Margo wanted to cry or scream at something or wail about how monstrously unfair it was. Instead, she swallowed it raw. Time was ticking away and she was still very little closer to scouting than the day she'd stepped through Primary into La-La Land with a heart full of bright hopes and no notion how murderously difficult it was going to be.
You'll see, she promised. When we get to London, you'll see. I'll prove to you both I can do this.
"Okay," she said finally. "I guess I go downtime looking like a mud hen. Sven keeps telling me, be invisible. I should've seen this coming, huh?" Then, in a bright tone that turned a bitter complaint into a cheery joke, she said, "Let's get this over with and get down time before I'm too old to enjoy it!"
Kit laughed and even Malcolm chuckled. Margo swept out of the apartment before she gave it all away by crying. Malcolm caught up and fell into step.
"You know, Margo,- he said conversationally, "it might help to think of this as the biggest game of dress-up you ever played."
She glanced up, startled. "Dress-up? Oh, good grief, Malcolm, I haven't played dress-up since-" She broke off abruptly, recalling the beating her father had given her for liberating her mother's makeup . "Well, not in a long time," she temporized, covering the stumble she'd made with a bright smile. "It's just you caught me off guard and ...well ...nothing's like I expected it to be. Nothing."
"Very little in life usually is," Malcolm said; without a trace of a smile.
"I suppose so. But l don't have to like it."
Malcolm's glance was keen. "No one said you had to, Margo. Do you think I enjoy groveling for a job every day of my life, living on rice and dried beans, and swallowing my pride when people are rude, callous, or downright cruel? But I do it and smile because that's the price of living my dream."
Margo chewed that over as they left Residential behind and emerged into the throng crowding Frontier Town. A kid sporting an oversized cowboy hat and an undersized leather gunbelt drew and fired his pretend six-shooter at a diving pterosaur. It splashed into a nearby fishpond.
"Got him!" the kid crowed.
Unperturbed, the pterosaur emerged with a wriggling goldfish nearly as large as it was. The kid's father laughed and called him over. He practically swaggered back.
Margo smiled. "I'd say he's living his dream, huh?" Then more seriously, "Not too many people ever get the chance to try that, do they? I think you're the first person I ever met who was doing it." Except, maybe, Billy Pandropolous, and his dream was more akin to nightmare for everyone who came close to him. "I envy you.
"You know," Malcolm said quietly, "you may be the first person ever to do that."
"Huh. You got lousy friends, then. They can't see what's right in front of 'em. Money's not everything." She flushed suddenly, realizing she'd just insulted Malcolm's friends-at least one of whom was Kit Carson.
"How right you are," Malcolm said with a smile. "I'm glad you're beginning to see that. Some people never figure it out This way.." He nodded toward Urbs Romae. "Better hustle or we'll be late."
Paula Booker's establishment was tucked away in one corner of the Commons. Margo was expecting a hair styling salon. What they entered looked more like the waiting room of an upscale medical clinic. Just as they entered, two men emerged from an inner sanctum. One assisted the other, who shuffled awkwardly as though his groin hurt. The first one said sympathetically, "You think that's bad, you should see what she did to mine."
"Yeah," the second man said through clenched teeth, "but a whole new foreskin? God, I hurt ...."
Margo stared until they had passed through the outer door and vanished down the Commons.
"What was that all about?"
"Zipper Jockeys." Astonishingly, Malcolm Moore wore the blackest scowl she'd ever seen.
"Zipper jockeys?' she echoed
"They're here for one of the sex tours. Bastards go down time and spend the whole trip brothel hopping. Paula takes revenge on 'em, though. Does corrective surgery on them more than deserve, so their modern circumcisions won't arouse suspicion. Most places TT-86's gates lead to, circumcisions were practiced only by the Jewish. Anti-Semitism being the ugly thing it was in many down-time cultures ..."
"Oh. That's lousy. The anti-Semitism, I mean."
"Yes. Bigotry is. But Zipper jockeys deserve what they get. Paula ranks them down around the level of flatworms, which personally I think is too high on the evolutionary scale. She makes sure they hurt good and hard before they head out to rape women. If she could get away with it, she'd castrate them."
Margo glared after the departing men. "Someone should do something! Someone should stop it!"
"Yes," Malcolm said tightly. "Someone should. Time Tours won't. They make money off the trade. So does the government. A lot of money. Half the Zipper jockeys that go down time have to be quarantine when they come back, until Medical can deal with the venereal diseases they pick up."
"That's disgusting!"
"Personally, I think they should be marooned down time to die from whatever they catch."
No compromise softened Malcolm Moore's voice. All at once, Margo realized how very much she liked this time guide. "Thanks, Malcolm."
He shot her a startled look. "For what?"
"Nothing. Just thanks. What about my hair?"
He shook himself visibly and gave her one last penetrating look, then stepped over to a reception window. "Malcolm Moore, for the 8:15 appointment."
"Have a seat, please."
They didn't have to wait long. The inner door opened to reveal the most astonishing individual Margo had ever laid eyes on. She knew her mouth had fallen open, but she couldn't help it.
"Hi, Paula," Malcolm said, rising to his feet.
"Hello, Malcolm."
Paula Booker was ...
Cadaverous.
That was the only word to describe the cosmetologist's appearance. Tall-she topped out at six feet in flat, surgical-style shoes-and gaunt, Paula's face had hollows like a skull's. White hair wisped around a face the color of a bloodless corpse. But she wasn't old If Paula Booker were a day over thirty-five, Margo would eat her own shoes.
With those pale eyes and that funereal expression, TT-86's cosmetologist looked very much like a female Lurch, from an unknown branch of the Addams Family Tree.
"How are you this morning?" Paula asked as Malcolm shook her hand.
Even Paula's voice was soft and creepy.
Margo realized how intensely she was staring when both Malcolm and Paula turned and stared back.
"I -- uh -- "
To Margo's astonishment, Paula started laughing. The sight was so disturbing, Margo actually had trouble getting to her feet. She tripped over her own shoe and stumbled.
"Malcolm," Paula Booker winked, "let's show this young lady my photographs, shall we?"
Margo followed uneasily as Paula Booker escorted them into a private office. One wall was covered literally covered-with photos of one of the most beautiful women Margo had ever seen. Ash-blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, fine bone structure above hollowed cheeks
"My God! It's you!" Margo blurted.
Paula laughed again. "Aren't I a great walking advertisement?"
"You..." Mar go stared from the photos to the apparition before her and back again. "You did that to yourself?"
Paula's grin was a terrifying vision. "Indeed I did. Every morning I put on the finishing touches with makeup."
"But you could've been a movie star! A world-famous model!"
"Oh, I was. A model, that is. It was dead boring," Paula's eyes twinkled. "This is much more fun. And I get to do such interesting plastic surgery, too. I have a medical degree just for that. Somebody Caucasian wants to go to Edo, I doctor them a little and presto, they're virtually indistinguishable from a native-born Japanese. I can alter skin tone, hair color, whatever's required."