Wagers in La-La Land were big news. Essentially a closed environment for full-time residents, gossip and betting took the place of live television and radio programs, except for a couple of new on-terminal news programs run more like "gossip hour" than a real news broadcast. The Shangri-La Radio and Television Broadcasting system, an experimental outfit, to say the least, ran taped movies and canned music when down-and-out newsies weren't conducting official gossip sessions.
And like all other newsies, who were snoops at heart, if someone bet on something, everyone in La-La Land would eventually hear about it, the process just speeded up a little now thanks to S.L.R.T.B.'s inquisitive, intrusive staff. Even minor bets, like how long it would take a new batch of tourists to react to pterodactyl splatters on their luggage, became juicy tidbits to pass along over a beer, across the dinner table, or over the new cable system.
When two of Shangri-La Station's most notorious hustlers made a wager like the one Goldie Morran and Skeeter Jackson had made, not only did it spread like wildfire through the whole station, it captured the top news slot of the hour for twenty-four hours running and made banner headlines in the Shangri-La Gazette: POCKETS—PICK 'EM OR PACK 'EM! The banner headline was followed immediately, of course, by intimate details, including the full set of rules laid down by librarian Brian Hendrickson.
Skeeter read that article with a sense of gloom he couldn't shake. Everyone who lived on TT-86 knew he never went after residents, but now the tourists would be warned, too, drat it. He crumpled up the newspaper and glared across Commons, wondering how much Goldie had scammed so far. Goldie had no such principles where cheating and theft were concerned, which meant residents were watching their wallets and possessions with extra care. It hurt Skeeter that many now included him in that distrust, but that was part of the game.
He glanced up at the nearest chronometer board to see which gate departures were scheduled and pursed his lips. Hmm . . . The Britannia Gate to London tomorrow, Conquistadores this afternoon, medieval Japan through Edo Castletown's Nippon Gate in three days, and the Wild West gate to Denver in four, on a clockwork routine of exactly one week. He didn't like the idea of going after tourists headed for the ancient capital of the Japanese shogunate. Some were just gullible businessmen, but lots of them were gangland thugs—and all too often the businessmen travelled under the protection of the gangs.
Skeeter had no desire to end up minus a few fingers or other parts of his anatomy. If he were desperate enough, he'd risk it, but the other gates were better bets. For now, anyway. The nearest gate opening would be the South American "Conquistadores" Gate. That would present plenty of opportunity for quick cash. He could set up more elaborate schemes for the later gates, given the time to work them out. And, of course, he kept one eye eternally peeled for Mike Benson or his security men. He did not want to get caught and Benson would have security crawling around all the gates, now that word of the wager was out.
Skeeter cursed reporters everywhere and went to his room to get into costume. If he had to dodge security, he'd better do something to disguise himself. Otherwise, he'd be looking for a new home next time Primary cycled. The fear that he would be forced to do just that put the extra finishing touches on his disguise.
When Skeeter finally finished, he grinned into the mirror. His own birth mother—God curse her—wouldn't have recognized him. He rubbed his hands in anticipation—then swore aloud when the telephone rang. Who could possibly be calling, other than Security or some damnable snoop of a reporter who'd somehow dug up the truth about Skeeter from some dusty newspaper morgue?
He snatched the phone from the hook, considering leaving it to dangle down the wall, then muttered, "Yeah?"
"Mr. Jackson?" a hesitant voice asked. "Skeeter Jackson?"
"Who wants to know?" he growled.
"Oh, ah, Dr. Mundy. Nally Mundy."
Skeeter bit his tongue to keep from cursing aloud.
That goddamned historical scholar who interviewed downtimer after downtimer had been here so long he was practically considered a legitimate 'eighty-sixer. Well, Skeeter wasn't a legitimate downtimer and he wasn't about to talk to Nally Mundy or any other historical scholars about anything, much less his years in Mongolia. In some ways, scholars were worse than newsies for nosing around in a guy's private life.
Mundy must've seen the news broadcasts or read the Gazette, which had reminded him to make The Monthly Call. Sometimes Skeeter genuinely hated Nally Mundy for having come across that years-old scrap of newspaper clipping. Some thoughtless fool must've put it into a computer database somewhere, one that had survived The Accident, and Mundy—thorough old coot that he was—had run across it on a search for anything that survived relating to Temujin.
