Time Scout

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The withered-sea landscape garden of sand and stones in the corner of Kit's office had lost its ability to soothe. He slumped in his chair and shoved aside the mountain of government forms to be filled out, then stared at the raked sand and dry boulders. Eight weeks. It had felt more like eight years. Kit hadn't believed it possible to miss someone so keenly after such a short time much of it spent arguing, at that. His apartment felt empty. The Down Time had lost its appeal. The Commons would have been utterly dead-flat boring if not for the occasional excitement of a crow-sized pterodactyl raiding lunch from shocked hands or momentarily unguarded plates.

After a while, even the giggle of watching tourists dive under lunch tables had worn off. All that was left was the intolerable weight of government paperwork and the long hours wondering where she'd gone. He'd gone up-time long enough to hire an investigative agency to locate her birthplace in Minnesota and discover her real name, as well as search other time terminals to see if she might have gone scouting at one of them. So far, the agency had drawn an absolute blank. As far as anyone could tell, Margo had dropped off the face of the earth.

Which she might have, for all practical purposes, if she'd gone scouting from another terminal.

Whatever the solution to the mystery of Margo's whereabouts, TT-86 no longer felt quite so much like home.

Kit ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Maybe I ought to retire up time." To do that, he'd have to close his accounts, find a buyer for the Neo Edo, locate a place to live in the real world, which had changed a lot and not for the better, so far as he could tell during the years he'd been down time.

Kit grunted. "I'm too tired to leave and too bored to stay."

So he picked up a stack of bills and started scanning them for errors, just to avoid government forms. He was halfway through an itemized bill from the library when an entry caught his attention. He hadn't done any research on fuel-consumption and lift-capacity for Floating Wedge ultralight airships.

"What the ..."

He checked the access code assigned to the bill. It was Margo's. He grunted. So she had been using the library, after all. Then he noticed the date. Kit swivelled in his chair, punching up gate departures for the past two months. There was the day Porta Romae had cycled, the day his granddaughter had walked back out of his life. The library entry on the bill was dated seven days afterward.

"Oh, hell, she couldn't even keep her goddamned password a secret. How many other charges did this thief run up against my account?" He found several additional entries, neatly itemized by subject matter and data source as well as computer time logged onto the mainframe. Each one post-dated Margo's precipitous departure through Primary.

Kit slid the bill angrily to one side of his desk. Unless he could locate the access-code pirate, he'd be stuck for one helluva research bill. He switched computer screens, typing out a simple monitoring program to set off an alarm the next time Margo's access code was entered into the system, then e-mailed messages to Brian Hendrickson and Mike Benson, alerting them to the fact that data piracy was occurring.

Then he called Bull Morgan.

"What's up, Kit?"

"We've got a data pirate loose on the station. Someone's used Margo's access code to bill research to my account."

"I'll make a note of it. You're sure it's an account pirate?"

"Margo left a week before the first incident. Went up Primary to God alone knows where. Or when."

Bull sympathized. "I'll do some checking, put Mike Benson on it."

"I've already e-mailed him about it and Brian Hendrickson, too. Thanks, Bull."

He hung up and glared at everything in sight. Then sighed, resigned himself to a long day, and settled resolutely to work again. When the phone rang less than a quarter of an hour later, he cradled the receiver between shoulder and ear.

"Yeah, Kit here."

"Kit, it's Bull."

He sat back in his chair, faintly surprised. "Damn, I knew you were efficient, but I didn't expect you to catch the rat this fast."

Bull chuckled. "We haven't. But I did turn up something odd. I thought you'd want to know."

"Yeah?"

"Margo passed through Primary, all right. Then she came back about a week later."

He sat straight up. "What?"

"She came back, but hasn't logged out again. Medical hasn't out-processed her records, the ATF has no trace of her leaving a second time through Customs..."

"But!" He closed his mouth again. "What about other gates?"

"Mike's working on it. Hang on a sec."

Kit waited in a sweat. Then Bull came back on. "No, she didn't log out through any of the other gates, either. Not the tourist ones, anyway, and nobody's filed paperwork to scout the unknown gates off Commons."

