Wages of Sin

CHAPTER EIGHT

Like most time terminals, TT-86 attracted gifted scholars from around the world, many of them the very best at what they did. Robert Li was no exception. As an antiquarian, he was sought out by private collectors and museums alike as a consultant and had been instrumental in identifying numerous quality forgeries.

There was good reason for this: no one excelled Robert Li at producing forgeries of the genuine article. His work was-usually-strictly legal. Tourists and museum reps often brought items uptime to his studio to be reproduced in exquisite detail, which were then exported to museums around the world as legal replicas bearing the IA trademark. Occasionally, however, like most other 'eighty-sixers, Robert Li would get a bellyful of ATFs high-handed tactics.

He had an exceptionally strong-if unique-sense of right and wrong. The closer Montgomery Wilkes' people watched his operation, the more ire he swallowed until, inevitably, it broke out in such indignant expressions as assisting thieves smuggle out their wares! (Of course, only after he'd charged them a substantial amount of cash to reproduce the item.)

Even so, far more frequent were the times when scouts had returned "stolen" items to their original times when he felt an item shouldn't go missing although, again, he usually reproduced it, first. And occasionally, an item crossed his counter that was so breathtaking, so unique that he simply couldn't resist. He could wax rhapsodic about Min porcelain, but Greek bronzes threw him into utter fits. Unknown to ATF---or anyone else, for that matter-Robert II kept a private safe the size of his bedroom, where he stored his most precious belongings. His collection of ancient bronzes rivaled that of the Louvre and surpassed that of uptime collectors with far more money than he had.

Some things, one simply did not sell.

Greek bronzes were one; friends were another.

Goldie Morran was, at heart, a cheating scoundrel who would've sold her own teeth, if they d been worth enough, but she was also a friend and one of the few people in the world whose knowledge of rare coins and gems approached his own. Goldie had done him a favor or two over the years, obtaining items here and there which his heart had coveted, and he harbored a secret admiration for her skills.

Unlike Kit Carson, he never tried to best her at billiards or pool, knowing his own limitations as fully as his strengths. Normally Goldie would've respected his lack of desire to wager against her. He was equally aware, however, that with Goldie's livelihood on the line, she would consider nothing sacred. So when she entered his studio, Robert Li buttoned his pockets, locked the cases and cabinets he could reach, and put on his best smile.

"Why, Goldie, what a surprise to see you."

She nodded and placed a carbuncle with ornate carving across its upper surface on a velvet pad left lying on the countertop.

"What do you think of it?"

He eyed her speculatively, then picked up the gem and a jeweler's loupe. "Mmm ... very nice. The depiction of the statuary on the spine of the Circus Maximus is excellent and I've never seen a better representation of the turning posts. Who forged it for you?"

Goldie sniffed, eyes flashing irritation and disappointment. "Bastard. How'd you know?"

He just gave her a sorrowful look from under his brows.

Goldie sniffed again. "All right, but would it fool most people? Even a discerning collector?"

"Oh, without a doubt. Unless," he smiled, "they hired someone like me to authenticate it."

"Double what I said before. Triple it. How much?"

Robert laughed quietly. "To keep quiet? Or provide authentication papers?"

"Both, you conniving-"

"Goldie." The reproach in his voice was that of a lover wounded by his lady's mistrust.

"Robert, you owe me a few. I'm desperate."

"ATF's watching me like a hawk. Word's out: Monty's planning to nail you and Skeeter, send you both packing to an uptime jail."

Goldie could swear more creatively than anyone Robert Li knew-and he knew all the time scouts operating out of TT-86.

Robert knew better than to pat her hand, but sympathy seemed called for. "Well, I suppose you could always poison Wilkes, but I think it would be easier to steer clear of anyone you don't know for the next few days. This place is crawling with undercover agents."

Goldie's eyes, sharper than ever, flashed dangerously. "Bull know about that? If ATFs undercover, they're way outside their jurisdiction and Montgomery Wilkes for damn sure knows it."

Before Robert could answer, Kit Carson entered the shop, sauntering over in a gait calculated to appear lazy, but which covered ground with astonishing speed. "Hi. Heard the news?"

"Which news?" Goldie demanded, exasperation coloring her voice.

