Never with Time Tours.
He’d starve first.
Tourists over at Gate Six had started to climb the ramp, each one in turn presenting his or her Timecard to have the departure logged properly. Excited women could be heard clear across the Commons, shrieking and giggling as they plucked up the nerve to step through the open portal. That ritual never varied, either. Scuttlebutt had it, Time Tours had sound-proofed the exits on the other side of all their gates, rather than hush the tourists. He had to chuckle. He couldn’t really blame them. Stepping through that first time was an unnerving experience.
Inevitably-this time about three quarters of the way through the departure–someone fumbled a load of poorly tied baggage. Parcels scattered across the catwalk, creating a major hitch in the traffic flow. Three separate guides, glancing wildly at the overhead chronometer, converged on the mess and snatched up baggage willy nilly. A fourth guide all but shoved the remaining tourists through the open gate. The edges of the gate had begun to shrink slowly back toward the center.
Malcolm shook his head. With years of experience behind them, Time Tours really ought to manage better than that. He grunted aloud. That’s what comes of exploiting stranded down-timers to haul baggage. Somebody really should do something about the poor souls who wandered in through open gates and found themselves lost in an alien world. His old outfit had never used them as grunt labor.
Of course, his old outfit had quietly gone bankrupt, too.