It was a nice scam. A very nice one. Neat, slick, possibly even legal, leaving out the minor problem of minerals fraud. And given the current state of government in the southern African republics, any fool crazy enough to buy the land would probably end up eating his losses.
Kit said quietly, “You had better pray real hard that nothing has happened to my grandchild, Goldie. Show me this gate.”
Kit and Malcolm both scanned the gate in Phil Jones’ shop during its next scheduled opening. Malcolm double-checked his readings in rising dismay. His heart sprang straight into his throat. “Uh, Kit, are you getting the same readings I am?”
Kit nodded grimly. “It’s disintegrating. Rapidly. How often does it open and how long has it existed?”
Phil Jones, a nervous little weasel of a man, cleared his throat. Totem poles loomed on every side, grotesque shapes beyond the shimmering edges of the gate. “Opens every five days, stays open about ten minutes. First saw it about ten weeks ago.”
”Have you kept an exact log of its openings?”
Phil exchanged glances with Goldie. -Uh … should I have done that?”
Malcolm was afraid Kit might strangle the shop keeper:
”Yes, you blithering idiot! You should have!”
The gate shrank, expanded briefly, then vanished
”Five days,” Kit muttered, noting the exact times of its appearance and departure. “I have five days to get ready.”
”You’re not going through?” Phil gasped. “But I thought-wouldn’t it be dangerous for you to-”
One look from Kit was all it took. He gulped and shut up.