When Skeeter began to cry as though his heart were breaking, Marcus had very gently taken the whiskey glass from his hand and guided him home, making sure he was safely in bed in his own apartment that night. Whether or not Skeeter recalled anything he'd said, Marcus had no idea. But Marcus remembered every word-even those he didn't quite understand.

When Marcus shared the precious story of Skeeter Jackson with Ianira, she held her beloved close in the darkness and made sacred promises to her Goddesses. They had given her this precious man, this Marcus who cherished not only Ianira herself, but also their beautiful, sloe-eyed daughters. They had given Ianira a man who actually loved little Artemisia and tiny little Gelasia, loved their cooing laugher and loved dandling them by turns on his knee and even soothing their tears, rather than ordering either beautiful child left on the street to die of exposure and starvation simply because she was female.

There in the sacred privacy of their shared bed, Ianira vowed to her Goddesses that she would do whatever lay in her power to guard the interests of the man who had given her beloved the means to discharge his debt of honor. When Marcus joined with her in the darkness, skin pressed to trembling skin, she prayed that his seed would plant a son in her womb, a son who would be born into a world where his father was finally a free man in his own soul. She called blessings on the name of Skeeter Jackson and swore a vow that others in the downtimer community would soon know the truth about the smiling, strange young man who made such a point to steal from the tourists yet never touched anything belonging to residents, and always treated downtimers with more courtesy than any 'eighty-sixer on the station, with the possible exceptions of Kit Carson and Malcolm Moore.

Ianira understood now many things that had been mysterious to her. All those cash donations, with no one taking responsibility for them ... Downtimers had a champion they had not dreamed existed. Marcus, not understanding why she wept in the darkness, kissed her tears and assured her in ragged words that he would prove himself worthy of the love she gave so freely. She held him fiercely and stilled his mouth with her own, vowing he had proven his worthiness a thousand times over already. His response brought tears to her eyes.

In the aftermath of their love, she held him while he slept and made plans that Marcus would neither understand nor approve. She didn't care. They owed a debt which was beyond profound; Ianira would repay it as best she could. And the only way she could think to do that was to further the fortunes of the man who had given Marcus the means to purchase back his sacred honor.

Ianira kissed Marcus' damp hair while he slept and made silent, almost savage, decisions.

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 traveled under the protection of the gangs.

Skeeter had no desire to end up minus a few fingers or other arts 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.