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 intervievrall 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 pinatas 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 signaled 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, trough 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.