Time Scout

A strident klaxon sounded, echoing five stories above the terminal floor. Conversation cut off mid-sentence. As abruptly as it had sounded, the klaxon died away, replaced by an amplified voice. Long-time residents leaned forward in chairs, absently twirling half-empty glasses or drawing designs in the condensate on table tops with idle fingertips. The throng in the waiting area paused expectantly.

"Your attention, please. Gate Six is due to open in three minutes. Returning parties will have gate priority. All departures, please remain in the holding area until guides are notified that the gate is clear."

The message repeated in three other languages.

Malcolm wished his tunic had pockets so he could thrust his hands into them. Instead he crossed his arms and waited. Another ear-splitting klaxon sounded.

"Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in ten minutes. All departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for customs..."

Malcolm stopped listening. He'd memorized the up-time departure litany years ago. Besides, departures down-time were always more entertaining than watching a bunch of government agents search luggage. The real fun at Primary wouldn't begin until the new arrivals started coming through. Malcolm's gaze found the countdown for Gate Six. Any second now...

A hum of sub-harmonics rumbled through the time terminal as Gate Six, the biggest of TT-86s active gates, came to life. Outside the range of audible sound, yet detectable through the vibration of bones at the base of one's skull, the sound that wasn't a sound intensified.

Across the Commons, tourists pressed behind their ears with the heels of hands in an attempt to relieve the unpleasant sensation. Malcolm traced his gaze up a pair of broad ramps-one of which descended toward the waiting area from a wide catwalk, the other of which would handle departures-and waited eagerly.

Up at the edge of the catwalk an utterly blank section of wall began to shimmer. Lake a heat haze over a stretch of noonday highway, the air rippled. Colors dopplered through the spectrum in odd, distorted patterns. Gasps rose from the waiting area, distinctly audible in the hush. Then a black spot appeared in the dead center of the blank wall.

Tourists gaped and pointed. For most, it was only the second time in their lives they'd seen a temporal gate up-close and personal-their first, of course, being Primary on the down-time trip to Shangri-la. Conversation, which had begun to pick up again in the wake of the first shimmer, died off sharply. Baggage handlers finished tying off their loads. Last-minute transactions led to more money changing hands. More than one guide gulped down the last scalding coffee they'd taste in two weeks.

The spot on the wall dilated, spreading outward like a growth of bread mold viewed on high-speed film. In the center of the darkness, as though viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, Malcolm made out the shape of dim shelves and tiny amphorae stacked neatly in rows at the back of a long, deep room. Then light flared like a twinkling star as someone on the other side lit a lamp.

Tourists on the floor exclaimed, then laughed in nervous delight as a man dressed as a Roman slave, but moving with the purpose and authority of a Time Tours organizer, stepped through. He rushed at them like a hurled baseball, growing in apparent height from a few inches to full size in the blink of an eyelash, then calmly stepped through onto the metal grating. He landed barking orders.

Tourists, some looking dazed and ill, others talking animatedly, all of them visibly tired, spilled through the open gate onto the catwalk and down the ramp. Most clutched souvenirs. Some clutched each other. Guides had to remind most of them to slide credit-card-sized Timecards through the encoder at the bottom of the ramp. Malcolm gri

The ones that looked dazed and ill either hadn't enjoyed the gladiatorial games as much as they'd thought or were still attempting to overcome the effects of too much boozing and not enough attention to proper diet and rest. Malcolms clients never returned up time looking like they needed the nearest hospital bed. Of course, people with the sense to hire a private guide, even for a package deal like Time Tours offered, rarely had the poor judgment to get hung over after a two-week-long binge on lead-laced Roman wine.

Not for the first time, Malcolm permitted himself a moment's bitter resentment of Time Tours and their whole slick, money-milling operation. If not for their shady, underhanded tricks ...

"Pe

He started and glanced around to find A

They must've just released a new class, probably the one scheduled for London. Sven, who out massed dainty little A

"What a miserable bunch they were," he commented to no one in particular. "Stupid, too, if you're still here." He glanced briefly toward Malcolm.

He shrugged, acknowledging the well-meant compliment, and answered A

Sven, TT-86s recognized master of bladed weapons, grunted once and didn't deign to answer. A

Malcolm smiled. "Sven, haven't you learned yet not to shoot against her?"

Sven Bailey regarded his fingernails studiously. "Yep." Then he glance up with a sardonic twist of the lips. "Trouble is, the students keep trying to lose their money. What's a guy to do?"

Malcolm gri

Sven only looked hurt. A

Malcolm was well beyond the stage of flushing with embarrassment every time he had to turn down an invitation from lack of funds. "Thanks, but no. I think I'll see the departure through, then head up toward Primary and try to line up some prospects from the new arrivals. And I've got to fix this blasted sandal again. It keeps coming loose at the sole."

Sven nodded, accepting his face-saving excuses without comment. A

"Sure," he said, without really meaning it. "Thanks."