Goldie Morran passed, smiling so sweetly at them Malcolm wondered who'd just died.

"What can she be up to?"

Kit laughed sourly. "Given that wager between her and Skeeter, God knows. Want to play tag-the-nanny goat and follow along?"

Malcolm grinned. "If that sour old goat has ever had kids, I'll eat this table. Goat I'll allow. Nanny? Not even in the British sense, Kit." His grin deepened, however. "Sure sounds like fun, though. Quick, before we lose her!"

Kit's eyes glinted as they scurried for the door, dropping more than enough money on the front counter to pay for consumables plus tip. Each of them knew the consequences should Goldie ever discover the double scam they'd pulled on her with Margo's help-not that she could really do anything, not legally, anyway. Their uptime diamond strike was one of La-La Land's best-kept secrets. And that was a monumental achievement in its own right.

Malcolm and Kit quickly determined that Goldie Morran's goal was the library. They took up places at computer terminals near the counter, ostensibly doing research, but more than close enough to overhear Goldie's screech when her "take" was disallowed.

She stalked out of the library in a towering rage.

Kit stepped over to Brian's counter. Malcolm abandoned his computer, too, and leaned on his elbows beside Kit.

"So what's new?" Kit asked casually.

His long-time friend gave him an evil stare, then shrugged. In his wonderful, outlandish accent, he muttered, "Oh, why not. You're not involved, after all." Brian Hendrickson grimaced expressively, the skin around his eyes tightening down so much Malcolm grew alarmed. Then, curtly: "They have begun a war of attrition. A serious one. Goldie just spoiled one of Skeeter's schemes in a way that could have been fatal for Skeeter, anyway. I suppose spoiling each other's schemes is better than letting them rip off unsuspecting tourists, but this ... I didn't think their idiotic wager would turn this deadly. I suppose I should've seen it coming from the very start."

He wiped his brow with a handkerchief plucked from a pocket, then neatly folded and replaced it with such style, Malcolm found himself seriously envious of the librarian's unconscious panache. Malcolm clearly needed to do a covert study of Brian's movements and work until he'd copied them motion-perfect. On London tours, those elegant movements would serve him well. Particularly with the hopeful plans he'd been developing in the back of his mind. Then Brian sighed mournfully. "I still can't believe I allowed myself to be drawn into this."

Malcolm, who was about to comment that Brian had voluntarily put himself exactly where he was, abruptly spotted a man in Western getup watching them ferally from the shadows across the room. He blinked. Not a scout, not a freelance guide, not even a Time Tours, Inc. guide. Malcolm made it his business to keep close watch on the competition-.particularly since Time Tours Inc. was indirectly responsible for the death of his previous employer and close friend.

The mystery-man's face arrested his attention for a moment. But I've seen that face before, I know I have. But where? Maybe a tourist Malcolm had approached at some point, looking for a job? God alone knew, he'd begged work from thousands of transient tourists over the past several years, before he and Kit and Margo had become repugnantly wealthy. (They didn't flaunt it-didn't need to-but it certainly was a great deal of fun, just looking at his bank account's balance, which had hovered near negative numbers for so long.)

Maybe one of the tourists had remembered him and was looking for a good guide?

No... whoever he was, his attention was focused directly on Brian. For some reason he couldn't explain, that very fact sent a chill racing up Malcolm's spine. He wondered if he should speak, then thought better of it. If Brian Hendrickson had a profitable side deal going with someone, it was none of his business. But he did use it as an excuse to leave, now they'd discovered what they'd wanted.

Malcolm nudged Kit with an elbow. "I think there's someone waiting to talk to Brian. Why don't we grab a bite of lunch. I'll fill you in on my plans for Margo's visit."

Brian's expression cheered immensely. "Miss Margo is returning? Capital! Have her come by and say hello, would you?"

Kit laughed. "Count on it. Malcolms taking her to Denver. Even with her studies at school, she'll have timescout-type research to do before they step through the Wild West Gate."

Brian chuckled. "It's a date, then."

Malcolm cast a last, uneasy glance at the man in cowboy getup standing in the shadows, then shrugged the whole thing off. He had better things to look forward to: like Margo's kisses. He grinned in anticipation. The ring he'd had made from the sample diamond she'd sent was ready and waiting. All she had to do was say yes. Counting the hours and minutes until Primary cycled and brought her back into his life again, Malcolm strolled out of the library with his hopefully future grandfather-in-law and suggested the Epicurean Delight for lunch.

"We haven't been in a while. And I understand Ianira Cassondra's been selling Arley some ancient Greek cheesecake recipes-long lost delicacies and confections."

Kit nodded. "The Greeks were so fond of cheesecake, we have written complaints from a Greek, a married man who asked for cheesecake for his dinner and was, um, to put it delicately, irate when he didn't get it. Weren't there supposed to be dozens of different flavors?

Malcolm nodded. "Yeah. And from what I've heard, just one slice of whatever type of cheesecake he's made for the day is enough to make a California billionaire pay a thousand or more just to get the whole thing!"

Kit laughed, an easy, relaxed sound that reassured his friend. "Sounds great," Kit agreed vehemently. "I've been hearing those same rumors and I, my friend, am a cheesecake-a-holic. Let's test it out, eh?"

Malcolm chuckled and thumped his friend's wiry, granite-hard gut and said, "At least you work it off somewhere.

Kit grimaced. "Sven Bailey is a fiend from Hell. He even looks like one."

"So I'd noticed. And so Margo complained-bitterly, those first few lessons with him. And then, would you believe it, our little imp started to love having Sven kick her around the mat like a sack of squashed potatoes."

"Ah, yes; but she learned, didn't she? C'mon Malcolm, let's eat! Skimpy lunch and all the cheesecake we can hold!"

They set out, lauding like lids. The "cowboy they'd left lurking behind in the library was so far from his thoughts, it was almost as though the man had never existed.

Ianira Cassondra was attempting to sell an amber and silver bracelet and necklace set to a genuine tourist through the howling idiocy of her self-proclaimed acolytes. Did uptimers have nothing better to do with their lives than hound and harass her, day and night, month after tedious, temper-provoking month? The Little Agora was seething with gossiping `eighty-sixers when Chenzira Umi-a grey-haired, stately Egyptian merchant who'd fallen, a drunken accident, through the Philosophers' Gate not too many months after Ianira had stumbled through--elbowed and shoved his way to the side of her little booth.

In Greek, which he spoke only well enough to dicker, nobody else on station (except the Seven) spoke his ancient Egyptian (although Ianira knew well enough that Chenzira earned much of his meager living by teaching his long-dead language's proper pronunciation, including some odd inflections, to uptime scholars), Chenzira reported. "Goldie badly done. She broke attempt by Skeeter." ..gyp

Ianira paled so disastrously the tourist dickering over the jewelry actually noticed-and frowned in genuine concern.

"My dear," he said in the drawling tones of an American Texan, "what in thunderation's wrong? You're whiter'n the underbelly of a rattler what's just shed his skin. Here, honey, sit down."