She screwed shut both eyes and followed Malcolm off the edge of the platform. For an instant she thought she was falling.
"Open your eyes!" Malcolm said urgently.
She opened them and gasped. The ground was rushing at her
Malcolm steadied her through. "That's a girl," he said encouragingly.
Margo shuddered with sudden cold.
"Are you quite all right, my dear?"
Margo blinked The smiling, relaxed Malcolm with the easy American voice had gone completely. In his place stood a distinguished British gentleman peering anxiously down at her.
"Uh--yeah."
Very gently, Malcolm drew her to one side, making room for other tourists. "Margo, the proper response to such a question is not 'Uh, yeah.' That's terribly anachronistic here."
Margo felt her cheeks burn. "All right," she said in a low voice. "What should I have said?"
"You should have said, `Yes, sir, thank you kindly, it was just a passing dizziness. Might I have your arm for a moment more, please?' To which I would naturally respond by offering to escort you to some place of rest where I might fetch you a glass of water or stronger spirits if such might be required."
Margo was so fascinated by the archaic speech patterns and the wonderful sound of his voice, she almost forgot to pay attention to what he'd actually said. "All right. I mean, very well. I'll ...I'll try, Malcolm, really I will."
"Ah-ah," he said with a smile. "Here, I am Mr. Moore. You are Miss Margo Smythe, my ward. Never fail to call me Mr. Moore. Anything else would be seen as unforgivably forward."
Behind them, the gate had begun to shrink. Porters rushed through with the last of the luggage, then the gate into La-La land vanished into a tangle of brown vines and a high stone wall. For a terrible instant, Margo experienced complete panic. We're out off...
Then Malcolm high-signed John, who joined them and set the trunk down with a sigh. " 'at's good, Mister Moore, sir."
Malcolm grinned. "Good show, John. Your Cockney's coming along nicely."
"I been Join' a study on it, sir." John's eyes twinkled. Malcolm had introduced him as a graduate student who planned to stay down time for several months working on his doctoral dissertation on the London underclass. He and Kit had come to an agreement: John would "work" as a manservant for Malcolm and Margo during their week in London, doing whatever was required of him. In return, Kit would front him the money for the initial gate ticket. He'd provided for his own living expenses and gear.
"Where are we?" Margo asked quietly. She stamped her feet to keep them warm.
"In the private garden of a house near Battersea Park at Chelsea Reach."
"Chelsea Reach?"
"A stretch of the Thames. We're across the river from where we shall need to be for most of our stay."
Gas lights illuminated a garden where the tourists now milled excitedly. Time Tours guides dressed as liveried servants organized sixty-some people into a double line, gentlemen escorting ladies, while the porters struggled with heavy trunks. They carried luggage into a three-story, graceful house where gas lights burned warmly. The interior seemed warm and inviting compared with the damp, frigid garden.
"It's cold," Margo complained
"Well, it is late February. We shall have a hard frost tonight or I'm no judge of weather."
She tucked her hands inside the cape. "Now what?"
"First, fetch out your ATLS and log, please." He glanced toward the darkening sky. "We'll need to take readings and start our trip chronometers running. Remember, Miss Smythe, it is essential that you start your trip chronometer running very quickly after passing a gate. And shoot an ATLS and star-fix as soon as possible. And as I suspect we'll have fog soon, do hurry with it. London generally does in the early evenings."
"But we already know exactly when we are," Margo pointed out.
"On a tour, yes. As a scout, you won't. You'll have to determine that as the opportunity arises. Just because your Timecard was togged in for the Britannia Gate, doesn't mean you may skip this ritual. Most gates you'll step through as a scout won't have an encoder available yet, for the simple reason that you'll be the first one stepping through it. And when you come through in broad daylight, you'll have to wait until nightfall to update your exact geo-temporal reading."
Margo dug out her equipment and took the ATLS reading. Malcolm checked her and made a small correction, then showed her how to take a star-fix. She mastered the knack after three tries and proudly entered the readings in her log.
"There! How did I do?"
"Your ATLS reading was off far enough you'd have placed yourself in the Irish Sea, but not too bad for a first attempt under field conditions. We'll take readings each night we're here, to give you the practice."
Malcolm finished entering data into his own log, made certain Margo had properly initiated the chronometer sequence, then put away their equipment.
"Now what?"
The tourists had lined up along a garden path and were filing slowly into the house.
"Time Tours will have made arrangements for cabriolet carriages to take us to various good hotels for the evening."
"I thought carriages were called hansoms."
Malcolm smiled. "Hansom cabs are very popular just now, but they're small, two-wheeled affairs. Hansoms cannot carry any significant amount of luggage. Hence the need for something a bit sturdier."
They joined the line and moved steadily toward the house. Margo wanted to rush forward and explore. She found it increasingly difficult to stand still.
"Patience," Malcolm laughed. "We've an entire week ahead of us."
"When will our cab be here?"
"Our hosts," Malcolm said, glancing a little coldly at the liveried Time Tours guides, "will serve refreshments while carriages are summoned. We'll be departing in small groups at least fifteen minutes apart, to help reduce the chance that anyone will notice the number of people coming and going from this house."
"How did Time Tours get hold of this place?"
Malcolm said quietly, "I'm told the spinster lady who owned it had a fit of the vapors the first time the Britannia Gate opened in her garden. When it happened several weeks in a row, she sold the place cheaply to a scout and retired permanently to Scotland. Time Tours bought it from the scout."
Margo hadn't considered what people down time must think when a gate opened right in front of them.
"Who was the scout?"
Malcolm shrugged. "Your grandfather."
"Oh!"
"I would suggest," Malcolm said as they moved across the threshold into a surprisingly chilly drawing room, "that we refrain from discussing up-time affairs for the week, as far as possible. You are here to learn, certainly, but discussing anything from up time is very dangerous within earshot of people who understand the language you're speaking. If you must ask a question, keep your voice down and try to ask it where others can't hear you. I'll pass along my advice under the same set of strictures."
Again, Margo was trying to get the rhythm of Malcolm's new speech patterns. "Very well, Mal-Mr. Moore."
He patted her hand. "Very good, Miss Smythe. And now, if you would be so kind as to permit me, I will introduce you to London."
He led her toward a warm coal fire and beckoned to a "servant" who brought steaming cups of tea.
"My dear, warm yourself while I see about our luggage and transportation."
He signaled to John, who carried their steamer trunk toward a long front hall where other porters waited. Margo sipped astringent tea, grateful for the warmth; the room's lingering chill surprised her. Other tourists were talking excitedly, admiring the furnishings, the rugs, the draperies, the view out the windows. Margo was a little envious of the women's dresses. One elegantly attired lady smiled and approached her.