He actually groaned aloud while leaning his brow against the cold wall. The sound prompted a hesitant, "Have I called at an inconvenient time?"
Skeeter nearly laughed aloud, imagining all too clearly what the good historian must be thinking. Skeeter's reputation with women being what it was . . . "No," he heard his voice say, while the rest of him screamed, Yes, you idiot! Tell him you're screwing some tourist through the bed so you can get out of here and steal anything you can get from all those Conquistadores! They're even stupider than you are! But he couldn't very well say that. Fortunately, Dr. Mundy rescued him from saying anything at all.
"Ah, well, good, then." The good doctor—like all 'eighty-sixers—knew better than to ask Skeeter anything about his current affairs (business or otherwise), but some men were stone-hard persistent about Skeeter's past affairs. "Yes, then, well, to business." Skeeter reined in considerable impatience. He'd heard all this before from the fussy little man. "I'm starting a new series of interviews, you see, with generous compensation, of course, and there is so much you could reveal about Temujin's early years, the father and mother who molded him into what he eventually became. Please say you'll come, Skeeter."
Skeeter actually hesitated a moment. Generous compensation, huh? The old fiddler in other people's lives must've received a beaut of a grant from somewhere. And Skeeter did need money badly, for the bet. But Brian Hendrickson would never allow money earned from an interview with Nally Mundy to count toward his bet.
"Sorry, Doc. Answer's still no. Don't want my name and photo scattered all over the goddamned world. I've made a few enemies, you know, over the years. Professional hazard. I'd be pretty goddamned stupid if I let you put my name and photo all over your next little research paper. Hell, it wouldn't be stupid, it'd be suicidal. Forget it, Doc."
A nasal sigh gusted through the receiver. "Very well, then. You do have my number?" (Skeeter had thrown it into the trash a long time ago.) "Good." Mundy took his silence for assent, a trick Yesukai had taught him: when to speak and when to hold silent as a lizard on the sun-warmed rocks. "If you change your mind Skeeter, whatever the reason, whatever the hour, please call me. We know so very little, really about Temujin, his early childhood, his relatives—anything that could shed light on the boy who grew up to be Genghis Khan."
Skeeter did realize enough to know that sending researchers down the gate would be tantamount to murder. The scout who'd brought him back had died in the attempt. Either Temujin's band of hunted brothers and followers would kill them, or Temujin's enemies would. He really was the only source. And since Yesukai had taught him the knack of remaining silent, he did so. The Dreaded Call would come every month of every year, anyway, regardless of what Skeeter did. Maybe one of these days he'd even be desperate enough to accept Mundy's terms. But not yet. Not by a long shot.
"Well, then, that's it, I suppose. I always hate letting you go, young man. One of these days I'm going to read in the Gazette that you've ended up dead through one of your endless schemes and that would be a great loss to scholarship. A very great loss, indeed. Do, please call, then, Skeeter. You know I'll be waiting."
Skeeter ignored the nearly overt sexual overtone to that last remark and thought, Yeah, you'll be waiting in a pine box before I tell you a single syllable about Yesukai and his wife and their son . . . The moon would turn blue, hell would freeze over, and Skeeter would settle down to a nice, honest way to make a living before he talked to Nally Mundy.
Yakka Mongols did not betray their own.
He snorted, checked his disguise in the mirror, smoothed out the smudge on his forehead where he'd leaned against the wall, then put Nally Mundy and his grandiose dreams of a Pulitzer or Nobel—or whatever the hell he'd win for Skeeter's interview—all firmly out of mind. He was actually whistling a jaunty little war tune when he locked his door and headed for the Conquistadores Gate with its truncated pyramid, colorful wall paintings, fabulous Spanish restaurants, "peasant" dancers whirling to holiday music played on guitar and castanet, their full skirts and rich, black hair flying on a wind of their own making—and, of course, dozens of piñatas in wild colors and shapes, hanging just out of reach, due to be smashed open at the appointed hour by as many kids as wanted to join in the fun.
Skeeter was whistling to himself again as he pilfered the equipment he'd need, then headed off to the Conquistadores Gate to see what profits might be drummed up.
Goldie Morran tapped slim, age-spotted fingers against the glass top of her counter and narrowed her eyes. Publish their bet, would they? She'd find a way to get even with that idiotic reporter, make no mistake about that. And the editor, too—another score to settle. Goldie smiled, an expression that signalled to those who knew her well that someone's back was about to be stabbed with something akin to a steel icicle.
