"Linda Evans - Time Scout 1 - Time Scout" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

of
exploiting stranded down-timers to haul baggage. Somebody really should do
something about the poor souls who wandered in through open gates and found
themselves lost in an alien world. His old outfit had never used them as grunt
labor.
Of course, his old outfit had quietly gone bankrupt, too.
The guides who'd snatched up the spilled parcels lunged through and
vanished.
Moments later, Gate Six winked closed for another two weeks. Malcolm sighed
and
turned his attention to Primary. He checked the chronometer and swore under
his
breath. He just had time, if he hustled. He left Urbs Romae behind and half
jogged through Frontier Town, with its saloons and strolling "cowboys," then
picked up speed through Victoria Station's "cobbled" streets, lined with shops
whose windows boasted graceful Victorian gowns and masculine deerstalkers. The
klaxon sounded, an earsplitting noise that caused Malcolm to swear under his
breath.
"Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in two minutes. All
departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will
not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for
customs..."
Malcolm cut across one edge of Edo Castletown, with its extraordinary
gardens, sixteenth-century Japanese architecture, and swaggering tourists
dressed as samurai warriors. He jogged past the Neo Edo Hotel, skirting a
group
of kimono-clad women who had paused to admire the mural inside the lobby. The
desk clerk grinned and waved as he shot past.
Primary, less than a hundred feet beyond the farthest edge of Castletown,
consisted of an imposing set of barriers, armed guards, ramps, fences, metal
detectors, and X-ray equipment, plus dual medical stations, all clustered at
the
bottom of a broad ramp that led fifteen feet into thin air then simply
stopped.
Malcolm had once wondered why the station hadn't simply been constructed so
that
the floor was dead-level even with Gate One, or Primary, as everyone in
residence called it.
Upon subsequent interaction with officials from the Bureau of Access Time
Functions, Malcolm had decided ATF must have insisted on the arrangement for
its
unsettling psychological impact. Montgomery Wilkes, inspecting everything like
a
prowling leopard, stood out simply by the sweating hush which followed his
rounds.
Malcolm found a good vantage point and leaned his shoulder against the
station wall, extremely glad he didn't work for the ATF agent. He glanced at
the
nearest chronometer and sighed. Whew ...Seconds to spare. The line of
returning