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.

He didn't look like a retired hero or a retired history professor. He looked like a thoroughly irritate dangerous old man, past sixty at least. Margo, at sixteen and forty-some weeks, swallowed hard and told herself, Get a grip. Remember the speech you rehearsed. Unfortunately, not only had the body of her speech fled, so had the carefully prepared intro, leaving her floundering for words as she set down her case and scooted into the booth her life's hero had chosen. He'd already taken a seat at the very back. The booth reeked of beer and cheap smoke.

The bartender, a good-looking young man with a great smile, arrived with a tumblerful of bourbon and an expectant air. He slid the bourbon unerringly across the dimly lit table toward Kit Carson, then turned to her.

"Uh ..." She tried to think what she ought to order. Make a good impression .... Margo vacillated between her favorite-a raspberry daiquiri-and something that might rescue the shreds of her reputation with this man. She hadn't seen prices listed anywhere and tried to estimate how much this interview was going to cost. Oh, hell ...Margo threw caution to the winds, figuring decisiveness was better than looking like a dithering idiot. "Bourbon. Same as Mr. Carson's."

The waiter, a dim shape at best in this hell-hole of a corner, bowed in a curiously ancient fashion and disappeared. Kit Carson only grunted, an enigmatic sound that might have been admiration or thinly veiled disgust. At least he hadn't asked if she were old enough to drink. The bourbon arrived. She knocked back half of it in one gulp, then sat blinking involuntary tears and blessing the darkness.

Gah ...Where had they distilled this stuff?

"So ..." She sensed more than saw movement across the table. "You said you had a business out?"

The voice emanating from the dark was about as warm as a Minneapolis January. "I might remind you, young lady, I'm taking time out of a busy schedule at the Neo Edo. l already have a business to run."

This wasn't going well at all.

I'm not going to give -up! Not that easily! Margo cleared her throat, thought about taking another sip of her drink, then thought better. No sense strangling again and cementing her doom. Her hands were trembling against the nearly invisible bourbon glass.

She cleared her throat again, afraid her voice would come out a scared squeak. "I've been looking for you, Mr. Carson, because everyone agrees you're the very best time scout in the business."

"I'm retired," he said dryly.

She wished she could see his face and decided he'd chosen this spot deliberately to put her off balance. Cranky old ...

"Yes, I know: I understand that. But..." Oh, God, l sound lake an idiot. She blurted it out before she could lose her nerve. "I want to become a time scout. I've come to you for training."

A choked sound in the darkness hinted that she'd caught him mid-sip. He gave out a strangled wheeze, coughed once, then set his drink down with a sharp click. A match flared, revealing a thin, strong hand and a stubby candle in a glass holder. Carson lit the candle, fanned out the match, then just stared at her. His eyes in the golden candle glow were frankly disbelieving.

"You what?"

The question came out flat as a Minnesota wheatfield. He hadn't moved and didn't blink.

"I want to be a time scout." She held his gaze steadily.

"Uh-huh." He held her gaze until she blinked His eyes narrowed to slits, while his lips thinned to the merest white line under the bristly mustache. Oh, God, don't think about your father, you aren't facing him so just hang onto your nerve ....

Abruptly he downed the rest of the bourbon in one gulp and bellowed, "Marcus! Bring me the whole damned bottle!"

Marcus arrived hastily. "You are all right, Kit?"

Kit, no less. The bartender was on first-name basis with the most famous time scout in the world and she was left feeling like a little girl begging her father for a candy bar.

Kit flashed the young man that world-famous smile and said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just leave the bottle, would you? And get a glass of white wine for the lady. I think she damn near choked on that bourbon."

Margo felt her cheeks grow hot. "I like bourbon."

"Uh-huh." It was remarkable, how much meaning Kit Carson could work into that two-syllable catchphrase.

"Well, I do! Look, I'm serious-"

He held up a hand. "No. Not until I've had another drink."

Margo narrowed her eyes. He wasn't an alcoholic; was he? She'd had enough of dealing with that for several lifetimes.

The bartender returned with the requested bottle and a surprisingly elegant glass of wine. Kit poured for himself and sipped judiciously, then leaned back against worn leather upholstery. Margo ignored the wine. She hadn't ordered it and would neither drink it nor pay for it.

"Now," Carson said. His face had closed into an unreadable mask. "You're serious about time scouting, are you? Who jilted you, little girl?"

"Huh? What do you mean, who jilted me?" Her bewildered question opened the door to as scathing an insult as Margo had ever received.

"Well, clearly you're bent on suicide."

Margo opened her mouth several times, aghast that nothing suitable would come out in the way of a retort.

Kit Carson grinned-nastily. "Honey, whoever he was-or she was-they weren't worth it. My advice is get over the broken heart, go back home, and get a safe little job as a finance banker or a construction worker or something. Forget time scouting."

Margo knocked back the bourbon angrily. How dare he...

She sucked air and coughed. Damn, damn, damn ...