Goldie did not like to be crossed.
That ridiculous little worm, Skeeter Jackson, wasn't the only upstart on this time terminal who would pay for crossing her. The nerve of him, challenging her to such a bet. Her smile chilled even further. She'd already made arrangements for his eviction and uptime deportation, through a little side deal she'd made with Montgomery Wilkes. "I'll rid you of that little rat," she'd purred over a glass of his favorite wine.
Montgomery, nostrils pinched as though speaking to her were akin to smelling a skunk dead on the road for five days, said, "I know the kind of games you play, Goldie Morran. One day I'll catch you at them and send you packing." He smiled—and Goldie was smart enough to know that the head ATF agent on TT-86 had the power and the authority to do just that, if he caught her. Light glinted in his cold, cold eyes, always shocking with their contrast to his bright red hair. His smile altered subtly. "But for now, I'm more interested in Skeeter Jackson. He's a pest. Technically, he never enters my jurisdiction, so long as he doesn't try to take anything uptime, but he's bad for business. And that's bad for tax collection."
He leaned back in his chair, black uniform creaking where the creases bent, and held her gaze with a glacial smile.
Goldie, maintaining a smile that hurt her face, nodded solemnly. "Yes. I understand your job very well, Montgomery." Better than he understood it himself, the autocratic . . . "Believe me, I know just how bad for business the Skeeters of this world are. So . . . it's in our mutual interest to be rid of him. I win a harmless little wager, you say goodbye to a thorn in your side forever."
"If you win."
Goldie laughed. "If? Come, now, Monty, I was in this business before that boy was born. He doesn't have a chance and he's the only one in Shangri-La Station who doesn't know it. Draw up the papers. Date 'em. Then toss him through Primary and good riddance."
Montgomery Wilkes actually chuckled, a laugh Goldie got on tape—thereby providing the necessary proof she needed to win that little private wager on the side with Robert Li about the outcome of her conversation with the head ATF agent. Montgomery Wilkes had then drained his glass, nodded as pleasantly as she'd ever seen him nod, and had taken his leave, plowing through a crowd of tourists like a wooly rhinoceros charging through a scattered herd of impala.
Back in her shop, Goldie once again tapped her fingertips against the cool glass of her counter, then swept away the latest copy of the Shangri-La Gazette in one disgusted movement. The newspaper fluttered into the trash can at the end of the counter, settling like dead butterflies. Skeeter win? Ha! That little amateur is about to eat his boast, raw. The shop door opened, admitting half-a-dozen customers due to depart in a few hours through the South American Conquistadores Gate. They needed to exchange currency. Goldie smiled and set to work.
Marcus' shift ended shortly after the cycling of the Porta Romae, which left him rubbing shoulders with crowds of men and women dressed as wealthy Romans. Although he knew them to be impostors, he could not overcome the ingrained need, beaten into him over years, to scurry deferentially out of their way, to the extreme of hugging the wall with his back flat against the concrete when necessary to avoid offending any single one of them. Most were decent enough and a few even smiled at him—mostly women or young girls, or swaggering little boys full of themselves and willing to share their excitement with any passerby.
Several young men, however, had been seriously ill—a common enough occurrence for returning tourists. Downtimers like himself, hired as cleaning staff for the time terminal, were busy mopping up the mess. Marcus nodded to one he knew passingly well, a Welshman from Britannia who had pledged some sort of lifelong oath to Kit Carson—a time scout Marcus held in awe, almost more because of the kindness he showed Marcus than because he had once survived the Roman arena.
When Marcus nodded to Kynan Rhys Gower, he received a return grimace and half-hearted smile. "Stupid boys," Kynan Rhys Gower said carefully in the English everyone here used—or tried to. "They drink much, yes? Make stink and mess."
Marcus nodded Roman fashion, tipping his head back slightly. "Yes. Many tourists come back sick from Rome. Especially boys who think they are men."
Kynan's sun-lined face twisted expressively as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Yes. And Kynan Rhys Gower washes it."
Marcus clapped his shoulder. "I have done worse work, my friend."
The stranded Welshman—who had no hope at all of ever returning home, having stumbled into La-La Land through an unstable gate that had not opened again—met his gaze squarely. "Yes. Worse work. In Rome?"
