"Try the Down Time Bar and Grill. If anyone knows, the regulars there might. Or you could..."

He trailed off. She was already gone, like a bullet from the barrel of a smoking gun. That damned leather miniskirt did evil things to Malcolm's breath control.

"Well." He rested hands on hips. "If that doesn't ..." He couldn't imagine why a girl that age-and in a tearing hurry, besides-would be looking for Kit Carson of all people. "Huh:" He tried to put her out of his mind and turned to find his bewildered tourist with the cute kids. He needed a job worse than he needed a mystery.

"Oh, bloody hell..." Skeeter Jackson, the louse, had already collared the scared family and was hard at work playing with the youngest kid. Mom was beaming. God help them.

He considered warning her, then glanced down at his artistically filthy tunic and swore again. Compared with Skeeter Jackson's groomed appearance, he didn't stand a chance. Maybe he could get her aside later and explain the difference between reliable guides and the Skeeter Jacksons of this world. Malcolm sighed. The way his luck had been running lately, she'd slap him for maligning that "nice young man."

He decided maybe it wouldn't hurt to take up Ann's offer, after all. Malcolm strolled down the Commons on a reverse course through Castletown, Victoria Station, and Frontier Town. He entered Urbs Romae just as the klaxon for closure of Primary sounded, warning everyone that TT-86 was about to be sealed in again for another couple of days, at least. Up ahead, the pert little up-timer looking for Kit sailed straight past the Down Time without spotting it. He grinned and decided to see how long it took her to holler for help.

Just what did she want with Kit Carson?

Whatever it was, Malcolm had a feeling the next few days were going to prove most entertaining.

Margo thumped down the long, cluttered concourse, berating herself as she went. "Honestly," she fumed, "the first person you ask is a guy in a Roman tunic and slave collar? He's probably some poor down-timer who wandered through an unstable gate, like the articles warned about. Stupid, greenhorn idiot..."

Margo did not enjoy looking like a fool.

"No wonder he took so long answering. Probably had to translate everything I said first. At least he spoke some English. And I've got the right station, that's something to celebrate," she added under her breath, glancing in restrained awe at the sprawling complex which stretched away in a maze of catwalks, shops, waiting areas, and cross-corridors that led only God knew where. The care she'd taken to research a time terminal's layout didn't begin to convey the reality of the place. It was enormous, bewildering. And none of the information she'd found described the private sections of a terminal, visible in tantalizing glimpses off the Commons. She found herself wanting to explore ...

"First," she told herself sternly, "I find Kit Carson. Everything else is secondary. That Roman guy said he might be at some bar, so all I have to do now is find him. I can talk anybody into anything. All I have to do is find him ...."

Unfortunately, she didn't find the "Down Time" on the main concourse or any of the balconies connected to it. Margo set down her heavy suitcase, panting slightly, and scowled at an empty set of chairs clustered around a closed gate.

"What Down Time Bar and Grill?"

Grimly, Margo picked up her case again, regretting the decision to stuff everything into one piece of luggage. She looked for a terminal directory, something like she'd always found at ordinary shopping malls, but saw nothing remotely resembling one. She didn't want to betray complete ignorance by asking someone. Margo was desperate to give the impression that she was worldly, well-traveled, able to take care of herself.

But the Down Time Bar & Grill was apparently close kin to the Flying Dutchman, because it didn't appear to exist Maybe it was down time? Don't be ridiculous. Nobody'd put a bar on the other side of a time gate. Finally she started hunting down the maze of cross linked, interconnecting corridors that formed the private portion of TT-86. Stairways led to corridors on other levels, some of them brightly lit, others dim and deserted. Within minutes, she was hopelessly lost and fuming.

She set the case down again and rubbed her aching palm. Margo glared at a receding stretch of corridor broken occasionally by more corridors and locked doors. "Don't these people believe in posting a directory somewhere?"

"May I help you?"

The voice was polite, male, and almost directly behind her.

She spun around.

The guy in the tunic. Oh, shit.... Ever since New York she'd been so careful-and this was a down-timer, God knew what he'd try to pull

"Are you following me?" she demanded, furious that her voice came out breathy and scared instead of calm and assured.

He scratched the back of his neck under the thick bronze collar: "Well, I couldn't help but notice you passed the Down Time, then took a really wrong turn off the Commons. It's easy to get lost, back here."

Margo's heart pounded so hard her chest hurt. She backed away a step. "I ought to warn you," she said in a tone meant to be forbidding, "I know martial arts."

"As a matter of fact, so do I."

Oh, God.. .

He grinned disarmingly, reminding Margo quite suddenly of her high school history teacher. "Most temporal guides do, you know."

Temporal guide?

He held out a business card neatly clasped between two fingers. "Malcolm Moore, freelance time guide."

Margo felt her face flame. "I ...uh ..." Clearly he knew exactly what she'd been thinking and seemed to find it amusing. She took the card hesitantly and risked glancing at it. The card seemed genuine enough. "Uh, hi. I'm Margo."

If he was offended that she'd withheld her last name, he didn't show it. He said only, "Nice to meet you, Margo, and shook her hand formally. "If you like, I'll take you back to the Down Time."

She hesitated.

He pinned. "No charge. I only charge for tours on the other side of time gates."

"Oh. Okay." Then, grudgingly, because she was embarrassed she hadn't said it sooner, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

He had a nice smile. Maybe she could trust him, just a little. Should' a worn something else, though. His glance slid across her with inevitable-she almost might have said involuntary-interest. Most guys looked at her that way, thinking she was at least the eighteen she tried to appear rather than the almost-seventeen she was. Yes, she should have worn something else. But the boots were too bulky to pack in her case and she'd wanted to use every possible advantage she possessed when she finally came face to face with Kit Carson .... Well, you made this bed. Lie in it. Margo picked up her case and followed him back toward a corridor she was certain led in the wrong direction, only to emerge in a cross corridor she recognized as the one she'd taken off the Commons. Margo sighed and relegated herself to having to overcome yet another handicap on her quest: a reputation for stupidity. Maybe Mr. Moore wouldn't say anything about having to lead her out by the hand; but she wouldn't bet on it. And she certainly didn't have enough money to bribe him.

They regained the Commons in silence, for which she was grateful. As they approached an enormous area caged to prevent tourist access, Margo frowned. She'd noticed it before, but only peripherally. Inside the cage was an irregular-shaped hole in the concrete.

"What's that?" she asked hesitantly, afraid she knew the answer already. Unstable gate ...

Malcolm Moore glanced around. "What's what? Oh, the unstable gate."

"I know about those."

"Yes. Well, the floor collapsed when this one opened under it. A coffee stand fell through."

She edged closer for a better look and paled The sight was unnerving. Air at the bottom seemed to ripple oddly. Every few seconds, she heard the splash of water. The bones behind her ears buzzed uncomfortably. "Fell through into where?"