”So.. . that leaves us with crazy, which is a word that clearly sets your pearly white teeth on edge.”
”Well, wouldn’t you be insulted?”
That world-famous grin came and went, like an evil jack-o’-lantern in the dim candle glow, “In your situation? No. But clearly you are, so an explanation is in order. You want to know why you are crazy? Fine. Because you’ve got about as much chance of time scouting as Marcus, there, has of becoming an astronaut. Kid, you’re flogging a dead horse.”
She turned involuntarily and found the gorgeous young Marcus near the front of the bar: Smiling and waiting on new customers, he looked like a perfectly ordinary college-age guy in jeans and a T-shirt. Margo glared at the retired time scout. “That’s a pretty big insult, don’t you think? It’s clear he’s a friend of yours.” Then she twigged to the name, the not-quite-Italian accent, the curious bow he’d given Kit. Marcus was still a popular modern name, but it had been a popular name in ancient Rome, too. “Oh. Down timer?”
Carson nodded. “Roman Gate. Some asshole tourist decided it would be fun to buy a slave and brought him through to La-La Land, then dumped him and vanished up time before the ATF could arrest him. Not only does Marcus have no legal standing whatever, he literally could never overcome the handicap he’s carrying in terms of education, ingrained superstitions, what have you. He’s an ancient Roman slave. And if you don’t know what that means, not only here,” he tapped his temple, “but also here,” he tapped his heart, “then you have no business even trying to become a time scout.”