Time Scout Read online

  Time Scout

  Time Scout

  Book I

  Robert Asprin

  &

  Linda Evans

  Content

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  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, embro
idered 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, London 1888, 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 world. And damned lucky to be alive. Malcolm wasn't exactly a coward, but time scouting was not Malcolm's idea of a sane career. He was more than happy to settle for rubbing shoulders with giants and sharing war-stories with the real heroes of TT-86 over beer and pretzels.

  A strident klaxon sounded, echoing five storie
s above the terminal floor. Conversation cut off mid-sentence. As abruptly as it had sounded, the klaxon died away, replaced by an amplified voice. Long-time residents leaned forward in chairs, absently twirling half-empty glasses or drawing designs in the condensate on table tops with idle fingertips. The throng in the waiting area paused expectantly.

  "Your attention, please. Gate Six is due to open in three minutes. Returning parties will have gate priority. All departures, please remain in the holding area until guides are notified that the gate is clear."

  The message repeated in three other languages.

  Malcolm wished his tunic had pockets so he could thrust his hands into them. Instead he crossed his arms and waited. Another ear-splitting klaxon sounded.

  "Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in ten minutes. All departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for customs..."

  Malcolm stopped listening. He'd memorized the up-time departure litany years ago. Besides, departures down-time were always more entertaining than watching a bunch of government agents search luggage. The real fun at Primary wouldn't begin until the new arrivals started coming through. Malcolm's gaze found the countdown for Gate Six. Any second now...

  A hum of sub-harmonics rumbled through the time terminal as Gate Six, the biggest of TT-86s active gates, came to life. Outside the range of audible sound, yet detectable through the vibration of bones at the base of one's skull, the sound that wasn't a sound intensified.

  Across the Commons, tourists pressed behind their ears with the heels of hands in an attempt to relieve the unpleasant sensation. Malcolm traced his gaze up a pair of broad ramps-one of which descended toward the waiting area from a wide catwalk, the other of which would handle departures-and waited eagerly.

  Up at the edge of the catwalk an utterly blank section of wall began to shimmer. Lake a heat haze over a stretch of noonday highway, the air rippled. Colors dopplered through the spectrum in odd, distorted patterns. Gasps rose from the waiting area, distinctly audible in the hush. Then a black spot appeared in the dead center of the blank wall.