Marcus didn't bother to hold in the shiver that caught his back. He couldn't have, had he tried. "Yes, in Rome." He was just about to speak again when a man dressed in an expensive tunic, wearing a gladius belted to his waist, stepped out from behind a vined portico and shot a tentative glance both ways before heading past them. Marcus blinked. He knew that face. Didn't he? He stared at the man's retreating back. Surely he was wrong. The face in his memory, the face that man wore, didn't belong to a tourist—it was someone he'd seen in Rome long ago, before his latest master had brought him to Time Terminal Eighty-Six then vanished uptime on his ever-mysterious business.
"Marcus?" Kynan asked quietly. "Something is wrong?"
"I—I'm not sure. I—" He shook his head. "No. It could not be. It is only a man who looked like someone I once saw. But that is impossible. All tourists look alike, anyway," he added with a feeble attempt at a grin.
Kynan laughed dourly. "Aye. Ugly and rude. I finish, yes? Then maybe you come to my room, we eat together?"
Marcus smiled. "I would like that. Yes. Call me on the telephone."
Kynan just groaned. Marcus laughed. Kynan Rhys Gower still called the telephone "Satan's trumpet"—but he'd learned to use it and was beginning to enjoy its convenience. Marcus had no idea who "Satan" was supposed to be. He cared very little for the religious beliefs of others in La-La Land, figuring it was a man's own business what gods he worshipped.
Whoever this "Satan" was, Kynan feared him mightily. Marcus admired the courage it took the Welshman to use the telephone. He was hoping time would cement the tentative friendship growing between them. Marcus had many who called him "friend" but very few he could truly call on as friend when trouble struck.
"I will call," Kynan agreed, "when I wash this. And myself." His grimace was all too expressive. Kynan's disgust of tourists ran far deeper than Marcus', who found most of their baffling antics amusing more than maddening.
"Good." Marcus gave him a cheery smile, then headed in the direction of his own rooms in Residential to shower and change clothing and see what he might contribute to the joint meal out of the family's meager supplies—riches, compared to what Kynan Rhys Gower would have at his place, though. He wondered if Ianira might have left one of her famous cheesecakes in the refrigerator. He grinned, recalling the sign Arley Eisenstein had posted in the Delight's menu-holder the last time Ianira had sold him a recipe: "A Bite of History . . . A Taste of Heaven." If she'd left any of their last one, he could raid a slice or two to contribute. Marcus' grin deepened as he recalled Ianira's astonishment over the serious discussions even important politicians and philosophers of Athens had held routinely on the merits of this or that type of cheesecake. He hadn't known the delicacy was so ancient.
Arley had paid her enough money that she'd been able to open that little stall he'd made for her in the Little Agora section of Commons, near the Philosophers' Gate, which was owned by the uptime government. Even Time Tours, the biggest company in the business, had to pay to send its tour groups through Philosophers' Gate. Tickets to ancient Athens were expensive. Several touring companies had even approached Ianira about guiding, for a fabulous salary and benefits. She'd turned them down in language they'd found shocking—but which Marcus understood in his bones.
He would not have set foot through the Porta Romae again for anything less than rescuing his family.
He was strolling toward her booth, to ask if she might like to join him at Kynan's place for dinner, when he spotted the man with the gladius again. Whoever the fellow was, he ducked furtively through a door which led to the storage rooms of Connie Logan's Clothes and Stuff shop.
Finding that peculiar, Marcus paused. Was the man on Connie's payroll? He knew the eccentric young outfitter constantly hired agents to travel downtime researching costumes, fabrics, utensils, and other assorted items used in daily life on the other side of La-La Land's many gates, but Marcus didn't know this man.
And there was still that odd tingle of near-recognition chilling his spine. It couldn't be . . . could it? He decided to wait, settling down beside a shallow pond stocked with colorful fish, and watched the door. Brian Hendrickson strolled by, deep in conversation with a guide. They were speaking Latin. From the sound of it, Brian was in the middle of a language lesson, stressing the finer points of conversational Latin to the relatively new guide. Across the way, Connie's storeroom door opened again. The man Marcus was following stepped out into the open. A woman nearby started to giggle. Even Marcus gaped. Cowboy chaps over jeans, topped by a Victorian gentleman's evening jacket, finished off by a properly wrapped but ludicrous toga and stovepipe hat . . .