Kit chuckled and winked at Robert. "Reliable eyewitnesses said the shouting could be heard through the soundproofing."

"Bull and Monty?" Robert asked eagerly. -Ten says Monty stepped over the line just a tad too far this time."

"No bet," Kit laughed. "You'll never guess what Bull's done now."

Goldie, carefully covering the carved carbuncle with her hand, asked, "Bull `fishpond him'?"-referring to the time Margo had taken offense at being mauled by a multibillionaire with a thing for nubile redheads. Margo had thrown him into the fishpond.

Kit laughed heartily. Robert Li was sure Goldie had intended, with careful calculation, to remind Kit of that particular incident. And such a ruckus the dripping wet old goat had raised, too, threatening to sue everything and everyone he could.

Fortunately, Bull Morgan had pointed out that said goat would have to file suit in the jurisdiction where the assault had taken place, then explained that no lawyers at all were permitted to hang their shingles anywhere inside TT-86. Better that way for everyone.

Of course, the way Margo looked and moved ...

A man could hardly be blamed for trying. Malcolm Moore was one lucky son if she said yes.

Kit leaned forward conspiratorially. "Good guess, but nope, you're way off the mark."

Kit's little audience leaned forward, unaware they did so.. Kit grinned. "Bull Morgan had Mike Benson place dear old Monty under arrest. Threw him into the brig with seventeen boozers, half-a-dozen brawlers, and three flea-bitten thieves clumsy enough to get caught."

"WHAT?"

The demand came out in stereo, Goldie's screech hitting soprano.

Kit's grin lit his thin, mustachioed face like an evil jack-o-lantern. "Yep. Seems like during their, er, meeting over jurisdiction up in Bull's office, Monty's sense of outrage and diligence to the letter of the law prompted him to, um, an assault."

Robert Li gasped. "Monty hit Bull? And he's still alive?"

"Oh, no," Kit laughed, eyes twinkling. "Much better than that. Monty assaulted Bull's prize porcelain of the Everlasting Elvis.. You know the one, sat on his desk like some serene Buddha for years after he, er, borrowed it from that cathouse in New Orleans."

Goldie's eyes went as round as the carbuncle she'd tried to hide from Kit's sharp-eyed gaze. "He broke Bull's Elvis?"

"They're still digging pieces out of the wall. And ceiling. And carpet."

"Oh, dear God," Robert said hoarsely, covering his eyes. "You know what this means?"

"Oh, do I ever. Open season on ATF agents and station security alike. The fights-and they're getting dirty, fast have already started. Just thought I'd warn you. Things are likely to get hot around here for a while. Oh, one last thing."

He winked at Robert. "That carbuncle you're trying to hide, Goldie? Forget selling it to that sweet young thing who asked if you could find her one. She's the newest narc on Monty's payroll."

Goldie's mouth dropped open. Robert grinned. Kit rarely had the pleasure of catching her so completely off guard. Goldie very primly closed her mouth. Then, with as much dignity as she could muster, she said, "I am not even going to ask. Good day, gentlemen."

She took her carbuncle and left.

Robert glanced curiously at Kit. "This girl you're talking about. Is she really Monty's?"

Kit chuckled. "Hell if I know. But she walks and talks like ATF, for all the lace and perfume and goo goo eyes she's been making at Skeeter Jackson. He hides every time she comes near. And I've never known that boy's instincts about undercover cops to fail."

"She sounds guilty to me," Robert chuckled. "Poor Skeeter. Poor Goldie. What terrible, tangled webs."

Kit grinned. "Yeah, well, hey, they wove 'em all by themselves, didn't they? I just don't like the idea of ATF throwing its weight around where it's got no real jurisdiction. They mind their checkpoints, we mind our business. Problems like Goldie and Skeeter, we handle internally."

Robert Li laughed aloud, recalling just how Kit had "handled" his own family "problem" with Skeeter. The youngster was still -shy whenever Kit was around.

"When's Margo due in?" he couldn't resist asking.

Kit's world-famous grin flickered into existence. "Next time Primary cycles. Malcolms taking her to Denver."

"So I heard."

"Is nothing secret around here?"

