Upon subsequent interaction with officials from the Bureau of Access Time Functions, Malcolm had decided ATF must have insisted on the arrangement for its unsettling psychological impact. Montgomery Wilkes, inspecting everything like a prowling leopard, stood out simply by the sweating hush which followed his rounds.
Malcolm found a good vantage point and leaned his shoulder against the station wall, extremely glad he didn’t work for the ATF agent. He glanced at the nearest chronometer and sighed. Whew …Seconds to spare. The line of returning tourists and businessmen had already formed, snaking past Malcolm’s position through a series of roped-off switchbacks. Customs agents were rubbing metaphorical hands in anticipation.
Malcolm’s skull bones warned him moments before the main gate into Shangri-la dilated open. Then up-timers streamed through the open portal into the terminal, while departures cleared customs in the usual inefficient dribble. New arrivals stopped at the medical station set up on the inbound side of the gate to have their medical records checked, logged, and mass-scanned into TT-86’s medical database. The usual clusters of wide-eyed tourists, grey-suited business types, liveried tour guides, and uniformed government officials-including TT 86’s up-time postman with the usual load of letters, laser disks, and parcels -edged clear of Medical and entered the controlled chaos of La-La Land.
”Okay,” Malcolm muttered, “let’s see what Father Christmas brought us this time.” Once a time-guide, always a time-guide. The occupation was addictive.