For an instant, his gaze locked with the other man's.
A dark flush stained weathered cheeks. The man Marcus was positive he'd seen before ducked back into Connie's warehouse. The giggling tourist caught a friend's attention and hurried over to tell her what she'd just seen. The door opened again moments later; this time, his quarry emerged wearing only the jeans and chaps and a western-style shirt. Marcus noted that he still wore the gladius, however, hidden carefully beneath the leather chaps. That worried him. Should I report this?
Concealed weapons were against station rules. Openly carried weapons were fine. But only when stepping through a gate was one permitted to conceal one's personal weapons. Those were the rules and Marcus was careful to live by them. But he also knew it wasn't always a good idea to mix one's affairs with those of a stranger. Well, he could always report the fellow anonymously to Mike Benson or one of his security men through a message on one of the library computers.
Or he could simply ignore the whole thing and go take that shower. He had just about decided on the latter course of action when the stranger turned to glance back at him. Something in the movement, the set of the mouth and the dark light in those eyes, clicked in Marcus' memory. Shock washed through him like icy water. He gripped his seat until his hands ached. It wasn't possible . . . yet he was certain. As certain as he had ever been about anything in his life. Sweat started under his shirt and dripped down his armpits.
Rome's Death Wolf, Lupus Mortiferus, had come to Shangri-La.
What purpose could the Circus's deadliest gladiator possibly have in coming here? Marcus the former slave didn't know—but he intended to find out. He owed the men and women who'd befriended him here that much. Heart in his throat, blood pounding in his ears, Marcus waited until the Wolf of Death turned his attention elsewhere, then cautiously eased from his seat and began to follow.
Skeeter Jackson, in heavy disguise, wheeled his cart toward a tourist near the Conquistadores Gate. The man was in the middle of a nasty harangue directed at a harried tour guide. Her face was flushed with anger, but her job prevented her from venting it. Skeeter stepped in with a smile.
"Sir, baggage check for leave-behind luggage?"
The man turned to note the other tagged suitcases on Skeeter's cart, each tag with the owner's name and hotel scrawled across it, with the tear-off stub missing. The tour guide's eyes met Skeeter's and widened in recognition. For a second, he thought he'd been blown for good. Then her eyes flashed briefly with unholy joy. She winked and fled, leaving Skeeter's quarry to his just deserts.
"Why, yes, that would be convenient. That idiotic guide—"
It was the same old story. Stupid tourist doesn't read the rules, then takes out his mad on the guides. Skeeter smiled as charmingly as he could—which was very—and tagged the man's expensive leather bags, tearing off numbered receipts which he handed over. "Thank you, sir. All you need to do to reclaim your luggage on return is present those claim stubs to your hotel. Have a good trip, sir."
The man actually tipped him. Skeeter hid a grin, then maneuvered his now-full cart toward the edge of the growing crowd. And there, just as he was passing a woman whose cases were also on his cart, it happened. He came eye-to-eye with Goldie Morran.
"Is that the man?" Goldie asked the tourist whose cases Skeeter had "checked."
"Yes!"
Goldie smiled directly into Skeeter's eyes. That was when he noticed security ringing the area.
"All's fair in love and bets, Skeeter, darling." Goldie's eyes glinted far back in their depths with murderous amusement.
It was either ditch hard-won gains or lose the bet—and his home. Skeeter did neither. Goldie's own mouth had uttered his one chance for salvation.
"Mike!" he yelled, "Hey, Mike Benson! Over here!"
Goldie's eyes went round and her pinched mouth fell slack.
Benson lost no time approaching. "As I live and breathe . . ."
Before he could finish, Skeeter said indignantly, "Here I am saving these poor folks from Goldie's clutches, making sure she doesn't make a grab for their luggage, and she has the nerve to accuse me—well, Mr. Benson, I want you to take a good look at these tags, here. I was on my way to all these hotels to turn over these cases, when Goldie, here, furious I'd got in her way, started making nasty accusations."
Every tourist within earshot was goggle-eyed, listening to nothing else.
Mike's forehead creased with vertical and horizontal lines. "And you just expect me to swallow that pack of—"
"Not only do I insist you believe it, I demand an escort to every one of these hotels so I can make sure every bag is locked safely away. Don't trust Goldie, Mr. Benson. She might have me waylaid by some of those paid thugs of hers."
