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?
Chapter Six
"Please have your timecards ready so the scanner can update them as you approach the gate . . ."
Goldie had, fortunately, managed to escape the angered, hot-blooded Spaniards who were the most frequent customers through the Conquistadores Gate. One lady about ten years Goldie's junior shoved through the crowd to follow.
"Wait! Wait, please, I wanted to thank you!"
Goldie stopped and turned, allowing a puzzled smile to drift into place. "Thank me? Whatever for?"
"For . . . for saving my luggage." The woman was still out of breath slightly. "You see, my husband and I were going downtime to research some of our ancestors. We'd planned to attend the hotel's Christmas ball as a kind of celebration after we got back and, I know I'm silly, but I packed away my gown and great-grandmother's diamond tiara, necklace, and a few other matching pieces in that suitcase. You've saved me so much grief! I never did believe the ridiculous story that young man told the security chief and neither did Rodrigo. Please, let me say thank you."
She was holding out a slightly used bill with a one and an undetermined number of zeroes after it.
"I couldn't possibly," Goldie protested weakly, having deciphered the number of zeroes. A thousand dollars?
"Oh, please, Rodrigo and I have more money than we know how to spend, but those jewels are absolutely irreplaceable. Please. Take it."
Goldie faked reluctance beautifully, allowing the other woman to push it into her slack hand. She closed careful fingers around the bill, and while she maintained an outward mask of surprise and lingering reluctance, inwardly she was gloating. A thousand bucks! A thousand! Wait until Skeeter hears about this! Maybe he'll choke on envy and we'll be rid of him even sooner!
Goldie thanked her generosity, pocketed the bill, reassured her that she hadn't missed the gate departure yet, then watched her disappear into the crowd milling around the waiting area. Then, exulting in her good fortune, Goldie headed toward the library, grinning fit to crack her skull. Strike one, you little fool. Two more and you're out for the count! Nobody loved a wager more than Goldie Morran—and nobody else in La-La Land came remotely close to Goldie's orgasmic pleasure at cheating to win. It was not how the game was played that counted with Goldie. It was about how much she could rook out of the opposition's wallet, downtime coinage, or bank account.
Just a few more days and Skeeter Jackson would be gone.
For good.
She passed Kit Carson, who was sitting at a cafe table sharing a beer with his pal the freelance guide, Malcolm Moore. She grinned and waved, leaving them to stare after her.
Let 'em wonder.
After what Skeeter had tried to do to Kit's grandkid, those two would surely be more appreciative than most when Goldie's plans came to full fruition. Goldie very carefully did not think about what she had very nearly done to Kit's granddaughter. Even Kit had eventually admitted the whole disaster had been entirely Margo's doing, accepting the challenge to go after those diamonds through an unstable gate.
Too bad about losing that scheme, though. Goldie sighed. Win some, lose some. At least Margo was uptime at school, toiling to repay her grandfather the money Kit had paid Goldie for that worthless hunk of African swampland. Goldie patted her pocket and regained her smile, then headed for the library so Brian Hendrickson could record her "take" in his official bet ledger. He might even laugh when she recounted her tale of that cretinous woman giving her a reward. La-La Land's librarian had so far found very little humor in Goldie and Skeeter's bet. This ought to change his tune.
Goldie didn't exactly need to stay in Brian's good graces to continue her own profitable business, but burning bridges unnecessarily was just plain-and-si
mple foolishness. There were certainly times when Brian's encyclopedic memory had proven useful to her. And there would doubtless be other times in the future she'd want to call on his knowledge. So, scheming and dreaming to her heart's content, Goldie Morran smiled at startled scouts on their way into or out of the vast library and found Brian Hendrickson on his usual throne.
The expression in his eyes was anything but welcoming.
"Hello, Goldie. What are you doing here?"
She laughed easily. "What do you think, silly?"
Brian just grimaced and turned back toward the master computer file he was updating.
"Here." She set out the thousand dollar bill that idiotic but wonderful woman had given her. "Put this on my ledger, would you, dearie?"
He eyed the money. "And how, exactly, did you come by it?"
She told him.
