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

tourists and businessmen had already formed, snaking past Malcolm's position
through a series of roped-off switchbacks. Customs agents were rubbing
metaphorical hands in anticipation.
Malcolm's skull bones warned him moments before the main gate into Shangri-
la
dilated open. Then up-timers streamed through the open portal into the
terminal,
while departures cleared customs in the usual inefficient dribble. New
arrivals
stopped at the medical station set up on the inbound side of the gate to have
their medical records checked, logged, and mass-scanned into TT-86's medical
database. The usual clusters of wide-eyed tourists, grey-suited business
types,
liveried tour guides, and uniformed government officials-including TT 86's
up-time postman with the usual load of letters, laser disks, and parcels -
edged
clear of Medical and entered the controlled chaos of La-La Land.
"Okay," Malcolm muttered, "let's see what Father Christmas brought us this
time." Once a time-guide, always a time-guide. The occupation was addictive.
He double-checked the big chronometer board. The next departure was set for
three days hence, London. Denver followed that by twelve hours and Edo a day
after that. One of the quarterly departures to twelfth century Mongolia would
be
leaving in six days. He shook his head. Mongolia was out of the question. None
of that incoming group looked hardy enough for three months in deadly country
inhabited by even deadlier people.
Gate Five didn't get much traffic, even when it was open.
He eyed the inbound crowd. London, Denver, or ancient Tokyo ...Most of the
tourists to Edo were Japanese businessmen. They tended to stick with Japanese
tour guides. The only time Malcolm had been to sixteenth-century Edo had been
on
a scheduled tour for his old company and he'd been in heavy disguise The
Tokugawa shoguns had developed a nasty habit of executing any gaijin
unfortunate
enough even to be shipwrecked on Japanese shores. After that first visit,
Malcolm had firmly decided he'd acquired a good knowledge of sixteenth-century
Japanese, Portuguese, and Dutch for nothing.
London or Denver, then...He'd have three days, minimum, to work on a
client.
His gaze rested on a likely-looking prospect, a middle-aged woman who had
paused
to gape in open confusion while the three small children clustered at her side
shoved fists into their mouths and clutched luggage covered with Cowboys and
Indians. The smallest boy wore a plastic ten-gallon hat and a toy six-gun rig.
Mom glanced from side to side, up and down, stared at the chronometer, and
appeared ready to burst into tears.
"Bingo." Tourist in need of help.
He hadn't taken more than three steps, however, when a redheaded gamine
clad
in a black leather miniskirt, black stretch-lace body suit, and black thigh-