"Oh." Great. Unstable nexus gates, yet. "I know about unstable nexus gates," Margo muttered, wondering why none of her research had turned up that little tidbit. Maybe the government didn't want to scare people? "I've been on time terminals before."
He appeared to accept the lie. She'd sooner have died than admit she'd sold almost everything she owned-and very nearly a good bit more-to raise the price of a downtime ticket onto TT-86. Margo eyed the hole in the floor with a slight chill of misgiving. Well, adventure was what she was here for, wasn't it?
"So where's this bar?" she demanded, turning her back on the watery chasm. "I have business with Mr. Carson."
Malcolm Moore eyed her for one heartbeat longer than he should have-did he suspect anything? ATF had accepted her faked ID without a second glance then he shrugged and jerked his head. "It's down this way, in Urbs Romae. The Roman City," he translated, assuming she wouldn't know the meaning of "urbs."
Margo muttered, "I know where the word urban comes from." It was very nearly the only Latin she knew, but she knew that.
The corners of his eyes crinkled nicely when he smiled. Margo decided Malcolm Moore didn't remind her of any of the men she'd known, after all. "Come on. I'll show you where it is. It's a little tricky to spot."
She followed, hauling a suitcase that weighed more by the moment. When she had trouble keeping up, he glanced around and slowed his pace slightly to match hers.
"Are you by any chance planning to visit London? Or Denver?"
"Why?
He grimaced expressively. "Just hoping. I'm looking for a client for one of the upcoming tours. We freelancers have to hustle for a job."
"Oh. No, I wasn't planning a tour. Sorry."
"Don't mention it." His eyes, however, remained bright with unspoken curiosity. Just how often did Kit Carson get visitors? If the world's most famous time scout turned out to be a cranky recluse ...Given the difficulty she'd had ferreting out recent information on him, he probably was. Well, coping with her father ought to have been training enough to deal with any ill-tempered male ego. That training had gotten her out of New York alive, hadn't it?
Malcolm Moore led her at least half-way down the Commons, through areas that reminded Margo of history-book pictures. She knew where the various gates led, having researched TT-86 as thoroughly as possible before taking the plunge. This portion of the terminal led to ancient Athens, while the section over there was designed like a city in the High Andes. They passed shops that fascinated with glimpses of exotic interiors. One restaurant was shaped like a South American pyramid; its doorway was a replica of the Sun Gate at Teotihuacan.
Beyond that, Margo spotted intricate knotted patterns and interwoven mythical beasts carved around shop doorways. One restaurant had been built into a dragon prowed ship, with signs painted to look like Viking runes. The scents wafting out of the restaurants made her empty belly rumble in complaint.
Should've eaten lunch before I came down time. I bet the prices here are sky-high. At least in New York, she'd been able to buy cheap hot dogs from street vendors. They passed into an area of mosaic floors and Roman style shop fronts, then her guide ducked under a span of fake columns and steel supports and indicated a dim doorway. The clink of glasses and the unmistakable scent of beer wafted out from the interior. There was no shop sign visible anywhere. No wonder she'd missed it. Must be a hangout for residents only, if they don't advertise.
"Voila," Malcolm Moore said with a courtly flourish and a smile. "The Down Time Bar and Grill."
"Thanks." She flashed him a quick smile of gratitude, then headed for the dim-lit entrance, leaving him to follow or wander off on his own, whichever he preferred. Her attention was already focused on what she was going to say to the legendary Kenneth "Kit" Carson, the man on whom her entire future-and more depended. Mouth dry, palms wet, Margo gripped her suitcase in one hand and her courage in the other, then charged across the threshold .
"...so anyway," Ann laughed above the sharp crack of billiard balls from the back room, "he learned a valuable lesson about concentrating on the front-sight post. Marcus, hello, yes, I'll have another."
Across the table, Sven groaned theatrically. Rachel Eisenstein's musical laughter provided a comical counterpoint to Sven Bailey's gloom.
"Oh, hush up and finish your beer," Ann told him. "I won fair and square."
"I know. That's what's so damn depressing."
Ann winked at Marcus while Rachel sipped from her wineglass and continued to laugh silently. Sven took another pull from his beer mug and sighed. The young bartender grinned and went in search of refills.
Granville Baxter wandered in, having to duck under the doorway, and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. His grey business suit was still crisp and neat, but the man who wore it had a wilted look that said, "I need a drink. Now" Rachel waved and indicated an empty chair. Baxter's maternal Masai heritage coupled with a few paternal ancestors who'd been NBA stars gave him a height advantage over every single 'eighty-sixer in La-La Land. Granville Baxter, however, had no earthly interest in sports, other than occasionally sponsoring special Time Tours package deals for rich franchises.
Time Tours considered Baxter a marketing genius.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, ever polite even at the Down Time.
Sven gestured to one of several empty chairs. "Park em.
The Time Tours executive sank back with a sigh, fished in a pocket for a handkerchief, and blotted his dark brow.
"Double-gate day," he said, providing all the explanation any 'eighty-sixer needed.
Ann waved at Marcus and nodded toward Baxter. The bartender nodded back and drew a stein of Bax's favorite brew.
"How'd it go?" Sven asked, with a long pull at his own beer.
Bax -- who had occasionally said dire things about his parents' decision to name him "Granville" grimaced. "Baggage troubles again. Other than that, pretty smooth. Oh, we had the typical three or four who decide they want to switch tours after they get to the terminal and we had one woman who threw up all over a whole family on the other side, but nothing too rough. Forgot her scopolamine patch. I'll tell you, though, if my new baggage manager doesn't get his act together by the London departure, he's going to go begging a job somewhere else. -Oh, Marcus, bless you."
Half the beer vanished in one long gulp.
Ann sympathized. One transfer, one promotion, and one family crisis had led to four new baggage managers for Time Tours at TT-86 in the past six months. Bax's own job might be on the line if baggage handlers screwed up again. Rich tourists tolerated very little in the way of mistakes from hired underlings. Even geniuses were expendable if the right tourist pitched a loud-enough fit.
Marcus set out the rest of the drinks.
"So," Bax asked, "any problems at Medical with the new arrivals?"
Rachel had just begun to reply when a startling young woman clad entirely in black leather and lace, with short, auburn hair and a suitcase gripped like a set of nunchucks, charged through the doorway on a direct course for their table.
"Hello," she said, from halfway across the room, "I'm looking for Kit Carson. I was told he might be here."
Ann and Rachel exchanged glances. Even Bax lifted one brow. "No," he said in a friendly fashion. "I'm afraid he isn't, unless he's in back playing billiards."
The young woman swung around, clearly ready to interrupt the game in progress. Every male eye in the room followed the swing of her short skirt.
"No, he isn't back there," Ann said, forestalling her. "That's Skeeter and Goldie, trying to out scam one another."
The crack of billiard balls underscored the statement: The red-haired girl all but scowled. "Any idea how I can find him? It's important."