For good.

She passed Kit Carson, who was sitting at a cafe table sharing a beer with his pal the freelance guide, Malcolm Moore. She grinned and waved, leaving them to stare after her.

Let 'em wonder.

After what Skeeter had tried to do to Kit's grandkid, those two would surely be more appreciative than most when Goldie's plans came to full fruition. Goldie very carefully did not think about what she had very nearly done to Kit's granddaughter. Even Kit had eventually admitted the whole disaster had been entirely Margo's doing, accepting the challenge to go after those diamonds through an unstable gate.

Too bad about losing that scheme, though. Goldie sighed. Win some, lose some. At least Margo was uptime at school, toiling to repay her grandfather the money Kit had paid Goldie for that worthless hunk of African swampland. Goldie patted her pocket and regained her smile, then headed for the library so Brian Hendrickson could record her "take" in his official bet ledger. He might even laugh when she recounted her tale of that cretinous woman giving her a reward. La-La Land's librarian had so far found very little humor in Goldie and Skeeter's bet. This ought to change his tune.

Goldie didn't exactly need to stay in Brian's good graces to continue her own profitable business, but burning bridges unnecessarily was just plain-and simple foolishness. There were certainly times when Brian's encyclopedic memory had proven useful to her. And there would doubtless be other times in the future she'd want to call on his knowledge. So, scheming and dreaming to her heart's content, Goldie Morran smiled at startled scouts on their way into or out of the vast library and found Brian Hendrickson on his usual throne.

The expression in his eyes was anything but welcoming.

"Hello, Goldie. What are you doing here?"

She laughed easily. "What do you think, silly?"

Brian just grimaced and turned back toward the master computer file he was updating.

"Here." She set out the thousand dollar bill that idiotic but wonderful woman had given her. "Put this on my ledger, would you, dearie?"

He eyed the money. "And how, exactly, did you come by it?"

She told him.

Then stormed out of the library, money stuffed back into her pockets. How dare he not count it?

"Reward for good deeds doesn't count, my eye! That overstuffed, self-important.."

Goldie seethed all the way back to her shop.

Once there, among her shining things, Goldie comforted herself with the knowledge that Skeeter's "tips" hadn't been counted, either. Then she got to work. Part of her mind was busy figuring out how to scam the next batch of tourists unfortunate enough to enter her shop, while another part was preoccupied with how to foil Skeeter's next attempt. That-plus a swig from a bottle she kept in reserve under her counter and fifteen minutes' solitude with her beloved, deeply affectionate Carolina parakeets-got her through a long, dead-flat afternoon. Not a single tourist entered to exchange uptime money for down or downtime coinage for uptime credit.

By the time Goldie closed her shop for the day, she was ready to do murder. And Skeeter Jackson's grinning face floated in the center of every lethal fantasy she could dredge up. She was going to win this bet, if it was the last thing she ever did.

And Skeeter would pay in spades for daring to challenge her!

Goldie entered the Down Time Bar & Grill, ordered her favorite drink from Molly, the downtime whore who'd stumbled through the Britannia Gate into TT-86, and settled in the billiards room to wait for some drunken tourist who thought he knew how to play the game to wander in and become her next victim.

Lupus Mortiferus was afraid-almost as afraid as he'd been his first time on the glittering sands of the Circus. He struggled not to show it. Nothing about this insane world made sense. The languages bombarding his ears were very nearly painful, they were so incomprehensible. Every now and again he would hear a word that sounded almost familiar, making the wrenching dislocation even worse. Some of the lettering on the walls reminded him of words he knew, but he couldn't quite make out their sense. And everywhere he turned were mysteries, terrifying mysteries-that beeped, glowed, hummed, screeched, and twittered in alien metals and colors and energies he would have called lightning or the ominous glow of the evil-omened lights in the northern night skies, had they not been imprisoned by some god's hand in pear-shaped bulbs, long tubes and spiraling ones, plus all manner of twisted shapes and disturbing colors of glass.

And the sounds ...

Voices that erupted from midair, coming from nowhere that he could see, blaring messages he couldn't begin to understand.

Have I fallen into a playground of gods?

Then, unbelievably, he caught a snatch of Latin. Real, honest Latin.

` ... no, that isn't at all what I meant, what you have to do is ..."

With a relief that left him almost in tears, Lupus found the speakers, a dark man who was certainly of African origin: Carthaginian, perhaps, or Nubian--although his skin was too light for Nubia. He was speaking with a shorter, nondescript man in shades of brown at whom no one in Rome would have given a second glance.

Lupus followed them eagerly, desperate for someone he could actually communicate with in this mad place. He followed them to a room-a vast, echoing chamber of a room-filled with shelves of squarish objects made from thin vellum and rows of... what? Boxes men and women sat before and talked to-and the boxes talked back, their glowing faces flashing up pictures or streams of alien words.

Lupus held in a shiver of terror and wondered how to approach the dark man who clearly knew Latin better than the brownish one. He was about to approach when two other men entered and collared the dark-skinned man first. Lupus melted into the shadows behind a bank of tall shelves and hugged his impatience to his breast, biding his time until the dark man who could speak Lupus' tongue would be alone and approachable.

"So," Kit Carson asked, relaxing back into his chair, "what do you have planned for Margo's visit?"

Malcolm Moore flushed slightly. The light in Kit's eyes told him exactly what Kit expected them to do. Fortunately, Kit approved-provided Malcolm's intentions were honorable and he took reasonable precautions against pregnancy.

"Well," Malcolm said, running a fingertip through the condensate on the tabletop, "I was thinking of a little visit to Denver. I've checked my log entries, there shouldn't be any risk of Shadowing myself. I wasn't in London during the week the Denver party will be downtime."

Kit nodded. "I think that's a good idea. Margo should like it, too-and it'll complement her American History studies very nicely."

Malcolm grinned. "Sure you won't come along?"

Kit just grimaced. "I was in London that week. That whole month, in fact. You two lovebirds go along and have a good, careful time." Kit sighed. "It's strange. I didn't think it would happen, but ... her letters are changing, Malcolm. Their tone, the intelligence behind her observations and comments."

Malcolm glanced up, noting the furrow on Kit's brow. "So you did notice? Figured you wouldn't miss it. She's growing up, Kit." That brought a flinch to his friend's eyes. He'd just barely begun to know her when she'd vanished: once, almost for good, the second time off to college. Trying to help his friend get used to the idea, Malcolm said, "Hell, Kit, she grew up in that filthy little Portuguese gaol. But now she's growing in ways it's hard to put into words."

Kit nodded. "Yeah."

Malcolm punched Kit's shoulder. "Don't take it so hard, Grandpa. Her mind's coming alive. I can hardly wait to see what directions her thoughts take her next."

Kit laughed sourly. "Just so long as it isn't toward a South African diamond field." Then Kit blinked and stared past Malcolm's shoulder. "Speak of the devil ..."