"Hated you? I don't hate anybody, Margo. Time scouts can't afford the luxury of hate."

Or love ...

Margo's eyes had gone curiously wide and vulnerable. "Oh. Well, I'm glad."

Kit recalled what Connie had said-"she worships you" and sighed. He wasn't cut out to be anybody's personal hero.

"Come on, Margo. The sooner I get this said, the sooner you can tell me where to jump off, then we can both call it quits." He eyed her unhappily. "And contrary to what you clearly believe, I don't enjoy hurting people's feelings."

For once, she didn't come back with a sharp remark. She just followed him wordlessly toward the library.

Margo knew time terminals had libraries. Tourists, guides, and time scouts all used them, to one degree or another. Her original legwork had revealed that time terminal libraries were among the most sophisticated research facilities in the world. But Skeeter Jackson hadn't suggested they go there and she hadn't given it much thought. Margo had never been fond of books. She preferred direct, dramatic action and firsthand experience. Poring through dusty, musty pages nobody had cracked open in fifty years only made her crazy. Besides, all those experts disagreed anyway, and a time scout's job was to go places and find out what the truth was.

Still ...

La-La Land's library overawed.

Margo repressed a delicate shudder and didn't even try to calculate the number of books contained in this ...the word "room" seemed inadequate. And computer terminals, too, with recognizable CD-ROM and video drives, all voice-activated. Judging from the snippets of soft-voiced commands she heard from a dozen busy users, they were programmed for multiple-language recognition. The computers drew Margo's attention more thoroughly than any of the books.

Mr. Carson-she had trouble thinking of him as "Kit"-spoke briefly with a slim, dark-skinned man in his mid-thirties, then steered her toward the back.

Several private cubicles had been built into the back wall, complete with computer and sound-board hookups.

"What are these for?"

"Language labs," Carson said quietly. "I take it you haven't been here yet?"

Margo detected no particular edge to his voice, but the question irritated her. "No. Skeeter has me busy doing important things." Like earning a living to pay for the equipment I'm going to need.

"Uh-huh. This one's empty." He pushed open a door and held it for her.

Margo fluffed inside and took the only chair. Her nemesis closed the door with a quiet click of the latch.

"Now. About this teacher of yours..."

"I suppose you're going to tell me how he's charging more than I can afford and what a fool I am and how I'll starve before I get my first big contract with Time Tours or some other outfit. Well guess again. He's not charging me anything but an advance on expenses and most of what I need I'm earning with the job he helped me find. He wants a partner."

Kit Carson just looked at her. He leaned against the door, crossed his ankles comfortably, and looked at her like she was the most recalcitrant, lame-brained child he'd ever encountered. It made her mad.

"Don't smirk at me, you egotistical-!"

"Margo," he formed a classic "T' shape with his hands, "time out, remember? No insults, no temper tantrums. And I'm not smirking."

"Huh. Could'a fooled me." But she subsided. He was trying to be nice for a change; the least she could do was listen. "Okay, go on."

"Skeeter Jackson has told you he's a time scout, looking for a partner. True or false?"

"True." She bit one fingernail, then folded her arms and tried not to fidget. "What of it?"

"He's not a time scout. Never has been, never will be. Frankly, he's neither crazy nor stupid and he knows his limits."

Oh, no...

"Are you calling Mr. Jackson a liar?" she asked quietly.

His smile held a certain strained quality. "Yes. And before you say anything, I'd like to point out that liar's not the worst thing he's been called. Backstabbing cheat comes a little closer."

"How dare you-"

"Shut up and listen!"

The indolent pose had vanished Margo shut up. She'd never heard such cold authority in anyone's voice. He wasn't angry just relentless. And Margo was scared.

After Billy Pandropolous ...

"Skeeter Jackson is a con artist. A two-bit operator who makes his living fleecing tourists. If there's a scam on the books, he's used it. Currency exchange scams, luggage theft, pick pocketing, black-marketeering, you name it."

Margo didn't want to hear any more. Every word he clipped off reduced her closer to the status of gullible fool-again.

"Skeeter doesn't touch 'eighty-sixers, which is the only reason Station Security tolerates him. He's probably wanted in half the sovereign nations in the world on various charges. Nothing violent, nothing dangerous ...until now."

"What do you mean?" Even Margo realized how petulant she sounded.

"If I thought all you'd lose was the shirt off your pretty back, I'd let you have all the rope you want to hang yourself. But if you keep `studying' with Skeeter Jackson, then walk through an unexplored gate thinking you're a time scout, you won't come back."

"Well, you didn't leave -me much choice, did you? I did come to you first, if you'll recall."

He nodded. "Yep. And I gave you a fair assessment of your chances. I just thought you deserved to know how deadly this little game of yours is. Walking in with eyes wide open is a little different from being conned. Like I said before, I don't want your death on my conscience.

"Thanks for caring!" Margo snapped. "I can do without your advice, if that's all you've got to say!"

He sighed and didn't offer to move.

"Well? Are you leaving or what?"

"Just what is he teaching you?"

Margo crossed her arms again. "None of your business. If you won't teach me, why should I bother answering questions you'll just charge me money to answer?"

His eyes narrowed. "Don't be insulting. Who picked out that ensemble you're wearing?"

She just glared at him. Clearly, she'd made some mistakes-and vowed she'd die a torturous death before she admitted it.

"Okay," he muttered, "the kid gloves come off. Let's say Skeeter sends you -through the `safest' tourist gate there is, just for practice. If you walk through the Britannia Gate wearing that getup, the first thing that's going to happen is some well-bred lady on the other side will either scream or faint. Whores don't generally stroll through Battersea Park."

Margo paled, then flushed bright red. "I'm not a whore! And I'm not wearing this dress in London, you'll notice! I'm wearing it for a bunch of drunken tourists in Victoria Station! Besides, what's wrong with it? Skeeter showed me photos."

"Margo, you look like a two-bit trollop in that thing. Skeeter likes skin and he doesn't have the faintest idea what decently bred Victorian women wore. If he had a photo, it was of a Denver saloon trollop. Denver cathouses are among the few down-time attractions Skeeter Jackson has visited."

Margo wanted to hide. At least she'd had the sense to tell Skeeter no the couple of times he'd suggested ...

"Margo, you've just illustrated my point for me: you don't know what you're doing and neither does Skeeter. If you'd tried walking through the Britannia Gate in that dress, here's what would've happened: After some poor, shocked matron had a fit of vapors, her outraged gentleman companion would have called for a constable. You'd either have ended up in the Old Bailey for peddling your wares in the wrong part of town or landed in an asylum. Street walkers who went mad from syphilis weren't handled particularly gently.

Margo didn't want to hear any more. Rose-colored balloons of hope broke with every word, but Kit Carson showed no inclination to stop. "Let's even suppose you didn't get nailed by the law. That by some miracle you actually found the slums where that getup might look more appropriate. Do you even know what they were called Never mind where they were? If you stumbled into them by sheer chance, you'd still be in trouble. Because some whore would carve you up for encroaching on her territory or some tough would decide to make you his meal ticket-after trying out the wares for himself first. Unless, of course, you were really lucky and the Ripper decided you were a likely looking target."