"Bull, she has to be somewhere. La-La Land's a closed environment."

A brief silence greeted him. "Kit, there are unstable gates."

He shut his eyes. "No. Not even Margo's that stupid. She was scared spitless of the Nexus Gate and after Orleans ..."

"Well, she's still here somewhere, then, avoiding you."

"For seven weeks? La-La Land isn't that big. Besides, Margo couldn't stay out of trouble for seven minutes, never mind seven weeks. If she were here, somebody would've seen her. She's not on the station." He thought hard. "Do me a favor, would you? See if anyone else is missing? I'll start asking around on my own, see what I can scare up. Maybe a small gate opened up somewhere we don't know about. Or maybe somebody went through one of the unexplored gates without permission." It'd be just like that little idiot to pull a stunt like that.

"Sure thing, Kit. I'll run some checks and let you know."

"Thanks."

Kit hung up and said several biting things to the withered-sea landscape garden, then started placing phone calls.

Kit didn't have much luck. Nobody he talked to had heard a whisper about an unknown gate. A couple of down timers who worked as Time Tours baggage handlers recalled seeing Margo return through Primary, but they had no idea where she'd gone afterward. Kit's granddaughter had managed to vanish without a trace from the heart of one of the most gossip-riddled communities in the world.

Then, when he least expected it, Malcolm Moore showed up.

The younger man had avoided Kit's company for eight full weeks. If Kit arrived someplace and Malcolm was already there, he made excuses to leave within moments. He turned down casual invitations to the Down Time for dinner and had become in general a hard-working recluse. Kit felt sorry for him. Clearly, Malcolm had taken Margo's rebellion and defection deeply to heart, blaming himself entirely. Kit had tried to apologize, to tell him it wasn't his fault, but Malcolm wasn't returning Kit's e-mail or phone calls, either.

When the buzzer on his desk lit up and Jimmy told him Malcolm was headed up, Kit actually sagged in his chair.

"Thank God..."

He hated to lose friends.

A hesitant knock at the door signaled Malcolm's arrival.

"Come in, it's open."

The door slid back, Japanese style. Malcolm Moore glanced into the spacious office. He looked massively uncomfortable. -Uh ... you busy, Kit?"

Something in Malcolms eyes told Kit he hoped the answer would be "yes."

"No. Come on in."

Malcolm sighed, then slipped off his shoes and entered. His posture told Kit he'd rather have faced the hangman.

"I, uh ..." He faltered to a halt, staring at the floor, the walls, anywhere but at Kit.

"Malcolm, it wasn't your fault. She's a headstrong little hellion. It wasn't your fault."

A deep flush darkened the guide's cheeks. "You don't have to be nice about it, Kit. You weren't there." He shoved hands into his pockets, then paced uneasily toward the withered-sea landscape garden, leaving his back to Kit. There were holes in the toes of his socks and both heels were threadbare.

"I, uh, heard she came back. Then vanished.

"Yes," Kit said quietly. "Do you have any ideas at all?"

Malcolm halted. For just an instant his shoulders drooped. "No." Then he straightened his back again. "But I heard something odd this morning. I thought you ought to know. You know, just in case..."

"Park 'em. Talk."

Malcolm hesitated, then took the chair. But he still wouldn't meet Kit's eyes. "I was down in the gym working out. Ripley Sneed came in."

"Ripley? Where the hell has he been keeping himself? I haven't seen him in months."

Malcolm grimaced. "Went down an unknown gate and damn near didn't come back. Had some pretty wild stories to tell. Anyway, I mentioned you'd been asking about unknown gates anybody had explored recently. He said he'd gone through one a couple of months back, but it was completely worthless."

Kit frowned. "What gate? Where?"

Malcolm rubbed the fingers of one hand. "He said it opened in the back of Phil Jones' store."

"Phil Jones? Isn't he the nut who goes down time and rescues totem poles?"

"Yeah, that's the one. His shop gives me the creeps. Phil gives me the creeps. Anyway, Ripley said a small gate opened up in his storeroom. He went through, logged it, came back, told Phil the gate was useless.

"Why was it worthless? Where and when did it go?"

Malcolm glanced at his hands, pretending to inspect his fingernails. "He wouldn't say."