Robert Li chuckled. "In La-La Land? Get real. Whoops, here comes a customer."

Kit wandered out past a young woman who wandered in. Kit paused in the doorway, giving Robert the high sign that this girl was trouble, then left whistling jauntily Robert Li watched the tourist narrowly as she paused to look at antique furniture brought uptime from London, then glanced appreciatively at a cabinet filled with jade jaguar gods.

"Is there anything in particular I could help you with?" Robert asked politely.

"Hi. I was wondering if you could help me out? I'm interested in buying something for my Dad's birthday and he's crazy about Roman antiquities. And he's a sports nut, too. So when this gems dealer showed me a gorgeous stone with a carving of the Circus Maximus on it ..." She batted eyelashes a half-inch long and let the sentence trail off.

She was all lace and perfume and goo-goo eyes. And her voice would've liquefied thousand-year-old honey. But Kit was right: this kid walked like a trained agent and despite the melt-in-your-mouth patter, her voice held a burr that told Robert, Monty's riding 'em hard, all right. This kid's out for blood. Robert Li folded his hands into the sleeves of the Chinese-style Mandarin's robe he affected while in his studio and waited for her to continue. Having a Chinese maternal grandfather gave him certain physical attributes that came through despite his mother's Scandinavian heritage; it also gave him an excuse to go inscrutable on demand. The tactic, so effective with other customers, even threw her off-stride. She floundered visibly for a moment, then recovered.

"I was hoping you could give me an appraisal, you know, so I'd be sure I was paying a fair price for lt."

"I am an antiquities dealer," Robert said humbly, "with some small knowledge of furniture and a slight interest in South American jades, but I do not presume to claim expertise in valuing gemstones."

"There's an IFARTS sign in your window," she challenged, as perfectly well aware as he what was required to become an WARTS official representative.

"Dear lady, I fear my consultation fee would be a complete waste of your money."

"Consultation fee?"

"A trifling charge for my time and services. It is not against IFARTS rules and one does have to make a living." He smiled politely. "I fear a thousand dollars to tell you, `I don't know' would be a great strain on the budget of someone as sensible as I perceive you to be. Surely you could go to one of the gems dealers on the station for such an appraisal?"

Her eyes narrowed in dawning suspicion. "Everyone recommended you."

"I would, of course, be happy to do my best, but there is also my reputation to consider. Think what damage I would do if I valued such a thing wrongly. You would be cheated, the current owner of the gem would be cheated and possibly greatly offended, and no one would trust my judgment again. I know my limits, dear lady, and my reputation will not stand such a strain as you ask."

She compressed her lips. He could all but see the thoughts seething behind her eyes: You're in an it, you bastard, you're all in on it and I'll never prove a thing on her ....

"Thank you," she said curtly. All trace of sweetness and goo-goo eyes had vanished. "I hope you have a pleasant day."

The hell you do, girlie. Robert smiled anyway. "And a pleasant day to you. And your father. May his day of birth be blessed with the freedom in life he so earnestly desires."

Robert thought for a moment she would actually break cover and scream at him that Montgomery Wilkes wouldn't be in jail long, by God! but she didn't She just marched out of his studio as though she were on parade ground. She's young, Robert sighed, and that idiot Wilkes is ruining her already. What a tight fisted, anal-retentive fool. Then Robert reminded himself that the ATF-no matter how attractively packaged-was the enemy and busied himself placing a few phone calls. There were friends who deserve fair warning before that little number came to call.

Clearly, she was out for Goldie's blood.

Robert Li sold many things, for many prices.

But he had never sold a friend. Not even a snake of a friend like Goldie Morran. Just because she'd sell him out at a moment's notice didn't mean he needed to reciprocate her lack of morals, never mind plain bad manners. And that was something ATF agents just didn't seem to comprehend. Not the ones trained by Montgomery Wilkes, anyway. Sometimes Robert wondered what drove the man so. Whatever it was, it boded ill for many an 'eighty-sixer before this business with The Wager was finished.

He dialed a number from memory.

A voice on the other end of the phone said, "Hello?"

"There's a sweet young thing on Monty Wilkes' staff making the rounds, trying to sting Goldie, and maybe you in the process. She just left here and she's goddamned good. All honey and goo-goo eyes until she realizes she can't have what she wants. Can't miss her. Just thought you ought to know."

