Just what did she want with Kit Carson?
Whatever it was, Malcolm had a feeling the next few days were going to prove most entertaining.
Margo thumped down the long, cluttered concourse, berating herself as she went. “Honestly,” she fumed, “the first person you ask is a guy in a Roman tunic and slave collar? He’s probably some poor down-timer who wandered through an unstable gate, like the articles warned about. Stupid, greenhorn idiot…”
Margo did not enjoy looking like a fool.
”No wonder he took so long answering. Probably had to translate everything I said first. At least he spoke some English. And I’ve got the right station, that’s something to celebrate,” she added under her breath, glancing in restrained awe at the sprawling complex which stretched away in a maze of catwalks, shops, waiting areas, and cross-corridors that led only God knew where. The care she’d taken to research a time terminal’s layout didn’t begin to convey the reality of the place. It was enormous, bewildering. And none of the information she’d found described the private sections of a terminal, visible in tantalizing glimpses off the Commons. She found herself wanting to explore …
”First,” she told herself sternly, “I find Kit Carson. Everything else is secondary. That Roman guy said he might be at some bar, so all I have to do now is find him. I can talk anybody into anything. All I have to do is find him ….”
Unfortunately, she didn’t find the “Down Time” on the main concourse or any of the balconies connected to it. Margo set down her heavy suitcase, panting slightly, and scowled at an empty set of chairs clustered around a closed gate.