Dad sorted through the magazines. He handled them with great care because the pulp paper was ancient, too. Comparing these issues to the almost-matching ones from the home timeline would-or at least might-give researchers a few more clues about what had gone wrong here.

“Well, I can use 'em,” he said at last. “How hard are you going to rip me off?”

“Two dollars apiece.” Even Luke sounded amazed at how much he was asking. Two dollars, here, could buy as much as a couple of hundred Benjamin ’s-$20,000-back in the home timeline.

Liz 's father had the money. It meant no more to him than Microsoft Monopoly money did. But you couldn't make a deal- especially not a big one-without haggling. And haggling was a full-contact sport here. Luke called Dad some things… Well, il he'd said anything like that to Liz, she would have done her best to murder him. But her father only grinned and gave back as good-or as bad-as he got.

They finally settled on a dollar and a quarter per magazine. Luke was one of the people who preferred silver quarters to the copper-and-nickel sandwich ones that had replaced them. “Yeah, I know we can't make anything like those nowadays.” he said when Dad asked him which he wanted. “'But silver's silver, confound it. I'd like it even better if you gave me cartwheels.”

A cartwheel was a silver dollar, and it weighed more than four quarters or two half-dollars. To Liz, it was a just a symbol. It was worth what it said it was worth, and that was that. To Luke, and to a lot of people here, it was worth what it said it was worth because it had so much precious metal in it. They came from different worlds not only literally but also in their minds.

“You know what?” Dad said. “I can do that, and I will, because you've gone to some trouble for me.” The difference in weight wasn't enormous. It was as if he were giving Luke an extra-nice tip at a restaurant.

But the trader's eyes lit up when he got his hands on those fat, sweet-ringing silver coins. “Much obliged to you, sir,” he said, and tipped his broad-brimmed hat. “You didn't have to do that, and I know it. You're jake with me, and that's the truth. I take back all the stuff I called you-till I need it again next time we dicker, anyways.”

Dad laughed. Even Liz thought that was pretty funny. Dad said, “Don't get yourself in an uproar, man. If you don't help your friends, you don't have friends for long, right?”

“Right on!” Luke said. “And I'm mighty glad you put it that way. on account of those funky magazines weren't the only reason I came all the way up here.”

Speedro was a couple of days away from Westwood in this alternate: no small journey. In the home timeline, you could hop in your car and get there in a little more than an hour… if the freeways weren't jammed. If they were-and they often were-it took two or three times that long, and felt like a couple of days.

“Well, what's on your mind?” Did Dad sound cautious? Liz thought so. She would have, too-she was sure of that.

Luke, by contrast, was cagey, almost coy: “You've got a friend with a big old dog, isn't that right?”

“Not anymore.” Liz blurted. Not even the enormous and ferocious Pots could stand up to machine-gun bullets. The Westsiders-and Pots himself-had learned that the hard way. Losing the terrible dog went a long way toward breaking the Westside's morale. It must have gone just as far toward pumping up the Valley's soldiers.

The trader nodded to her. “You're right, Miss. That's the straight skinny, all right. But you sure know somebody who did have a big old dog, don't you?”

''What's Cal got in mind?” Here, unlike in a haggle over money. Dad didn't have to waste time beating around the bush.

''Well, he aims to throw these Valley squares back where they belong, and then another mile further,” Luke replied.

“'People can aim at all kinds of things. “A man's reach should exceed his grasp,/ Or what's a heaven for'?” Dad quoted old poetry- Liz remembered the lines from Brit Lit. He went on, “But just 'cause he aims to do it doesn't mean he can. And where do I fit into all this?”

“Well, he was hoping you could let him know where the Valley soldiers are at and how many they're keeping down here.” Luke said.

“Through you?” Dad asked.

“No, man. Through the Easter Bunny.” Luke snorted like a horse. “Of course, through me. You gonna write him a letter, like, and stick a stamp on it?” People remembered stamps, the way they remembered cars and TVs. Unlike cars and TVs, stamps still did get made by some of the larger, more stable kingdoms in this shattered alternate. None of the ones in Southern California qualified, though.

And the idea of putting stuff that dangerous in writing wasn't anything to jump up and down about, either. Nor was the idea of taking sides in the petty struggles here. That was the last thing people from Crosstime Traffic were supposed to do.

On the other hand, people from Crosstime Traffic were supposed to act as much like locals as they could. And a local trader might well want to help Cal against the Valley soldiers. If your instructions started quarreling with themselves… Liz waited to see what her father would do.

“I don't usually go looking around for soldiers, you know,” Dad said.

“ Cal says he'd make it worth your while if you did,” Luke answered.

Cal didn't have anything that could make it worthwhile for someone from the home timeline… and Dad was holding a lot of his assets. Without a doubt, Cal could make a trader here- or a couple of traders here-rich. From what Liz had seen of him, though, there was a big difference between could and would. Maybe he'd just say Dad could keep what he was already holding.

Dad also took a jaundiced view of the Westside City Councilman. “I'm sure Cal 's word is worth its weight in gold,” he said dryly.

Luke needed to think about that for a couple of seconds before he got it. When he did, he gave a snaggle-toothed grin-no orthodontists here-and snorted again, this time on a higher note. “You're a funny fella-you sure are. Worth its weight in gold! I got to remember me that one.”

''You see what I mean, then.” Dad spread his hands.

“Well, Cal 's slipperier'n smoked eels packed in olive oil, no two ways about that,” Luke allowed, and Dad smiled in return. The trader from Speedro went on, “Chances are he'd pay off for this, though. He purely hates those Valley dudes, and he wants to get rid of 'em.”

“Now that you're up here, you could look around as well as we can,” Liz said.

''I could.” By the way Luke stretched the word, he didn't want to. He explained why: “I'm a stranger in these parts, and they'd get hinky about me in a hurry. I bet they don't even look at you people twice.” He paused. “Well, they'd look at you twice, honey, but not on account of they figured you were spying.”

Liz 's cheeks got hot. She'd thought Dan 's attention was the last thing she wanted. Now she found it was next to last. Having this hairy, smelly, old trader notice her, that was way worse. And she could tell him, “Some of them already do think I'm spying.”

Luke grunted. “That's not so hot.”

“If I find anything out, I'll let you know, Luke.” Dad said. “I'm sorry, but I just haven't paid that much attention till now.”

“Too bad. Cal was hoping you would have.” Luke heaved himself to his feet. “Well, I'll be on my way. Much obliged for the silver dollars, my friend. Like I say, you didn't have to do that, and I know it.” He touched a callused forefinger to the brim of his hat.

Liz sat in the courtyard, wishing she were ugly. Life would be so much simpler if she were.

Dan was coming up Glendon when a trader left the house where Liz and her folks lived. The fellow looked tough, and wore not one but two pistols. That meant, in case of a miss, he could fire again while Dan was still reloading. Muskets were nice, but they were slow.