Nobody wanted the time terminal shut down for slipshod management.
Nobody.
Today’s batch of tourists and guides looked like refugees from Spartacus. Most of the men tugged -uncomfortably at dress-like tunics and expended considerable effort avoiding one another’s eyes. Knobby knees and hairy legs were very much in evidence. Malcolm chuckled. Ah, Gate Six …Malcolm wore his own threadbare tunic with the ease of long practice: He barely registered the difference between his business costumes and what he normally wore, although he did note that his sandal strap needed repairing again.
Women in elegant stolas chatted animatedly in groups, comparing jewelry, embroidered borders, and elegant coiffeurs. Others wandered into the gate’s waiting area, where they relaxed in comfortable chairs, sipped from paper cups, and watched the show. Those, Malcolm knew, were rich enough they’d been down time before. First-time tourists were too excited to sit down. Malcolm pushed past the periphery of the growing crowd in search of likely employers.
”Morning, Malcolm.”
He turned to find Skeeter Jackson, clad elegantly in a Greek-style chiton. He held back a groan and forced a smile. “Morning, Skeeter.” After the brief handclasp, he counted his fingernails.
Skeeter nodded to Malcolms tunic. “I see you’re trying the slave-guide routine.” Brown eyes sparkled. “Great stains. I’ll have to get your recipe sometime.” Skeeter’s wide smile, which was, as far as anyone had ever been able to tell, the only genuine thing about him, was infectious.