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 ..."
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.