Kit tightened his hands down around the edge of his desk. "Ripley Sneed always was a goddamned bastard How much did he want?"

Malcolm sighed unhappily and finally met Kit's gaze. "A thousand."

"A thousand dollars? To tell me where a worthless gate leads?" Kit swore savagely. "Where is that miserly little prick now?"

"The Down Time. He's telling everyone about his adventures in the sultan's harem."

Kit rolled his eyes. "Good God. What an idiot. Okay, Malcolm. Thanks. Maybe this'll be worth it. God knows I haven't had any other clues worth following. I'm afraid she's wandered through one of the question gates without filing proper paperwork with Bull and if she's done that..."

Malcolm nodded. "You may be right." He hesitated. "Margo ... Well, she wasn't in any mood to wait any longer. Something awful happened to that kid before she came here. I'm not sure who she's trying to prove herself to, but it's riding her harder than we ever did."

Kit didn't answer. He'd spent a lot of sleepless hours doing exactly what Malcolm had been doing: blaming himself.

"That doesn't matter, does it, if she's wandered down a gate without telling anyone. She shouldn't have shadowed herself already," he said raggedly, drawing a flinch from Malcolm, "but if she's actually gone down a question gate secretly, she might as well have."

The legal consequences of stepping through an unexplored gate without filing proper forms were minuscule, a mere fine if you actually made it back alive, but the practical consequences ...

If no one knew which gate you'd gone through, no one could even mount a rescue attempt.

Kit tracked down Ripley Sneed at the Down Time Bar & Grill. Malcolm, to his surprise, followed doggedly. Kit ordered a Kirin, offered to buy one for Malcolm, then shrugged and settled into an empty chair at Ripley's table.

"Mind if we join you?"

"Sure," the scout said with a smile. "What have you been up to, Kit?"

"Oh, this and that. I hear you've been exploring unknown gates."

"Sure have," Ripley grinned. His dark hair needed washing. He smelled bad, like month-old gym socks left to soak in mare's sweat. The regulars at the Down Time had taken tables upwind of him.

Doesn't this jerk ever bathe?

"So, I hear you checked out a gate in Phil Jones' place."

Ripley took a long pull of his own beer. "Yep."

"Odd place for a gate to open up. Of course, they've opened in stranger places." Kit smiled politely.

"You're telling me. How come you're interested in gates again? Thought you'd retired?"

"Oh, just curious. I like to keep up with the business."

Ripley laughed. "You're not fooling anybody, Kit. You want to know about that gate worse than I want to get rich. It'll cost you." His eyes glinted.

"Really?" Kit leaned back and folded his hands across his belly. "You'd charge a man for information on a worthless gate? Hell, l'll just wait until it cycles again and take a look, myself."

Ripley chuckled. -Nope. You're too cautious. You've been through too damned many gates, Kit Carson. You want to step through that bad, it'll really cost you to find out whether or not you'll go `pool' before you hit the other side."

Kit restrained the urge to throttle him.

Malcolm leaned forward on his elbows. "You're an unpleasant louse for someone who just spent a week in some poor schmuck's harem, getting his wives pregnant while he was off fighting the Christians."

Ripley laughed, unoffended. "I can afford to be unpleasant. You can't." He belched. "okay, Kit, I'll tell you about the gate if I see a thousand up front."

"A hundred, tops."

They fell to serious haggling. Kit finally agreed to pay Ripley five hundred. The scout dug out his log and downloaded a file, then passed the disk over. "There it is. Enjoy."

"Thanks," Kit said dryly, passing back a check for five hundred.

"Better not bounce," Ripley said, tacking on a grin at the last moment.

"Watch your mouth," Malcolm growled.

"It's all right, Malcolm. Ripley can't help being abrasive any more than a monkey can help having fleas. Come on, let's see if I got my money's worth."

They left Ripley chuckling as he folded up Kit's check and stuffed it into his wallet.

The file contained very little information. Ripley had gone through the gate and logged for location and time: thirty-two degrees east longitude by twenty-six degrees south latitude, late September of 1542. "There's a small Portuguese trading settlement about two miles north of the gate on Delagoa Bay, Mozambique. A number of native tribal groups in the region are split between Swazi and Shona dialects.

