Malcolm followed Kit out of Phil's odd little shop. "Have you checked your personal log yet?"

"I have."

"And?"

"It's risky. Damned risky. There's a twenty percent chance I'll shadow myself on stepping through. And if I stay longer than a week, if I have to wait through two cycles, a ninety percent chance I'll shadow myself before getting back through. If the gate doesn't collapse permanently before then."

"But you're going?"

Kit's eyes were haunted "Hell yes, I'm going. Goldie admitted Margo should've been back to the gate two weeks ago. What would you do?"

"Go with you," Malcolm said quietly

Kit swung around. He blinked; then tightened his jaw muscles. -Malcolm, I can't ask you to risk this. You said yourself you weren't cut out for scouting."

"You're not asking and neither am I. I'm going. It's my fault Margo pulled this stunt, say what you will. I'm going."

They locked gazes for a long moment. Then a suspicious film moistened Kit's eyes.

"All right. You're going. The Portuguese aren't real cheerful about strangers in their African outposts."

No. Those "traders are likely to kill any European they find sneaking around their settlement."

"Yeah." Malcolm wasn't thinking about himself. He was picturing Margo in their hands.

"Jesuits," Kit said finally. "You speak Portuguese?"

"Some. I studied it for Edo, back when I was with Time Ho! My Basque is better, though."

"Good. I speak Portuguese very well. You'll be a Basque Jesuit, I'll play your superior in the Society. Let's find Connie. This is going to be one helluva rush order."

Five days.

Malcolm just prayed the gate hadn't already disintegrated so badly that it never opened again.

CHAPTER NINTEEN

They emerged onto a rain-lashed beach. When Kit didn't vanish like a shimmer of heat over Kalahari sands, Malcolm started breathing again. The pallor in Kit's cheeks told its own story. Now all we have to do is try to find margo -- and beat ninety-percent odds if we don't do it in a week.

With the entire southern tip of Africa to search, Malcolm wasn't terribly sanguine about their chances.

He finished his ATLS readings and log update a hair sooner than Kit. The retired time scout was out of practice. They hid their equipment deep in camouflaged bags beneath vestments, censers and other priestly paraphernalia. Among their personal "effects" were hand bound copies of not only the Bible in Latin but also of the Jesuit Spiritual Exercises written by Ignatius Loyola, the Basque founder of the Society of Jesus. Connie Logan had outdone herself on this one.

Malcolm closed his bag and turned his attention to their surroundings. In the short minutes they'd stood on the storm-lashed shore of Delagoa Bay, their long, heavy habits were already soaked. Wind whipped sodden wool around their ankles. They had decided to approach the Portuguese first, to find out if Margo had, in fact, made it back this far or if they would have to mount an expedition into the heart of the interior to search for her.

"This storm will work in our favor!" Kit shouted above the crash of thunder. "I've been worrying about how to explain our sudden appearance. Claiming we've been shipwrecked is more credible in the middle of a storm!"

Malcolm nodded. "The Wild Coast is notorious for shipwrecks, particularly when summer storms hit the Drakensbergs. And as Jesuits, we ought to be welcomed."

They both carried bladed weapons just in case they weren't.

Lightning flares cut through the gloom of early evening, revealing the miserable little fort and ramshackle houses of Lourengo Marques huddled on the bay. A stout kraal wall enclosed the whole community. Kit marked the spot where the time gate had closed by piling stones into a small cairn, then he and Malcolm slogged down the rainswept beach toward the trading settlement and prayed for the best. They passed grain fields where straggling wheat lay flat under the onslaught of the storm.

Vegetable gardens sprawled in patchwork confusion beyond an unguarded kraal gate. Wet chickens hid under the houses. Pens for hogs stank and leaked filth into the mud streets. Thin, forlorn cows huddled against the rain and a few sheep and goats milled uncertainly in a high-walled pen. A horse neighed once, answered by others in the distance.

"Where is everyone?" Malcolm wondered aloud: "There should be a watch set, even in this storm."

Kit cupped hands over his eyes to blink them clear of streaming rain. "Probably at the fort," he decided. "The wall's higher, stouter in case of emergencies. We'll try there."

When they stumbled between the houses into "town square" they halted in unison. The residents of Lourengo Marques had set up a crude pillory along one side of the square. Hanging from the stocks was a familiar, grizzled figure. Malcolm and Kit glanced swiftly around but saw no sign that anyone was watching. The whole town was shut up tight against the storm. Malcolm got to him first. Koot van Beek was dead, Had been dead for several hours, maybe as long as a day. Kit was ashen in the wild flares of lighting.

Margo ...

They searched the body for signs of violence, but found no trace of systematic torture. Malcolm swallowed once, then followed Kit through ankle-deep mud past an idle blacksmith's forge, what was clearly a cooper's workshop, and a small gristmill. In the distance, the fort's rough wooden gates were shut.

"Lean against me," Kit muttered from cover of the gristmill.

"You're older, more likely to succumb to exhaustion. You lean against me. I know enough Portuguese to get by until you `come around.' "

Kit didn't argue. He just draped one arm across Malcolm's shoulder and let his weight sag. Malcolm hastily slid an arm around Kit's back. All right, we're shipwrecked Jesuits who've struggled up the coast in a terrible storm ... .

He half carried Kit across the open, muddy ground toward the gates. "Help! Hello inside, help us!" Malcolm shouted in rough Portuguese, heavily accented with Basque pronunciation. "In the name of Christ, help us!"

A suspicious sentry appeared at the top of the wall. "Who are you? Where have you come from?"

"We are Jesuits! Father Francis Xavier sent us to you from Goa. Our ship went down in this storm, south of here! This is Lourengo Marques, is it not? Please God let it be..."

The sentry's eyes had gone wide. A hasty shout relayed Malcolm's message. A moment later the gates creaked open. Then Portuguese traders swarmed outside, lifting Kit's stumbling figure to carry him while others supported Malcolm. He staggered like a man in the final stages of exhaustion and allowed his escort to take most of his weight.

The residents of Lourengo Marques stank of onions, sweat, and dirt. Their voluminous, slashed breeches needed washing. Food and wine stained leather jerkins and slashed velvet doublets. Malcolm saw at least six professional soldiers in leather armor, half of them carrying matchlock arquebus carbines rendered useless by the storm. They'd drawn wicked swords which they now resheathed, but the other half of the military detachment, carrying steel crossbows, remained alert until the gates had been closed and barred once again.

Other men had come running, dressed as rough tradesmen and humble farmers. Many carried long pikes and daggers. One burly bear of a man carried what looked like an honest-to-God wheel lock rifle. Another man carried an enormous, full-length matchlock arquebus. None of these men wore helmets; only a few possessed leather jerkins. Six professional soldiers and a surprisingly well armed auxiliary of tradesmen and farmers. And those fellows over there look like sailors. Malcolm counted five men who had probably been left behind by the last ship, to recover from illness or be buried.