Well, if it came down to those birds (rumor had it Goldie was actually attached to them, emotionally) or Skeeter's continued life on TT-86, he'd know exactly what to do. Call up Sue Fritchey and make her famous all over again. Undoing Goldie in the process.

The klaxon and announcement came over the Commons' big speakers, warning of the impending cycling of the Conquistadores Gate. Skeeter grinned, wondering what had happened to Goldie after he'd left. Hopefully, at least a third of what she deserved, interfering like that in one of his scams. At least now he'd been warned about the way she intended to play this out, which might give him the edge he needed to Win. Disconsolately, thinking of the thousands of bucks' worth of easily sold items in those lost suitcases, Skeeter headed for the library to have Brian value his "tips" into the official betting ledger.

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 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?

"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.