"Huh. Thanks. I'll start passing around word, myself. You wanna take A to M or N to Z?"

"I'll finish in the group where I started. A to M."

"N to Z it is. Thanks for the tip-off."

The line went dead.

Robert grinned. Then punched another set of numbers.

"Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in five minutes. All departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for customs inspection by agents of the Bureau of Access Time Functions, who will assess your taxes due on downtime acquisitions ..."

Malcolm Moore leaned over to Kit and said, "I wouldn't want to be in that line today. Those agents look bloody angry."

Kit chuckled. "You'd think with their boss in jail, they'd be more relaxed, not edgier than ever. Of course, after the fights some of 'em have been in ..."

Half the male agents in sight sported blackened eyes and bruised knuckles. A few of the women bore scratches down their cheeks. Mike Benson had been forced to discipline half his own staff-then, he'd had to order the ATF agents into temporary quarters in one of the hotels nearest Primary, just to separate them from Station Security until the worst blew over.

"I rather expect most of them wish Skeeter Jackson and Goldie Morran had never been born, never mind made that idiotic wager," Malcolm noted wryly.

Kit glanced up at the chronometer board again.

Malcolm laughed. "The clock won't move any faster just because you keep staring at the numbers."

Kit actually flushed, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, I guess I've missed the brat."

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Well, since you mention it, I am rather anxious to see her again."

Kit gave him an appraising glance. "Yes. She might say no, you realize."

"I know." The quiet anguish in his voice betrayed him. He couldn't shake the fear that his notorious luck might still be holding steadily on "bad."

"She might say no to what?' a voice boomed behind them.

Malcolm winced. He and Kit turned to find Sven Bailey, hands on hips, watching them like a bemused bulldog.

"What in bloody hell are you doing here?" Malcolm muttered.

Sven grinned, a sight that made most men's blood run cold. "Waiting for my pupil, of course. Gotta see if she remembers anything I taught her."

Kit chuckled. "If she doesn't, we'll both wipe up the mat with her."

"Oh, goodie." Sven Bailey, widely acclaimed the most deadly man on TT-86, rubbed thick-fingered hands gleefully. "I can hardly wait. I never get to have that much fun with the tourists."

Malcolm rubbed one finger along his nose. "That's because the tourists would sue."

The terminal's martial arts and bladed-weapons instructor grunted. "No lawyers allowed in La-La Land and you know it."

A new voice said, "Good thing for you, too, isn't it, Sven?"

They glanced around to find Ann Vinh Mulhaney grinning up at him. Very nearly the only person on TT-86 who dared laugh at Sven Bailey, the petite shooting instructor's eyes sparkled with delight. Their matched heights produced a comical appearance: squat fireplug, stood beside a sleek bird of prey.

"What is this," Malcolm muttered, "a welcoming committee?"

"Well, she is my student," Ann pointed out. "I'd like to say hello and see if she remembers anything." Her eyes flashed with unspoken humor, whether at Malcolm's discomfiture or in remembrance of Margo's early lessons, Malcolm wasn't sure.

Sven just snorted. When Ann glanced curiously at her counterpart, Kit chuckled. "That was Sven's excuse, too. You two are complete fakes. Why you should even like that brat after what she put us all through is beyond me."

"Like her?" Sven protested. He managed to look hurt, an astonishing feat, considering that his eternal expression was that of a rabid bulldog about to charge. "Ha! Like her. That's good, Kit. I just want another look at that Musashi sword guard of yours. You know, the one you said I could peek at if I trained her."

"And I," Ann said sweetly, pulling off the wheedling tone far more effectively than Sven, "covet another week in the honeymoon suite at the Neo Edo." She batted her eyelashes prettily.

Kit just groaned. Malcolm grinned. "You're as bad as they are, Kit, if you expect me to buy that theatrical groan any more than I buy their excuses."

Kit just crossed his arms and compressed his lips in a pained expression, as though he'd crunched down on a poisoned seed pod and didn't know whether to admit it or curse. "Friends." Disgust dripped like ice from voice.

