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

chronometer board and found the answer.
Ah...
Primary, too, was due to cycle. He'd forgotten in the hustle of trying to
line up a job that a new batch of tourists would be arriving today from a
time.
Malcolm rubbed the tip of his nose and smile A double-gate day ...Maybe there
was hope, after all. Even without a job, it ought to be fun.
Down at Gate Six, last-minute purchases we're in full swing. Strolling
vendors worked the crowd efficiently, burdened down with everything from ropes
of "safe sausages to extra leather satchels for souvenirs, the latest
"must-have" survival junk, and local coinage for those stupid enough to leave
money exchanges to the last minute.
Malcolm wondered if he should consider a career as a vendor? They always
seemed to do well and it would be steady work. Connie, maybe, would give him a
job. He shook his head absently as he watched everything from last-minute mugs
of coffee to tawdry bits of jewelry exchange hands. Nah, he'd get bored too
quickly trying to hold down a mundane job, even here. Setting up his own shop
was out of the question. Besides the question of higher rent for business
space
and all that hideous government paperwork to cope with, where would he get the
capital to buy inventory? Investors weren't interested in ex-guides, they
wanted
shrewd business acumen and plenty of sales management experience.
Of course, he could always go back to time scouting.
Malcolm glanced involuntarily toward the nearest barricades. The area had
been fenced off because the gate hadn't yet been explored or was inherently
unstable. Malcolm had risked down-time explorations into unknown gates as a
freelance time scout only twice. A stray shiver crawled up his spine. Kit
Carson, the first and best-of all the time scouts, was famous all over the
world. And damned lucky to be alive. Malcolm wasn't exactly a coward, but time
scouting was not Malcolm's idea of a sane career. He was more than happy to
settle for rubbing shoulders with giants and sharing war-stories with the real
heroes of TT-86 over beer and pretzels.
A strident klaxon sounded, echoing five stories above the terminal floor.
Conversation cut off mid-sentence. As abruptly as it had sounded, the klaxon
died away, replaced by an amplified voice. Long-time residents leaned forward
in
chairs, absently twirling half-empty glasses or drawing designs in the
condensate on table tops with idle fingertips. The throng in the waiting area
paused expectantly.
"Your attention, please. Gate Six is due to open in three minutes.
Returning
parties will have gate priority. All departures, please remain in the holding
area until guides are notified that the gate is clear."
The message repeated in three other languages.
Malcolm wished his tunic had pockets so he could thrust his hands into
them.
Instead he crossed his arms and waited. Another ear-splitting klaxon sounded.
"Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in ten minutes. All
departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will