"I see some Moslem influence from contact with Islamic traders, but not much. Relations between the indigenous peoples and the Portuguese is hostile at best. There is absolutely nothing of value to be found in this settlement. Delagoa Bay is merely a stopover to take on fresh water and food supplies for Portuguese ships headed to India. From what I've been able to gather, the Jesuits didn't even leave a mission here when Francis Xavier stopped in 1541. My conclusion is that this is an utterly worthless string not warranting further exploration."

The file ended.

"Well," Kit said heavily. "What do you make of that?" "Five hundred is a lot of money to demand for that information. Something's going on here."

Kit called up a map of Mozambique and replaced the video scenes on his office wall with the chart of southern Africa. "Mozambique..." he mused. "That's hell and gone from anything useful. And in 1542 there wouldn't have been any European exploration of the interior. Nothing out there but Shona and Bantu on the high veldt and San nomads in the Kalahari."

"And the Venda-Lemba Semitic groups of the eastern Transvaal,- Malcolm added. "They were isolated until 1898 for God's sake.'

"So why would Ripley demand so much money for this information?" Kit glanced up. "I wonder what Phil Jones has been up to lately?"

"I think we ought to find out."

"Agreed. You want to tackle him or shall I?"

Malcolm managed the first smile Kit had seen out of him in weeks. "You're too conspicuous, Kit. Everybody knows you're looking for traces of Margo. l'll follow that little weasel, see what he's up to, who he's hanging out with these days."

Kit nodded. "Sounds good. I'll give Bull a call. He's trying to find out who else might be missing."

Malcolm left while Kit dialed the phone.

The station manager apologized when he came on the line. "I've been meaning to call you this morning, except that Pteranodon sternbergi of Sue's got sick, then we had an emergency with the water filters and ... Oh, hell, you're not interested in my problems. Only a couple of people I can't account for, but they're interesting.'

"Oh?"

"One of 'em's that Welshman you tangled with."

"Kynan? The guy from Orleans?"

"The same. He and his longbow have gone missing."

A chill chased down Kit's back. "Go on."

"Frankly, I was afraid of foul play until I noticed who else is missing. Remember that big Afrikaner who came in a few years back when South Africa went to hell?"

"Yeah, I remember him." South Africa had suffered desperate damage from earthquakes, tidal waves, even volcanic eruptions in the aftermath of The Accident. The government had collapsed and thousands of people had fled the ensuing riots, massacres, starvation, and rampant plagues. "Koot van something," Kit said "Big guy about my age, if I remember right, maybe a little younger."

"Koot van Beek. Took up time guiding. Drifts from station to station, wherever there's work."

"So he's back?"

"Back and missing."

Kit gazed at the map on his video screens and tried to figure out why a freelance drifter like Koot van Beek, a displaced Welsh bowman, and Margo would have hooked up in connection with a gate that led to sixteenth century Mozambique.

"Thanks, Bull. That's very interesting news. I'll let you know if I come up with anything solid."

Kit pulled out the itemized library bill and studied Margo's recent research. Lift capacity and fuel consumption for a helium-filled ultralight-but with variable equations for hydrogen as an alternative lifting source. Endemic diseases of southern Africa and recommended inoculations or medical treatments where no inoculations were available. Geographical charts of Mozambique, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Botswana. Even-he grimaced-recommended medications to suppress menstrual flow.

"What the hell is that little idiot up to?"

Unless Kit were wide of the mark, Margo planned a lengthy air expedition into the heart of southern Africa, where Zimbabwe, Botswana, and South Africa met along the Limpopo River.

"But why?" There wasn't anything out there except crocodiles, wildebeest, and fatal diseases.

The phone rang. "Yeah?"

"Kit," Malcolm said in his ear, "this is really interesting: Phil just left Goldie Morran's. I asked around and people said he's been spending a lot of time with her. A lot of time."

Kit narrowed his eyes. -Goldie? Why would Phil Jones be spending time with an expert on currency, precious metals, and..."

It hit him. Kit widened his eyes and stared at the map. "My God..."

