Margo was still talking as fast as possible. "I could wear baggy shirts, you know, to hide things, and my hips aren't really that wide, it's just I have a narrow waist ....
Kit shook his head. The kid really did want this. God help us both ....
Her face fell. He realized she must have misinterpreted that head shake. Kit sighed. "All right, Margo. I'll do it. But under conditions--
Really?" Her voice squealed into the soprano register. Her bedraggled face lit up like Christmas.
"Under conditions!" Kit repeated sharply. She gulped and heard him out. "First, I decide when--or if -- you're ready Second, you agree to do everything I tell you, exactly as I tell you. Understand? And you don't do anything I don't specifically tell you to do. If, after we're into training, I decide you don't have what it takes, you agree to switch to something else. Time guiding, maybe.
There's a world of difference between the two professions. Guiding's fun. Sometimes dangerous, but mostly not. Scouting's deadly. If you thought convincing me to train you was hard, you don't even know the meaning yet. By the time I've put you through training, you will. Any time you want to quit, holler."
"I won't quit."
Kit managed a wan smile. "I expected you'd say that: But I mean it. Remember the bourbon. Knowing when to quit can be just as important as fighting for what you want."
A flush of pink crept into her cheeks. She rubbed her nose with the back of one hand and sniffed hugely. "Okay."
"Any questions?"
She shook her head.
"Okay " He had about a million of his own-but now wasn't the right time to broach them. He took a deep breath and struggled against the cold in the pit of his belly. "Let's get started."
CHAPTER SIX
A rattle of glassware punctuated the low buzz of voices like frogsong through the hum of mosquitoes. Familiar and comforting, the sounds rose in a welcoming chorus from the Down Time's open doorway Kit ushered Margo in first, aware that speculative glances were levied in their direction. Several glances lingered, some on Margo, some on the scouting equipment he conspicuously carried in the trademark leather satchel he'd been the first to construct. Dirt-stained and battered, it nevertheless remained sturdy and functional. At one time, Kit wouldn't have felt fully dressed without it.
Behind the bar, a young woman with a long-boned face the British royals would've been proud to claim wiped up a spill and nodded. "Evenin', luv."
"Hello, Molly. Any seats left?"
In answer, she jerked her head toward a small table at the side of the room, missing all but two of its chairs. The Down Time was jam-packed, of course. Too much to ask for a quiet night, tonight of all nights. Kit recognized nearly everyone. Laughter punctuated a dozen conversations. "Thanks, Molly. How about a couple of ice waters?"
Mollys long, clear-eyed gaze followed Margo as she made her way toward the indicated table, but the barmaid withheld comment, as she generally did. She filled a couple of glasses with ice cubes and water and handed them over. "Anythin' else?"
Kit shook his head. "No, not just now. Maybe later."
"Luv..."
Kit paused mid-step, causing the ice cubes to clink faintly. The chill of condensate sank into his hands, echoing the coldness which still gripped the rest of him. "Yeah?"
Molly's brow had furrowed the tiniest bit, betraying intense worry. "Keep 'em open, Kit. She's a sharper, she is."
Kit glanced over to the table. Margo had taken up residence in the outer chair, which would leave Kit with his back against the wall. Margo's cheeks were visibly flushed despite the low-light conditions which prevailed this time of night in the Down Time. She was all but quivering with excitement.
"I suspect she's had reason," Kit said quietly. "I'm just trying to keep her alive."
Molly nodded. "'at's awright, but keep 'em open, luv. Tike care she don't steal yer bees an' 'oney while yer's back's turned."
Her concern that he might lose money to Margo surprised Kit and touched him. "I'll do that."
She nodded briskly and turned to cater to another customer's needs. Kit eased his way between tables, greeting friends as he went and parrying curious questions with a smile and offhand jokes. Margo watched the ritual with wide eyes. He finally set the water glasses down and took the other chair. Margo sipped-then shot him a startled glance.
"Water? I'm not a baby!"
"You're drinking what I am. Pay attention."
Kit didn't think he'd ever seen a more skillful disgruntled female flounce--stationary, no less, in a straight-backed bar chair-but she didn't argue. "I'm listening."
Given the rapt attention on her face, she was, too. "All right, Margo. Phase One: Equipment Lecture."
Kit rummaged in the satchel for his personal log and ATLS. Margo would need her own set. Kit made a quick note on his mental to-do list, then set both items out for inspection. "These two pieces of hardware are your lifeline."
Margo peered at them without offering to touch. "What are they? I read that scouts used microcomputers and some gizmo to determine absolute time and Skee-- mean," she flushed, "I was saving money from my job to buy whatever I'd need. Is that what these are?"
"Yes." Kit picked up the personal log. A compact unit, smaller than an average letter-sized sheet of paper, it weighed more than it looked. "This is a time scout's personal log." He opened the case, pressed a latch, and lifted the tiny screen, revealing a keypad and the mesh grid of a microphone. "The casing is waterproof, shockproof, just about everything we can protect it from, except maybe immersion in strong acid or molten metal or molten rock. It can be used in either voice or key mode. Scanners and digitizing micro-cameras can be attached The personal log operates on a solar-powered system backed up with batteries that last about twenty-four hours between charges. It writes automatically to a micro-layer space-grown crystal matrix for storage, so there's no chance of losing data even if you do experience catastrophic power failure. They're expensive, but you don't set foot through a gate without one."
"So, they're like a trip diary, for recording notes and stuff?"
Kit shook his head. "Much more important and much more detailed. This," he tapped his log, "is quite literally what keeps me from killing myself."
A tiny vertical line appeared between Margo's brows. The uncertainty in her eyes mirrored a chain of thought that was almost comical.
"No," Kit smiled, "I'm not suicidal. Although a large percentage of the population would argue any time scout is. How much reading have you done? Do you know what Shadowing is?"
Margo hesitated, clearly caught between answers.
"Don't be embarrassed to say no."
"Well, no. I mean, I know there's something weird about the gates and time scouts have to retire early because you can't ever be in the same time twice, but I never read the word `shadowing' or heard it used."
As though to underscore her admission, a shadow falling across the table interrupted them. Kit glanced up-and held back a groan. Malcolm Moore had pulled up a chair. "Mind if I join you? This looks interesting." He glanced from the scouting equipment to Kit to Margo and back to Kit, then grinned expectantly.
Kit considered telling him to buzz off, then thought better. Malcolm's assistance might actually be useful. He'd scouted a couple of times and had given it up for guiding.
"Sure. Park it."
Malcolm turned the chair around and sat down. "Hello, Margo. You look, um ..."
"Ridiculous," Kit said dryly.
Margo flushed. "I didn't have time to change." She snatched the hat into her lap and ruffled her short hair. Kit winced at the movement of cleavage -- and at Malcolm's interested attention.