitorsfrom'eighty-sixers.Visitorsweretheoneswiththeroundmouthsandroundereyesandsteadilydecreasingbankrolls.LikerefugeesfromGrandma'sattic,theyweredeckedoutinwhatevertheOutfittershaddecreedthecurrent"lookofthecentury."Invariablestruggleswithunfamiliarbitsof...

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