"What?" Malcolm asked sharply.

"Hang on. Hell, get back here. I have to pull a couple of files off the mainframe."

He hung up and swung around, accessing the library's mainframe in a fever of impatience. He sped through several files, correlating data against a search of known mineral sites-and hit paydirt. Kit whistled softly and sat back in his chair.

His office door crashed back. Malcolm was panting. "What?"

Kit swung his chair around. "Diamonds. That stupid little featherbrain has gone after a diamond source deBeers doesn't control."

"Diamonds?" Malcolm stared at the chart. "But Kit ... the nearest diamond fields must be, what, five or six hundred miles from Delagoa Bay?"

"Five hundred miles along the Limpopo River valley," Kit said grimly, punching up the chart from the file he'd accessed, "would put you right there."

A geologic map flashed up.

"What's up there? I thought the South African diamond sites were farther south in the Kimberley region or much farther west in the Kalahari?"

Kit strode around his desk and stabbed a finger toward a spot on the Limpopo just east of the confluence with the Shashe River coming down from the Botswana-Zimbabwe border. "That, my friend, is the site of the Seta Mine. Alluvial deposits in potholes along the Limpopo, gravel matrix rich in all kinds of goodies. Garnets, jade, corundum, gold, diamonds ... That idiot grandkid of mine has vanished into the heart of Africa on a harebrained scheme to bring back diamonds. Bet you the Neo Edo on it. And I can tell you exactly who put her up to it."

Malcolm groaned and said something profoundly ugly.

Kit ran a hand through his hair. "We were in Goldie's shop when I told Margo she was through as a trainee scout. And that avaricious, conniving, greedy old..." He couldn't even finish the tirade. "When I get through with Goldie Morran, she's going to wish she'd never laid eyes on Margo."

Kit stormed out of his office. Malcolm Moore trailed hastily behind.

Goldie Morran's smile disintegrated the moment Kit slammed open her door.

"Why, Kit. Hello. What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me why the hell you sent my granddaughter into the high veldt after your goddamned diamonds!"

Goldie Morran actually lost color. "Kit, I don't know what you're-"

"Cut the crap!" Kit stalked over to the counter and slammed both fists down. "You're not talking to a goddamned tourist!"

Goldie adjusted the high-necked collar of her oldfashioned dress. "No, I'm aware of that, Kit. Calm down. I'm not really hiding anything."

"The hell you're not."

"Kit Carson, either control your temper or get out of my shop!"

Kit swallowed the retort on his tongue. Then forcibly relaxed his fists. "Okay, Goldie. I'll be a good boy and refrain from taking your shop apart. Start talking."

She drew over a high stool and settled on it as though taking a throne. "You're aware, then, of Phil Jones' gate?"

"Yes. And where and when it leads."

"Fortunately for me, Ripley Sneed is an idiot. He didn't even think about the diamonds just lying around the interior waiting for someone to pick them up. Phil and I knew exactly where the most accessible deposits were, but we couldn't get there ourselves. Neither of us is a scout."

"You mean neither of you is crazy enough to risk your own hide. So you conned Margo into doing it for you."

Goldie's eyes flashed angrily. "Margo is an adult, Kit Carson, perfectly capable of making her own decisions. And, I might add, you've treated her very shabbily. She was only too happy to accept my offer."

"Margo is a half-trained child-a seventeen-year-old child." Goldie lost a little more color. "She thinks she knows enough to succeed All she knows is enough to get herself killed. When's she due back?"

Goldie fidgeted and glanced away.

"Goldie.. ."

The severe-faced woman who always reminded Kit of a duchess he'd once known cleared her throat delicately. "Well, as to that, now.. ."

"She's overdue," Malcolm said quietly. "Isn't she?"

Goldie glanced up. "Well, yes. She is."

Kit tightened his hands on the edge of Goldie's shop counter. "How overdue?"

"A couple of weeks."

"A couple of weeks?" Kit exploded. "My God! Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd blow up just like this!" Goldie snapped. "They took plenty of protective gear with them. They'll be fine! They're just a little overdue."

