"If I were Kit Carson," she muttered half-aloud, "and I were trying to find out who was looking for me, where would I go?"
Someplace where he could talk to the people who'd already talked to her.
"Right Back to the Down Time."
She transferred the hateful suitcase to her other hand, eyed the vast stretch of Commons she had to re-cross, and groaned aloud.
"Consider it training in physical endurance," she told herself. The scent of food wafting out into the Commons from various restaurants was nearly more than Margo could bear. She was sorely tempted to stop for a good hot meal, but didn't want the trail to grow any colder than it already had.
You'll see, she told a host of nay-sayers, beginning with that pig of a high-school guidance counselor, moving on to Billy-the-rat-Pandropolous and ending inevitably-with her father. Hateful, hurtful words rang in her ears, retaining the power to injure long after the bruises had healed. Just you watch. You'll see. Margo's eyes burned. She blinked back the tears. Small towns were terrible places to grow up with world-sized dreams-especially when those dreams were the only things you had left to hold onto. She was scared to death of Kit Carson already-had clung to this dream so long she was afraid to have it shattered, too. But the clock was ticking and Margo wasn't a quitter. No, by God, she wasn't. Just standing here was proof of that. Margo narrowed her eyes. All right, Kit Carson. Ready or not, here I come.
She closed in on the Down Time Bar & Grill.
Kit ducked under the girders and stepped across the Down Time's threshold
"Hey!" Malcolm called from a crowded, jovial table. "Did you meet her?"
"Not exactly," Kit said dryly. "I'll get with you in a minute."
Malcolm only grinned at the threat in his voice. Sven Bailey chuckled and popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth, washing them down with a sweating beer. Ann Mulhaney and, oh God, Rachel Eisenstein, leaned expectantly on their elbows, grinning in his direction. Rachel's eyes twinkled. Kit knew one helluva ribbing was coming, for sure-Rachel was the one person in La-La land whose wit he could never top. Granville Baxter grinned and lifted his beer in a silent salute.
Kit stepped behind the bar and borrowed the phone.
A voice at the other end said, "Time Tripper, may I help you?"
"Yeah, Orva, this is Kit. What can you tell me about the girl who's been asking for me?"
Kit was tempted to hold the receiver away from his ear as Orva vented considerable irritation. She was just starting to say, "I have no idea why..." when the subject of their conversation stalked through the Down Time's door and dropped her suitcase with a bang. Kit held back a groan and tried to blend in with the wall. Sven grinned like the evil gnome he was. Rachel hid her eyes and shook with silent laughter. The redheaded wonder of the hour glared at Malcolm, who shrugged and nodded toward Kit.
Thanks, buddy, Kit thought sourly. I owe you.
Malcolm was grinning expectantly.
"Uh, gotta go," Kit muttered
The line clicked dead. The outrageous little redhead cornered Kit behind the bar. "Mr. Carson? Kit Carson?"
She was standing directly in the center of the only narrow egress from this end of the bar, arms akimbo, hands on her hips, eyes flashing with barely suppressed irritation. Kit didn't think he'd ever seen a sight quite like her. She stood glaring up at him like an enraged scarlet parakeet.
Kit hung up the phone and said cautiously, "And you are ...?"
"Margo."
Uh-huh. He surveyed her silently, waiting for the rest. When she didn't offer it, he prompted, -Margo.. ."
She still didn't offer a last name. Instead, she said, "I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Carson."
Oh, God, here it cones. The story of your life, major news feature, blockbuster motion picture ...
In that getup, she looked like a Hollywood wannabe. Who knew, maybe she did have studio connections. For all he knew, she was Somebody's kid, looking for a thrill.
"Lady," he said, with as patient a sigh as he could manage, "I never discuss business on my feet and I never, ever discuss business with someone who has backed me into a corner."
Her eyes widened. She had the decency to color an unbecoming shade of pink. Margo No-Name backed off sufficiently for Kit to edge out from behind the bar. Once he'd escaped, he leaned against the comfortably worn wooden bumper. "Now, if you want to talk business, kid, I suggest you buy me a drink."
From the way her mouth dropped open, one would've thought he'd suggested they get naked and mud wrestle. He revised his estimate from Hollywood to Smallville. She closed her mouth and said primly, "Of course."
She moved one hand surreptitiously toward a small belt pouch, giving away her insecurity and lack of funds in one greenhorn motion. Kit sighed Journalism student, he revised his mental estimation, and not overly bright at that.
He said, "Marcus, how about my usual-no, make it a bourbon and whatever the kid wants. She's buying."
Marcus, who by this time was accustomed to the oddities of up-timers, only nodded. "House bourbon? Or the Special?" He glanced from Kit to the kid then back, smiling far back in his dark eyes. Marcus had seen it all, even before his arrival in La-La Land The "Special" was a particular bottle Kit had brought back on one of his last trips. The Down Time kept it in a private cabinet for special occasions. Two matching bottles sat in Kit's private liquor cabinet. Getting through an interview with a Journalism student called for more fortitude than a lone bottle of Kirin (his usual) could provide, but this was not a celebration.
"House will be fine."
Marcus nodded. Kit reluctantly led his mystery pursuer to a table. He chose a spot as far toward the back of the Down Time as he could get, in the dimmest corner of the dark room, far enough from his friends to prevent casual eavesdropping and dark enough to make it hard to read his face. If he had to endure this, by God, she was going to work for the story. The darker the corner, the better.
Wordlessly, Margo picked up her suitcase and followed.
CHAPTER THREE
Nothing was working out as she had planned.
Nothing.
Margo cursed her bad timing, bad temper, and bad luck and followed the retired time scout into the dingiest corner of what had to be the darkest, most miserable bar in Shangri-la Station. The atmosphere matched her mood: gloomy as a wet cat and just about as friendly. Even the carved wooden masks which dominated the bar's primitive decor seemed to be scowling at her.
As for Kit Carson, internationally famous time scout ...
She glared at his retreating back. He looked nothing like the famous photos Time magazine had done a decade previously, or the even older photos from his days as one of Georgetown's brightest young faculty members. For one thing, he'd been smiling in those pictures. For another, he'd aged; or maybe "weathered" was a better term for it. Clearly, time-scouting was hard on the health.
Moreover, he wasn't in "uniform." She wasn't sure what she'd expected him to be wearing, but that drab suit and wilted tie was a considerable letdown. The Time pictorial, the one which had fired her childhood imagination and had given her the courage to get through the last few years, had shown the pioneer of all time scouts in full regalia, armed to the teeth and ready for the Roman arena. The man whose current scowl boded ill things for Margo's future, the man who had "pushed" the famous Roman Gate-the one right here in Shangri-la Station which Time Tours ran so profitably-was a real disappointment in the heroing department.
If legend were accurate, he had nearly died pushing that gate. Margo didn't put much stock in the legend, now. Kenneth "Kit" Carson didn't look a thing like a man who'd survived gladiatorial combat. Long, thin, and wiry, he wore that rumpled business suit the way a convict might wear his uniform and sported a bristly mustache as thin and scraggly as the rest of him. His hair-too long and combed back from a high, craggy forehead-was going grey. He slouched when he walked, looking several inches shorter than the six-foot-two she knew him to be. He darted his gaze around the dim room like a man searching for enemies, rather than someone looking for a private table in a perfectly ordinary bar.