Then stormed out of the library, money stuffed back into her pockets. How dare he not count it?
"Reward for good deeds doesn't count, my eye! That overstuffed, self-important—"
Goldie seethed all the way back to her shop.
Once there, among her shining things, Goldie comforted herself with the knowledge that Skeeter's "tips" hadn't been counted, either. Then she got to work. Part of her mind was busy figuring out how to scam the next batch of tourists unfortunate enough to enter her shop, while another part was preoccupied with how to foil Skeeter's next attempt. That—plus a swig from a bottle she kept in reserve under her counter and fifteen minutes' solitude with her beloved, deeply affectionate Carolina parakeets—got her through a long, dead-flat afternoon. Not a single tourist entered to exchange uptime money for down or downtime coinage for uptime credit.
By the time Goldie closed her shop for the day, she was ready to do murder. And Skeeter Jackson's grinning face floated in the center of every lethal fantasy she could dredge up. She was going to win this bet, if it was the last thing she ever did.
And Skeeter would pay in spades for daring to challenge her!
Goldie entered the Down Time Bar & Grill, ordered her favorite drink from Molly, the downtime whore who'd stumbled through the Britannia Gate into TT-86, and settled in the billiards room to wait for some drunken tourist who thought he knew how to play the game to wander in and become her next victim.
Lupus Mortiferus was afraid—almost as afraid as he'd been his first time on the glittering sands of the Circus. He struggled not to show it. Nothing about this insane world made sense. The languages bombarding his ears were very nearly painful, they were so incomprehensible. Every now and again he would hear a word that sounded almost familiar, making the wrenching dislocation even worse. Some of the lettering on the walls reminded him of words he knew, but he couldn't quite make out their sense. And everywhere he turned were mysteries—terrifying mysteries—that beeped, glowed, hummed, screeched, and twittered in alien metals and colors and energies he would have called lightning or the ominous glow of the evil-omened lights in the northern night skies, had they not been imprisoned by some god's hand in pear-shaped bulbs, long tubes and spiralling ones, plus all manner of twisted shapes and disturbing colors of glass.
And the sounds . . .
Voices that erupted from midair, coming from nowhere that he could see, blaring messages he couldn't begin to understand.
Have I fallen into a playground of gods?
Then, unbelievably, he caught a snatch of Latin. Real, honest Latin.
" . . . no, that isn't at all what I meant, what you have to do is . . ."
With a relief that left him almost in tears, Lupus found the speakers, a dark man who was certainly of African origin: Carthaginian, perhaps, or Nubian—although his skin was too light for Nubia. He was speaking with a shorter, nondescript man in shades of brown at whom no one in Rome would have given a second glance.
Lupus followed them eagerly, desperate for someone he could actually communicate with in this mad place. He followed them to a room—a vast, echoing chamber of a room—filled with shelves of squarish objects made from thin vellum and rows of . . . what? Boxes men and women sat before and talked to—and the boxes talked back, their glowing faces flashing up pictures or streams of alien words.
Lupus held in a shiver of terror and wondered how to approach the dark man who clearly knew Latin better than the brownish one. He was about to approach when two other men entered and collared the dark-skinned man first. Lupus melted into the shadows behind a bank of tall shelves and hugged his impatience to his breast, biding his time until the dark man who could speak Lupus' tongue would be alone and approachable.
"So," Kit Carson asked, relaxing back into his chair, "what do you have planned for Margo's visit?"
Malcolm Moore flushed slightly. The light in Kit's eyes told him exactly what Kit expected them to do. Fortunately, Kit approved—provided Malcolm's intentions were honorable and he took reasonable precautions against pregnancy.
"Well," Malcolm said, running a fingertip through the condensate on the tabletop, "I was thinking of a little visit to Denver. I've checked my log entries—there shouldn't be any risk of Shadowing myself. I wasn't in London during the week the Denver party will be downtime."
Kit nodded. "I think that's a good idea. Margo should like it, too—and it'll complement her American History studies very nicely."
Malcolm grinned. "Sure you won't come along?"