Kit studied her, controlling an ice-cold rage that demanded physical action. She wasn't telling them everything. For someone waiting on a shipment of first quality South African diamonds, Goldie was remarkably untroubled about Margo's fate.

"What's your scam, Goldie?"

She widened her eyes at him. "Scam? Why, Margo. was just going to dig out some of the Seta deposits and come back, that's all."

Kit leaned over the counter. "You are full of it, Goldie Morran. If Margo was supposed to bring back a shipment of diamonds, you'd have been crawling all over this station looking for someone to go after her when she was two weeks overdue. What kind of scam are you running?"

Goldie pursed her lips like someone who's tasted poison. "You are a royal pain, Kit Carson. She isn't bringing them back. Koot van Beek and I jointly invested in a little piece of property up north of Francistown, in Botswana. No one has ever found the motherlode source of the Seta alluvial deposits. So Margo's going to dig up a couple of potholes' worth of matrix and fly the ore up to our property on the Shashe River. I have a rube up time who's biting at the bait. All I have to do is confirm that Margo's seeded the land and Koot and I will `discover' samples that match the Seta deposits. This fool will buy the land at a huge profit and we'll make a fortune. We don't even have to smuggle the diamonds past ATF this way. It's all nice and legal."

It was a nice scam. A very nice one. Neat, slick, possibly even legal, leaving out the minor problem of minerals fraud. And given the current state of government in the southern African republics, any fool crazy enough to buy the land would probably end up eating his losses.

Kit said quietly, "You had better pray real hard that nothing has happened to my grandchild, Goldie. Show me this gate."

Kit and Malcolm both scanned the gate in Phil Jones' shop during its next scheduled opening. Malcolm double-checked his readings in rising dismay. His heart sprang straight into his throat. "Uh, Kit, are you getting the same readings I am?"

Kit nodded grimly. "It's disintegrating. Rapidly. How often does it open and how long has it existed?"

Phil Jones, a nervous little weasel of a man, cleared his throat. Totem poles loomed on every side, grotesque shapes beyond the shimmering edges of the gate. "Opens every five days, stays open about ten minutes. First saw it about ten weeks ago."

"Have you kept an exact log of its openings?"

Phil exchanged glances with Goldie. -Uh ... should I have done that?"

Malcolm was afraid Kit might strangle the shop keeper:

"Yes, you blithering idiot! You should have!"

The gate shrank, expanded briefly, then vanished

"Five days," Kit muttered, noting the exact times of its appearance and departure. "I have five days to get ready."

"You're not going through?" Phil gasped. "But I thought-wouldn't it be dangerous for you to-"

One look from Kit was all it took. He gulped and shut up.

Malcolm followed Kit out of Phil's odd little shop. "Have you checked your personal log yet?"

"I have."

"And?"

"It's risky. Damned risky. There's a twenty percent chance I'll shadow myself on stepping through. And if I stay longer than a week, if I have to wait through two cycles, a ninety percent chance I'll shadow myself before getting back through. If the gate doesn't collapse permanently before then."

"But you're going?"

Kit's eyes were haunted "Hell yes, I'm going. Goldie admitted Margo should've been back to the gate two weeks ago. What would you do?"

"Go with you," Malcolm said quietly

Kit swung around. He blinked; then tightened his jaw muscles. -Malcolm, I can't ask you to risk this. You said yourself you weren't cut out for scouting."

"You're not asking and neither am I. I'm going. It's my fault Margo pulled this stunt, say what you will. I'm going."

They locked gazes for a long moment. Then a suspicious film moistened Kit's eyes.

"All right. You're going. The Portuguese aren't real cheerful about strangers in their African outposts."

No. Those "traders are likely to kill any European they find sneaking around their settlement."

"Yeah." Malcolm wasn't thinking about himself. He was picturing Margo in their hands.

"Jesuits," Kit said finally. "You speak Portuguese?"

"Some. I studied it for Edo, back when I was with Time Ho! My Basque is better, though."

"Good. I speak Portuguese very well. You'll be a Basque Jesuit, I'll play your superior in the Society. Let's find Connie. This is going to be one helluva rush order."

Five days.

Malcolm just prayed the gate hadn't already disintegrated so badly that it never opened again.