"Kit," Ann laughed, touching his shoulder in a friendly fashion, "you are the biggest fake of any 'eighty-sixer walking this terminal. It's why we love you."

Kit just snorted rudely. "You sound like Connie. Do all the women on this station get together and compare notes?

Ann winked. "Of course. You're famous. Half the tourists who come here are dying for a glimpse of the Kit Carson."

Kit shuddered. His loathing of tourists was La-La Land legend. "I would remind you, I'm not the only famous `Kit Carson' by a long shot."

Sven nodded sagely. "But you're both scouts, eh?"

Kit grinned unexpectedly. "Actually, I'm not named for Kit Carson, Western scout, at all."

All three of them stared. Malcolm scraped his jaw off the floor before the others. "You're not?"

Kit's eyes twinkled wickedly. "Nope. I used to build balsa airplanes and launch 'em when I was a kid, then shoot 'em down with a slingshot off the side of some cliff. Dahlonega, Georgia," he added dryly, "might not have much left but a checkered history, but cliffs we had in plenty. So when I started hitting every little balsa plane I'd made with a nice, fat rock, he took to calling me `Kit' for his favorite WWII Ace Pilot, L. K. `Kit' Carson. Came darn near to matching Chuck Yeager's record."

"A fighter pilot," Sven said, eyes round with lingering astonishment. "Well, hell, Kit, I guess that's not too bad a thing, being named after a flying ace. Ever have a chance to do any real flying?"

Kit's expression went distant. Malcolm knew the look. "Yeah," he said very softly.

Before anyone could -pry the station announcer interrupted.

"Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in one minute ..."

The four watched in companionable silence as the circus of a Primary departure wound up to a crescendo of baggage searches, purple faces, outraged protests, and the exchange of shocking sums of money collected by agents in no mood to put up with anyone's lip on this particular departure. By the time the gate began to cycle, causing the bones behind Malcolm's ears to buzz, tempers were ragged on both sides of the tables.

"Good thing the gate's about to open or we'd have a fight or two, I think," Malcolm muttered to no one in particular.

"Yep," Sven said with characteristic loquacity.

The sound that was not a sound, heralding the opening of a major gate, intensified. Beyond the imposing array of barriers, armed guards, ramps, fences, metal detectors, X-ray equipment, and dual medical stations stood a broad ramp which rose fifteen feet into the air, then simply ended. Light near the top dopplered through the entire visible spectrum. Then Shangri-La Station's main gate-and sole link with the rest of the uptime world-dilated open.

Uptimers streamed into the station, hauling baggage down that long ramp toward the Medical station barring the way. One by one, station medical personnel scanned and logged medical records. Malcolm waited in a cold sweat for the one slight figure in all that crowd he'd waited months to see-and dreaded meeting again. Then, before he was ready for it, she was there, hair back to its natural flaming red, all trace of brown dye banished until she was ready to take up time scouting as a professional.

Margo ...

Malcolm's belly did a rapid drawing in. How could he have forgotten what that little slip of a girl could do to a man's body chemistry, just by walking down an ordinary ramp? Margo was dressed-to Malcolm's astonishment in a chaste little floral-print dress that came nearly to her ankles. The swing of its long skirt and the way it clung to skin he vividly recalled the taste and touch of did bad things to Malcolms breath control. Her hair was longer, too, and-if possible sexier than ever as it curled around her ears. Oh, God, what if she says no? Please, Margo, don't walk down that ramp and tell new you've met some boy at school ....

She caught sight of him and her face lit up like Christmas on Picadilly. She shifted a heavy duffle bag to wave and blow a kiss right at him. His belly did another rapid drawing in that made breathing impossible. He waved back. His knees actually felt weak.

"Buck up, man," Kit muttered in his ear. "You're white as a sheet."

The ring in his pocket all but burned him through the cloth. He'd thought to give it to her here, but with all these well-intentioned onlookers ... Then, again before he was ready, she'd cleared station medical and dropped the duffle bag to run straight into his arms.

Margo Smith had not forgotten how to kiss.

By the time they disentangled, spontaneous applause had broken out even amongst tourists Malcolm had never laid eyes on. Margo flushed, grinned, then flung her arms around Kit.

"I missed you!"