Mike Benson stared from one to the other, then started—astonishingly—to laugh. "Look at the pair of you. Priceless! Okay, Skeeter my boy, let's go put these cases in the hotels' lock-up rooms. I'll go along just to be certain nobody waylays you on the trip."
Skeeter seethed inwardly, having hoped Mike would let him just trundle his cart away for some time to rifle the contents of watches, cameras, jewelry, etc. Instead, he smiled and said, "Sure thing."
"Just a minute!" Goldie snapped. "If you're so altruistic, why the disguise?"
Skeeter smiled into her eyes, noting the fury in them. "Why, Goldie, so your agents wouldn't recognize me and drop a sap across the back of my head to get these." He waved expansively at the suitcases. "There's gotta be a fortune in uptime jewelry in 'em, and who better than you to break up the pieces and fence the stones?"
Without waiting for a smarter and potentially deadlier protest from Goldie, Skeeter shoved his cart forward through the gaping crowd and sang out, "Coming, Mr. Benson? Gotta lot of work waiting, getting these good people's cases back safe."
Benson did as he'd promised, following Skeeter to each and every hotel on Skeeter's list. He verified each case as it was put into storage, then checked his list against Skeeter's supposed-to-be-fake manifest of names, hotels, uptime addresses, the works, not to mention the claim-ticket numbers. He grunted when the work was finally done. "Huh. Kept you clean this time, at least."
"But—Mr. Benson, you wound me. Honest."
"Don't 'Mr. Benson' me, punk. I was a damned fine cop before you were even born, so give it a rest. You came close, buddy, but you slithered out of it. Just be sure I'll be watching you double-close from now on."
"Well, sure. Hey, thanks for the escort!"
Benson just gave him a dour look. Skeeter lost no time vanishing into the thick holiday crowds, heading for the hotel he had "borrowed" the cart and claim tickets from. He didn't want to leave any loose strings if Benson should question the hotel manager or bellhops. Not that Benson could prove anything. He just didn't want to go through what Benson benignly referred to as his "lean-on-'em-a-little-and-they'll-sing" speech.
Although as the head of ATF's presence on TT-86, meaning that technically, Montgomery Wilkes was the highest-ranking officer of the law on the station, Monty's actual jurisdiction was limited to the Customs area near Primary (much to Monty's everlasting, abiding rage, since he guessed how often he got hoodwinked outside that jurisdiction).
In all else, Benson reigned supreme. And if he wanted to keep Skeeter locked up for a month on bread and water, just for questioning, there was nothing in the station's charter that prevented him from doing just that. It was one of the reasons Skeeter was always so careful—and it was also the impulse behind his effort to try a little scamming downtime, away from Benson's watchful eye.
Of course, that'd nearly gone sour, would have if not for that gorgeous racehorse. The Lupus Mortiferus incident had prompted Skeeter to give up any further thoughts of downtime scamming until he knew a whole lot more about the culture he was planning to rip off. He understood far better, now, why guides and scouts spent all their free time—most of it, anyway—studying.
That Skeeter's target would be Rome again was a foregone conclusion, despite his somewhat desperate, drowning promise. He intended to hit rich Romans often and hard, because the arrogant bastards deserved it so much. But not just yet. He needed a lot of hours in the library and its soundproof language booths. And before he could do so much as that, he needed to win a little bet, first. Goldie had already proven ruthless enough to arrange for him to get caught.
Goldie'd get what she had coming, of that Skeeter was certain.
He could hardly wait to wave bye-bye as she hauled as much as she could afford to pay taxes on when she was forced uptime and use the rest of her assets to make bail. Skeeter chuckled. If things really went his way, he might even have enough at the end of the bet to buy out what Goldie couldn't take with her, including that breeding pair of Carolina parakeets some visitor had brought back from Colonial Williamsburg. Extinct birds, and she had a breeding pair of 'em. Could get more any time she wanted, too, by pulling the right strings—the ones attached to her downtime agents. Skeeter made a little wager with himself that Sue Fritchey didn't even know they were on station.
Well, if it came down to those birds (rumor had it Goldie was actually attached to them, emotionally) or Skeeter's continued life on TT-86, he'd know exactly what to do. Call up Sue Fritchey and make her famous all over again. Undoing Goldie in the process.
