Round eyes stared back at Kit, with all the grad students looking as though they might faint in the presence of a living god.
Kit, moving very close to her, muttered, "Where the hell did you learn to speak all that flowery bullshit?"
Margo, eyes flashing, answered in an equally soft whisper, "At that moronic college you sent me to. Make me take etiquette, will you!"
Etiquette was another class she'd been forced to take, in place of the math class she'd needed-badly. Margo had desperately wanted to master her log and ATLS-Absolute Time Locator System-with greater skill, and that meant plowing through mathematics. So, when she could not argue, wheedle, or tempt her way into the class she really needed, above all others, she'd left the registrar's office in a storming rage, and made other plans, which included buying all the requisite books for the class she'd been denied and studying them until slow comprehension dawned for each and every formula or proof the books contained.
With her greater understanding, she performed the same ritual each night: she'd finish supper and rush from the cafeteria back to her room, where she studied until it was nice and dark. If the night sky was clear, as it often was in winter-she'd grab her ATLS and log and jog down to the courtyard which four dormitories completely enclosed. Margo then shot one star fix after another, recording her findings by whispering into her computer log.
She would then return to her room, ignoring the odd looks from other students who'd seen her in the courtyard, talking to herself and pointing a little box at the sky over and over, and the lustful looks of those who didn't care how crazy she was, just so long as they could get their hands on what was beneath her designer jeans that fit her derriere like they'd been sewn on. Margo, completely aware of both types of stare, ignored each equally, regained her room and checked her calculations very carefully, for each star fix she'd shot.
She still wanted that class, but she was getting much better at the mathematic formulae needed to calculate exactly where you were by shooting a star fix. And she had learned her accursed "etty-ket." Got a stinking A+ for it. Some use modern etiquette and oratory is going to be downtime through an unknown gate.
Then she realized there was something wrong with her grandfather's expression. Kit's eyes actually blazed with anger and his sandy eyebrows dove until his entire forehead was a mass of wrinkles-a few of which she, herself, had regretfully put there.
"We'll talk about this later, in private," he muttered. "I want to know everything there is to know about that place. Everything."
At least he's not mad at me, margo thought cheerfully. Nobody, not even Margo, wanted to be on the downside of Kit Carson's temper. She'd been there all too often to want to find herself there again.
"And Margo,- Kit added, without a trace of a smile, "do Grandpa a favor, huh? Cut the etiquette crap and sound like yourself, or I'll drag you over to the gym and slam the living daylights out of you until you start sounding like my grandkid again."
Margo, a little angry, a little relieved, a whole lot aware of how much he loved her-and the only way he knew to express it most of the time-met his gaze with a wicked twinkle in her eyes and a dangerous smile on her lips. "Tsk-tsk, child-beating? Shame on you." Her smile deepened. "As for slamming the living daylights out of me, you could try."
Kit's black scowl was part of the way she always remembered him. Before he could speak, she whispered, "Oh, don't worry, I hate that stuff, too. I'll be good."
Kit relaxed visibly, then grinned and ruffled her hair affectionately. "Okay, fire-eater. Go show'em your stuff. After you finish introductions." As Margo did not know the names of any of the scientists, she turned to Ann to help. Surely Ann would know the names of her clients.
As the introductions progressed, Margo found that Kit could still surprise her. She told herself she shouldn't have been so startled when Kit greeted each politely-in whatever language they might happen to speak besides English: Yiddish with Dr. Rubenstein, honest-to-God Ukrainian with Vasylko, whose eyes widened until just about all you could see was a vast double pool of blue under a shock of ice-blond hair. Vasylko stammered out his reply in Ukrainian, saying something that caused Kit to smile. A greeting in Arabic brought a flush to Katy's cheeks. Clearly, she remembered enough Arabic to understand what Kit had just said.
Then he turned to assess the other Ph.D. paleontologist. "I've admired your work, Dr. Reginald Harding.
I saw the American Museum of Natural History after The Accident. What you've done to raise money to restore the building, never mind repair and remount the fossil skeletons and other priceless displays approaches the miraculous. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."
Both men shook hands, Dr. Reginald-Harding just a little bit awestruck, if Margo were judging accurately his body language and the stunned look in his eyes. Kit, evidently noticing the same thing, gave out his world-famous smile.
Then Kit turned his attention to the remaining graduate student. Adair MacKinnon just stared at him, whole face slack and increasingly red when Kit addressed him in Gaelic.
"No?'' Kit sighed. "Ah, well, your education isn't complete, then, anyway, is it? You'll have plenty of time to learn it before earning your Ph.D."
Adair flushed even more and stammered, Always ... always meant to learn it, 'cause I've got to, you know, before I become The MacKinnon. Sometimes ... never mind."
Kit nodded understanding of what Adair had left unspoken.
Introductions completed, Dr. Rubenstein stepped forward immediately, shaking Kit's hand, then Malcolm's. "Gentlemen, it's an honor, believe me. You, sir, are known everywhere," this to Kit, "and you, Dr. Moore are a lucky man. Damned lucky. You both trained this young lady? She's a bit blunt," he said with a smile, rubbing his chin, "but she knows what she's talking about. Very, very well. And her, mmm, `forceful' suggestions have all, been to the point and excellently stated." This time, Samuel Rubenstein smiled at her. "I can see, now, where your excellent education comes from."
Perversely, she was peeved. Not good enough on my own, but the minute Kit Carson strolls in, I'm a sensation. Buddy, you ain't seen nuthin' yet. Outwardly, she said a bit breezily, "Oh, well, there certainly is that, and believe me, their tutoring is profoundly educational"-she could feel the snort Kit held in "but there's a lot of bookwork too. A whole lot. So much, you never stop learning. Do you, Grandpa?"
It was the first time she'd ever called him that. He stiffened momentarily, speechless, while he stared down at her.
"That's right," he managed. "Even though I'm retired, I'm still learning, just in case. I've recently tackled an ancient Chinese dialect and Croatian stripped of all Serbian influences, vocabulary, and so on, to add to my other languages, and I've been reading and taking notes from a complete history of the Croatian people, both of which I'll have to transfer to memory sufficiently for instant recall if I ever decide to risk going down that new gate at TT-16. Not a tourist gate, not at all; but the research potential is said to be fabulous." His eyes actually glittered with intense interest.
The paleontologists were clearly impressed.
Kit just ruffled his granddaughter's hair, saying everything he wanted to say with that touch and the look in his eyes.
Margo cleared her throat, wishing desperately for once that they were alone and someplace private where they could just talk. She needed to tell him what had really happened to her mother, Kit's lost daughter the one he hadn't known he possessed until Margo told him about her, the little she'd been able to tell him, except her name and that she was dead. Margo cringed at the memory of that talk by the fishpond on Commons. She'd been so inexperienced, so uneasy, so afraid of him, she literally hadn't been able to tell him what his eyes had begged to know.