"Humph!" Kit said, crushing her close despite the attempt at pretense. "The way you greeted Malcolm, I thought you'd forgotten your grandfather existed!"

Margo shocked them all by bursting into tears. "Forget you?" She hugged him more tightly than ever. "Don't you count on it!"

Malcolm cleared his throat while Kit shut his eyes and just held her. After the losses Kit had suffered, Margo's impromptu demonstration meant more than she could possibly know. And after the terrible fights they'd had, it was good to see that look on Kit's face.

Eventually she dried her eyes and sniffed sheepishly. "Sorry. I really did miss you. Sven! And Ann! You came to see me!"

Ann hugged her former pupil tightly. "Welcome home, Margo."

Sven Bailey, true to his nature, demonstrated his affection by launching a snap kick right at her midriff. Margo wasn't there when it should have connected. Despite the hampering cloth of her long dress, she danced aside and managed to land a stinging punch before grabbing Sven and hugging him tightly. He made a single sound of outrage, turned as red as Margo's hair, and extricated himself with slightly-less-than-excessive force.

"Huh. Good to see you remembered some of what I drilled into you, girl."

Margo grinned. "Just a little. Care to spar later? I've been practicing."

Sven Bailey's eyes lit up like an evil gnome's. "You're on!"

Then, shocking everyone, he picked up Margo's luggage and set out with it, calling over one shoulder, "Neo Edo? Kit's apartment? Or Malcolms place?"

Margo flushed bright pink, glanced guiltily at Kit, bit one lip, and said, "Uh, Malcolm's?"

Kit's face fell until Margo hugged him again and whispered, "Just for tonight, okay? I mean, well, you know."

Kit turned brighter red than Sven had.

Ann laughed aloud. "That's twenty you owe me, Kit."

Kit just produced the money and said repressively, "You had better be safe about it, Margo."

Margo put out a pink tongue. "I promised that before I went off to school. And I don't break my promises." At his look, she added, "Not anymore. I learned that lesson! But I want dinner with you at the Delight, so you'd better not have any dates lined up for tonight!"

Kit relaxed into smiles again. "Arley's already reserved our table."

"Good! College food sucks!"

"Watch your mouth," Kit said mildly.

"Well, it does." But she smiled as she said it.

Her gaze caught sight of the brave decorations strangling Commons and her mouth and eyes turned into little O's of wonder. "Oh, Malcolm, look! When did that happen?"

Kit laughed. "Another new 'eighty-sixer tradition you haven't been introduced to yet. Winter Holiday Decorations Contest. The vendors around each gate try to outdo one another. Last year, a three-story, arm-waving plastic Santa caught fire."

"Oooh, bet the stink of that took a while to clear."

Malcolm chuckled. "Yes. Whichever way you choose to interpret that."

Margo sighed. The gaudy spectacle was clearly, in her eyes, utterly enchanting. Then she shook herself and glanced at Kit. "Oh, uh, by the way? I've decided going back uptime to that school you got me into is a complete waste of time. Brian's got a much better library and, well, it's just awful!"

Before Kit could erupt into a violent temper, Margo held out one hand. "Just think about it. We'll, uh, talk more later. Okay?"

Kit hrumphed and said, "All right, my girl, but you're gonna have to talk pretty fast and damn convincingly to change my mind."

Margo laughed, a grown-up burble more than a childlike giggle. "Oh, I will. Don't you fret about that."

When she grabbed Malcolms hand, Malcolm felt like the air around his brain was fizzing and sparkling. He wondered if Margo could actually feel how hard his heart was thumping through the contact of her fingers against his.

"Any interesting prospects in that group?" Ann, who'd taken in the entire by-play with wide, fascinated eyes, asked. She nodded toward the other uptimers as they headed down the brightly lit, gloriously garish Commons.

"Hmm ... actually, yeah. There's this group of paleontologists headed downtime through the Wild West Gate. Couple of PhDs, three grad students. They're all set-they think," she chuckled, "to study the Bone Wars."

"Bone Wars?" Ann echoed, sounding astonished.

