Doubtless physical discomfort was just another part of Kit Carson's plan to discourage her. Well, it wasn't going to work.

The air began to shimmer up near the ceiling. Well dressed men and women stirred excitedly. Then the gate began to cycle. Rather than opening out of the wall, darkness grew out of thin air right off the end of the high, gridwork platform, a ragged hole, a widening maw...

Margo gasped. Through it, she could make out the colors of twilight, the twinkle of a high, lonely star. Nearer at hand, a breeze stirred barren, low-hanging branches. She could see-but not hear-dead leaves which gusted into view. A warm, golden glow appeared, then a dark shape occluded the lantern light

Titters of laughter ran through the crowd when a figure in a tall hat and opera cape stepped through, rushing at them like an oncoming train. The gentleman doffed his hat politely to the waiting crowd below. "Your patience, please, ladies and gentlemen."

Tourists had begun to emerge from the Britannia Gate. Women in smart dresses, men in evening suits, ragged servants hauling steamer trunks, carpet bags, and leather cases, young women dressed as housemaids, all poured through onto the platform and made their way down the ramp to the Commons floor. Many were smiling and chatting. Others looked grim. Still others staggered with assistance from Time Tours employees.

"Never fails," Malcolm murmured. "Always a few come back sick as dogs."

"I won't," Margo vowed.

"No," Malcolm agreed dryly. "You won't. That's what I'm here for."

She suppressed a huff, wanting to point out that she didn't need a nursemaid, but even she realized she did need a reliable guide. And then, before she expected it, their turn came.

"Oh," Margo said excitedly, "here we go !'"

Malcolm gallantly offered his arm. Margo laughed and accepted it, then laughed again when he insisted on carrying her carpet bag. Their "porter," a husky young man named John, took charge of their hefty steamer trunk. Margo slid her Timecard through the encoder, then hurried up the long ramp at Malcolm's side while John waited with the other baggage handlers. Margo paused at the very threshold of nothingness, mortified that her hindbrain whispered, "If I step off, there's nothing there but a five-story drop to the floor."

She screwed shut both eyes and followed Malcolm off the edge of the platform. For an instant she thought she was falling.

"Open your eyes!" Malcolm said urgently.

She opened them and gasped. The ground was rushing at her

Malcolm steadied her through. "That's a girl," he said encouragingly.

Margo shuddered with sudden cold.

"Are you quite all right, my dear?"

Margo blinked The smiling, relaxed Malcolm with the easy American voice had gone completely. In his place stood a distinguished British gentleman peering anxiously down at her.

"Uh--yeah."

Very gently, Malcolm drew her to one side, making room for other tourists. "Margo, the proper response to such a question is not 'Uh, yeah.' That's terribly anachronistic here."

Margo felt her cheeks burn. "All right," she said in a low voice. "What should I have said?"

"You should have said, `Yes, sir, thank you kindly, it was just a passing dizziness. Might I have your arm for a moment more, please?' To which I would naturally respond by offering to escort you to some place of rest where I might fetch you a glass of water or stronger spirits if such might be required."

Margo was so fascinated by the archaic speech patterns and the wonderful sound of his voice, she almost forgot to pay attention to what he'd actually said. "All right. I mean, very well. I'll ...I'll try, Malcolm, really I will."

"Ah-ah," he said with a smile. "Here, I am Mr. Moore. You are Miss Margo Smythe, my ward. Never fail to call me Mr. Moore. Anything else would be seen as unforgivably forward."

Behind them, the gate had begun to shrink. Porters rushed through with the last of the luggage, then the gate into La-La land vanished into a tangle of brown vines and a high stone wall. For a terrible instant, Margo experienced complete panic. We're out off...

Then Malcolm high-signed John, who joined them and set the trunk down with a sigh. " 'at's good, Mister Moore, sir."

Malcolm grinned. "Good show, John. Your Cockney's coming along nicely."

"I been Join' a study on it, sir." John's eyes twinkled. Malcolm had introduced him as a graduate student who planned to stay down time for several months working on his doctoral dissertation on the London underclass. He and Kit had come to an agreement: John would "work" as a manservant for Malcolm and Margo during their week in London, doing whatever was required of him. In return, Kit would front him the money for the initial gate ticket. He'd provided for his own living expenses and gear.

"Where are we?" Margo asked quietly. She stamped her feet to keep them warm.

"In the private garden of a house near Battersea Park at Chelsea Reach."

"Chelsea Reach?"

"A stretch of the Thames. We're across the river from where we shall need to be for most of our stay."

Gas lights illuminated a garden where the tourists now milled excitedly. Time Tours guides dressed as liveried servants organized sixty-some people into a double line, gentlemen escorting ladies, while the porters struggled with heavy trunks. They carried luggage into a three-story, graceful house where gas lights burned warmly. The interior seemed warm and inviting compared with the damp, frigid garden.

"It's cold," Margo complained

"Well, it is late February. We shall have a hard frost tonight or I'm no judge of weather."

She tucked her hands inside the cape. "Now what?"

"First, fetch out your ATLS and log, please." He glanced toward the darkening sky. "We'll need to take readings and start our trip chronometers running. Remember, Miss Smythe, it is essential that you start your trip chronometer running very quickly after passing a gate. And shoot an ATLS and star-fix as soon as possible. And as I suspect we'll have fog soon, do hurry with it. London generally does in the early evenings."

"But we already know exactly when we are," Margo pointed out.

"On a tour, yes. As a scout, you won't. You'll have to determine that as the opportunity arises. Just because your Timecard was togged in for the Britannia Gate, doesn't mean you may skip this ritual. Most gates you'll step through as a scout won't have an encoder available yet, for the simple reason that you'll be the first one stepping through it. And when you come through in broad daylight, you'll have to wait until nightfall to update your exact geo-temporal reading."

Margo dug out her equipment and took the ATLS reading. Malcolm checked her and made a small correction, then showed her how to take a star-fix. She mastered the knack after three tries and proudly entered the readings in her log.

"There! How did I do?"

"Your ATLS reading was off far enough you'd have placed yourself in the Irish Sea, but not too bad for a first attempt under field conditions. We'll take readings each night we're here, to give you the practice."

Malcolm finished entering data into his own log, made certain Margo had properly initiated the chronometer sequence, then put away their equipment.

"Now what?"

The tourists had lined up along a garden path and were filing slowly into the house.

"Time Tours will have made arrangements for cabriolet carriages to take us to various good hotels for the evening."

"I thought carriages were called hansoms."

Malcolm smiled. "Hansom cabs are very popular just now, but they're small, two-wheeled affairs. Hansoms cannot carry any significant amount of luggage. Hence the need for something a bit sturdier."

They joined the line and moved steadily toward the house. Margo wanted to rush forward and explore. She found it increasingly difficult to stand still.