The klaxon and announcement came over the Commons' big speakers, warning of the impending cycling of the Conquistadores Gate. Skeeter grinned, wondering what had happened to Goldie after he'd left. Hopefully, at least a third of what she deserved, interfering like that in one of his scams. At least now he'd been warned about the way she intended to play this out, which might give him the edge he needed to win. Disconsolately, thinking of the thousands of bucks' worth of easily sold items in those lost suitcases, Skeeter headed for the library to have Brian value his "tips" into the official betting ledger.
Skeeter hunted him out behind the front desk, where the librarian was busy updating the computer's research index, actually deleting the lurid red "stamp" across the face of an entry page that read: all known copies destroyed in aftermath of the accident. librarian will update this listing should this status change.
Brian didn't get a chance to remove very many of those stamps from the system.
"Hey, Brian. What turned up somewhere?"
Hendrickson swung around to face him. "Oh, it's you." His accent was wildly at odds with his appearance, which was that of an ex-military, scholarly gentleman. His dark face curved into a genuine smile. Despite the words, he kept smiling. "Somebody found a copy of Pliny the Younger's collection of histories hidden in their grandparents' attic. Asked the nearest university were they interested or should they just toss it out? The university paid 'em for it—a hundred-thousand, I believe it was—and had an armored car with armed guards pick it up for safe transportation. After they sealed it in a nitrogen atmosphere.
"Anyway, the university scanned the whole bloody thing and started selling copies on CD to every time terminal library, every other university or public library that wanted one. Library of Congress asked for five."
Skeeter, who had no idea who Pliny the Younger was, managed to pull off a sufficiently impressed whistle of appreciation. "Weren't taking any chances, were they?"
"No. It's the last known copy in the world. A translation, as it happens, which is too bad, but still a copy, nonetheless. To scholars and scouts, it's absolutely priceless."
"Huh. I know you're not supposed to try and steal artwork from downtime unless you can prove it would've been destroyed anyway. Same goes for books and such, huh?"
"Oh, absolutely." Brian's eyes twinkled. "And Skeeter—don't even think of trying it. Stolen antiquities are out of both Mike's and Monty's jurisdiction. That's a federal matter and the bully boys uptime don't look too kindly on somebody breaking—at least, getting caught breaking—the First Law of Time Travel."
"So that's why Robert Li's our official representative of—" he had to stop a moment to recall the actual name, not just the acronym "—the International Federation of Art Temporally Stolen? So he can copy the stuff for everybody's use, then send an I.F.A.R.T.S. agent downtime to put it back where it came from?"
"Precisely. There's an enormous uptime market for such things." Brian looked at him. "And if you decide to join ranks with the breakers and smashers raping our past of its treasures, I'll testify at your trial and urge the death penalty."
Brian Hendrickson's intensity scared him a little. Skeeter held both hands up, palms toward the librarian. "Hey, I was just curious. I've got a lot of catching up to do myself, you know, since I never really finished grade school—never mind high school."
Homesick longing struck him silent before he could go any further.
Brian looked at him in an odd fashion for a moment, then—in a much gentler voice—asked, "Skeeter? Just why did you come here?"
"Huh? Oh." He dug into his pocket, pulled out the coins and bills he'd received as "tips" on the almost-successful suitcase pilfering he'd attempted, and explained what had gone down.
Brian glanced at the money, repeated Skeeter's story word-for-word (not scary—terrifying) then shook his head.
"What do you mean, the tips don't count?"
Brian Hendrickson, his dark face set now with lines of distaste, all trace of his earlier joy wiped away by deep unhappiness, said coolly, "You earned those tips for fair labor. If you'd succeed in stealing the luggage, the contents would've counted, but the tips still wouldn't have. So I can't count them now, even though they're all you managed to hang onto."
"But—but the damned tourists are warned they're supposed to check leave-behind luggage at the hotels, not with 'curbside' guys like me. The tips are stealing, same as the luggage would be."
Brian just shook his head. "Sorry, Skeeter. A tip is, by definition, something earned as part of a service accorded someone else. The cases are safely locked away, the tips are income—pure and simple—so your twenty-oh-seventy-five doesn't count."
Skeeter stuffed the bills and coins back into his pockets and stalked out of the library.
Who'd ever heard of such a thing, not counting scammed tips?