Margo glanced up at Kit, looking smug as a cat that's sneaked a choice morsel off someone's plate. "Yeah, the Bone Wars. There were these two paleontologists, see, Cope and Marsh, who got into a war with one another collecting fossils from the American West. It was kind of an undeclared wager to see who could name the most new specimens and mount them in museums back east. Heck of a wager, too, let me add. Their agents would actually sneak into one another's camps and smash up specimens, shoot at one another, real exciting stuff. But they brought out a king's ransom in dinosaur bones, between them, because of the competition. Named tons of new species and genera and stuff. So, anyway, these guys-well, one of the grad students is a woman-they want to study it firsthand. Said they've already got their own weapons, rifles and pistols, but they were all cased up for the trip through Primary. I made 'em promise to show me their rifles and stuff before they left and made 'em swear to God and all the angels they'd see you for lessons first. I think one of 'em would rather touch a live rattlesnake than the guns he brought along."

Ann grinned. "Good girl!"

Margo chuckled. "It was easy. The four of 'em who were guys were drooling all over themselves for an excuse to talk to me." She rolled her eyes. "Men,."

The stab of white-hot jealousy that shot through him stunned Malcolm. Margo glanced up quickly. She must have felt his hand twitch, because she said, "You all right, Malcolm?"

"Fine," he lied. Just what do these so-called paleontologists look like? He studied the incoming uptimers, but there were so many, he wasn't sure which group they might belong to.

Margo squeezed his hand. "Hey. Malcolm. They were boring."

The way her eyes sparkled when she smiled made his insides go hot and cold. "Really?" There, that had come out reasonably steady. Buck up, man, as Kit says. She hasn't said no yet.

Margo flounced as only Margo could. Malcolm followed the movement with a tortured gaze. She added, "Hah! Their fossils would've been more interesting! I Just wanted a peek at their rifles."

Kit laughed. -Malcolm, I'd say you just won your standing bet, eh?"

Margo colored delicately. "I wouldn't say that. The time limit on that bet ran out ages ago."

Malcolm sighed. "Well, there are' other ways of getting your life's story, I suppose."

"Hmm. We'll just have to see how creative you are, Mr. Moore." But she squeezed his fingers.

"At least," Kit said, eyeing them askance, "you seem to be picking up your American history nicely. Maybe Malcolm's idea wasn't such a bad one, after all."

"Malcolm's idea," Malcolm growled, "was supposed to be Malcolm's surprise."

Margo just looked up at him, wide-eyed. "You planned a surprise for me?"

Heat rose into his face. "Yeah. And Grandpa's doing his damndest to spoil it."

"Got a bet on?" Margo asked suspiciously.

"Not me," Malcolm sighed. "But I wouldn't be surprised if Kit does."

"Kit and everyone else in La-La Land," Ann said

"Mind if you have company for dinner, or is this a family affair?"

Margo blushed. "Uh, would you mind if we had lunch tomorrow, instead?"

"Not at all." Ann had to reach up slightly to ruffle Margo's hair. "Imp. It's good to have you home."

She strolled off with a backward wave.

Kit rubbed the back of his neck. "I, uh, have some things I have to take care of ..."

"So soon?" Margo wailed.

He glanced at Malcolm. "I think Malcolm wants you to himself for a while. Grandpa can wait. But not long," he added with a fierceness in his voice that his playful smile could not quite disguise.

She hugged him tightly. "Promise."

Kit kissed the top of her head, then gently disentangled himself. "Dress up pretty for dinner, okay?"

"I will."

He ruffled her hair much the way Ann had, then left Malcolm alone with her. Malcolm swallowed hard, finding his throat suddenly dry. "Did you, uh, want to catch a bite to eat first?"

Margo's green eyes smoldered. "I'm starving. But not for food. C'mon, Malcolm. It's me. Margo.

He ventured a tentative smile. "That therapy of yours seems to have helped."

She grinned. "Yeah, the rape counselor I've been seeing is good. She's helped unkink me a whole lot. But I like being in your arms better." Without warning, those smoldering eyes filled with tears and she threw her arms around him. "God, I've missed you! My head aches with everything that horrid school stuffs into it! I want you to hold me and tell me I'll get through this."

"Hey, what happened to my little fire eater?"

