Tourists had begun to emerge from the Britannia Gate. Women in smart dresses, men in evening suits, ragged servants hauling steamer trunks, carpet bags, and leather cases, young women dressed as housemaids, all poured through onto the platform and made their way down the ramp to the Commons floor. Many were smiling and chatting. Others looked grim. Still others staggered with assistance from Time Tours employees.
”Never fails,” Malcolm murmured. “Always a few come back sick as dogs.”
”I won’t,” Margo vowed.
”No,” Malcolm agreed dryly. “You won’t. That’s what I’m here for.”
She suppressed a huff, wanting to point out that she didn’t need a nursemaid, but even she realized she did need a reliable guide. And then, before she expected it, their turn came.
”Oh,” Margo said excitedly, “here we go !’“
Malcolm gallantly offered his arm. Margo laughed and accepted it, then laughed again when he insisted on carrying her carpet bag. Their “porter,” a husky young man named John, took charge of their hefty steamer trunk. Margo slid her Timecard through the encoder, then hurried up the long ramp at Malcolm’s side while John waited with the other baggage handlers. Margo paused at the very threshold of nothingness, mortified that her hindbrain whispered, “If I step off, there’s nothing there but a five-story drop to the floor.”
She screwed shut both eyes and followed Malcolm off the edge of the platform. For an instant she thought she was falling.
”Open your eyes!” Malcolm said urgently.
She opened them and gasped. The ground was rushing at her