Kit just grimaced. "I was in London that week. That whole month, in fact. You two lovebirds go along and have a good, careful time." Kit sighed. "It's strange. I didn't think it would happen, but . . . her letters are changing, Malcolm. Their tone, the intelligence behind her observations and comments."
Malcolm glanced up, noting the furrow on Kit's brow. "So you did notice? Figured you wouldn't miss it. She's growing up, Kit." That brought a flinch to his friend's eyes. He'd just barely begun to know her when she'd vanished: once, almost for good, the second time off to college. Trying to help his friend get used to the idea, Malcolm said, "Hell, Kit, she grew up in that filthy little Portuguese gaol. But now she's growing in ways it's hard to put into words."
Kit nodded. "Yeah."
Malcolm punched Kit's shoulder. "Don't take it so hard, Grandpa. Her mind's coming alive. I can hardly wait to see what directions her thoughts take her next."
Kit laughed sourly. "Just so long as it isn't toward a South African diamond field." Then Kit blinked and stared past Malcolm's shoulder. "Speak of the devil . . ."
Goldie Morran passed, smiling so sweetly at them Malcolm wondered who'd just died.
"What can she be up to?"
Kit laughed sourly. "Given that wager between her and Skeeter, God knows. Want to play tag-the-nanny goat and follow along?"
Malcolm grinned. "If that sour old goat has ever had kids, I'll eat this table. Goat I'll allow. Nanny? Not even in the British sense, Kit." His grin deepened, however. "Sure sounds like fun, though. Quick, before we lose her!"
Kit's eyes glinted as they scurried for the door, dropping more than enough money on the front counter to pay for consumables plus tip. Each of them knew the consequences should Goldie ever discover the double scam they'd pulled on her with Margo's help—not that she could really do anything, not legally, anyway. Their uptime diamond strike was one of La-La Land's best-kept secrets. And that was a monumental achievement in its own right.
Malcolm and Kit quickly determined that Goldie Morran's goal was the library. They took up places at computer terminals near the counter, ostensibly doing research, but more than close enough to overhear Goldie's screech when her "take" was disallowed.
She stalked out of the library in a towering rage.
Kit stepped over to Brian's counter. Malcolm abandoned his computer, too, and leaned on his elbows beside Kit.
"So what's new?" Kit asked casually.
His long-time friend gave him an evil stare, then shrugged. In his wonderful, outlandish accent, he muttered, "Oh, why not. You're not involved, after all." Brian Hendrickson grimaced expressively, the skin aro
und his eyes tightening down so much Malcolm grew alarmed. Then, curtly: "They have begun a war of attrition. A serious one. Goldie just spoiled one of Skeeter's schemes in a way that could have been fatal—for Skeeter, anyway. I suppose spoiling each other's schemes is better than letting them rip off unsuspecting tourists, but this . . . I didn't think their idiotic wager would turn this deadly. I suppose I should've seen it coming from the very start."
He wiped his brow with a handkerchief plucked from a pocket, then neatly folded and replaced it with such style, Malcolm found himself seriously envious of the librarian's unconscious panache. Malcolm clearly needed to do a covert study of Brian's movements and work until he'd copied them motion-perfect. On London tours, those elegant movements would serve him well. Particularly with the hopeful plans he'd been developing in the back of his mind. Then Brian sighed mournfully. "I still can't believe I allowed myself to be drawn into this."
Malcolm, who was about to comment that Brian had voluntarily put himself exactly where he was, abruptly spotted a man in Western getup watching them ferally from the shadows across the room. He blinked. Not a scout, not a freelance guide, not even a Time Tours, Inc. guide. Malcolm made it his business to keep close watch on the competition—particularly since Time Tours, Inc. was indirectly responsible for the death of his previous employer and close friend.
The mystery-man's face arrested his attention for a moment. But I've seen that face before, I know I have. But where? Maybe a tourist Malcolm had approached at some point, looking for a job? God alone knew, he'd begged work from thousands of transient tourists over the past several years, before he and Kit and Margo had become repugnantly wealthy. (They didn't flaunt it—didn't need to—but it certainly was a great deal of fun, just looking at his bank account's balance, which had hovered near negative numbers for so long.)
Maybe one of the tourists had remembered him and was looking for a good guide?
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