So he nodded with a short jerk of his head. “They’ll be organized already, but I’ll join them.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
Again, Skeeter stared. He said slowly, grudgingly, “Thanks. We’re pretty organized, but I’ll let you know if something comes up we can’t handle.” Not that he could think of anything. The Found Ones’ Council of Seven had made certain the resident down-timers on station were as prepared as possible for any station crisis that threatened them. The down-timers were, in fact, as prepared as Sue Fritchey’s Pest Control officers were for an invasion of anything from hordes of locusts to prehistoric flying reptiles—which, in point of fact, TT-86 had been forced to deal with, just a few months previously.
Kit’s next question startled the hell out of Skeeter.
“Would you mind if Margo and I joined you and the Found Ones to search?”
Skeeter’s brows dove down as suspicion flared. “Why?”
Kit held his gaze steadily. “Because if anyone on this station has a chance of finding them, it’s the down-timers. I’m aware of those meetings held in the subbasements. And I know how underground organizations operate. I also want rather badly to be there if and when we do find whoever is responsible for this.”
Skeeter had known for a long time that Kenneth “Kit” Carson was a thoroughly dangerous old man, the sort you didn’t want as an enemy, ever. It came as a slight shock, however, to realize that the retired time scout would relish taking apart whoever had done this as thoroughly as Skeeter, himself, would. He hadn’t expected to share anything in common with the world’s most famous recluse.