Kit was still grumbling under his breath long after Connie had vanished back toward her outfitters’ shop. “Sometimes,” he groused, “this Mr. Nice-Guy rep is more trouble than it’s worth.” He sighed. “Well, hell.” He really couldn’t countenance allowing Skeeter Jackson to pass himself off as an instructor of time scouts.
Normally residents didn’t interfere in other residents’ business dealings. But there was a difference between fleecing obnoxious tourists out of a few dollars and perpetrating negligent homicide. Skeeter, never having been a scout-having rarely even been down time, probably didn’t realize just how deadly his current scam was. Kit swore under his breath. He probably wouldn’t earn any thanks, but he had to try.
Kit dropped by the Neo Edo just long enough to put away his cue case and be sure Jimmy had the business well in hand, then started asking around for Skeeter. Typically, nobody recalled seeing him. Kit knew some of his favorite haunts, but the rascal wasn’t in any of them. Skeeter generally avoided Castletown, since even he didn’t care to risk fleecing the wrong person and end up someplace really nasty, minus several fingers. Kit checked all of Skeeter’s favorite watering holes in Frontier Town, then hit the pubs in Victoria Station. Nothing. Skeeter Jackson was making himself mighty scarce.
”Well, he’s got to be someplace.”
With no gates currently open, Shangri-la Station was closed up tight. The only exits were hermetically sealed airlocks leading-if the main chronometers and Kit’s own equipment were correct into the heart of the Tibetan Himalayas, circa late April of 1910. The only reason those airlocks would ever be opened would be to escape a catastrophic station fire. And since halon systems had been built into every cranny of La-La Land…