Wetness soaked through his shirt. "She got lonely"

Had any uptime boys comforted her during that loneliness? Malcolm hoped not. "My place is this way," he murmured, wrapping an arm around her. "We, uh, have a lot to talk about."

"Yeah?" She brightened and sniffed back tears. "Like what?"

"Oh, lots of stuff." They caught an elevator for Malcolm's floor. "Goldie and Skeeter are in the middle of a wager, for one. Whichever of them scams the most in a month-and Goldie can't use her knowledge of rare coins and gems-gets to stay in La-La Land. The other one has to leave."

Margo's eyes widened. "You're kidding? That's a serious wager!" Then she grinned, evilly. "Any way we can help Skeeter?'

"I thought you hated him!"

Margo laughed, green eyes wicked as any imp newly-arrived from Hell's own furnace. "I do. But Goldie deserves worse than what we gave her. Lots worse." The steel in her voice reminded Malcolm of his favorite poet: But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale:

The female of the species is more deadly than the male ... .

"Huh. Remind me never to get on your wrong side, young lady." The memory of those terrible days in Rome, searching for her, were almost more than he could bear. Margo's squeeze on his hand said a great deal more than her eyes, and they spoke of a pain and longing that hurt Malcolm like a physical blow. His faltering hopes began to regain their feet.

Sven Bailey had left Margo's luggage in the "lock-me-tight" mail bin outside each Resident's apartment. Malcolm unlocked the bin, rescuing Margo's cases, then opened his door and ushered her inside.

"You've redecorated! Wow! You actually have furniture!"

Malcolm shrugged. "A little money never hurts."

Margo laughed. "Don't be upset with me, Malcolm. I know it's my fault I nearly got us killed, but see. Something good did come of it." She swept a grand gesture at the room, nearly knocking over a lamp. "Whoops! Sorry."

That was his Margo, all right. But would she be his Margo?

"I, uh, had a little something, I, uh, that is ..."

"Malcolm," she took both his hands in her own, "what is it? It's me. The addle-brained brat you had to rescue off a Portuguese witch-burning pyre. You're actually shaking! What's wrong?"

He stared into those bottomless green eyes, filled now with worry and even the beginnings of fear. When she reached up and brushed her lips across his, he felt something inside his soul melt. If she said no ...

"It's okay, Malcolm. Whatever it is. Just tell me."

No more stalling, he thought grimly. Then he fumbled in a pocket for the little velvet box. "I, uh, went uptime for a little vacation, had this made for you."

She opened the box curiously, then went absolutely white.

"Malcolm?" Her voice wavered. So did those luminous green eyes.

"Will you?" he whispered.

An agony of indecision passed across her heart-shaped face, causing Malcolm's heart to cease beating.

"Malcolm, you know my heart-my whole soul's set on scouting," she whispered. "You, you wouldn't object?"

He cleared his throat. "Only unless you objected to my coming along."

Her eyes widened. "But"

"I thought it was high time I got over being a coward."

Margo was suddenly in his arms, crying and kissing him at the same time. "Don't ever say that! Do you hear me, Malcolm Moore? Never, ever say that!"

An Irish alley-cat glare he knew so well transformed her adorable, heart-shaped face as the eyebrows dove together and green eyes smoldered. "He does, does he? Am I the only one on this station who didn't know I was getting married?"

Malcolm rubbed his nose in embarrassment. "Well, uh, you know La-La Land."

"Do I ever." But the look in her eyes softened. "Margo Moore. I like the sound of that."

The sound of his name linked with hers did strange things to Malcolm's blood chemistry. The light in the room dimmed. "So ... How's Denver sound for the honeymoon? I've got tickets ... ."

Margo's kisses were enough to drive a sane man over the brink. When they came up for air, Margo breathed against his lips, "Sounds perfect. Now stop stalling, Malcolm Moore, and take me to bed!"

He carried her there, long dress trailing, without another word spoken. He was afraid the brutal violations she had suffered at the hands of those damnable Portuguese traders would somehow raise a barrier between them that neither could overcome. But the softness and passion he remembered so well from Rome redoubled in the silence of his bedroom, sending Malcolm nearly out of his mind with the need to touch and cuddle and bring joy where she had suffered so much pain. After their loving came to a shuddering, reluctant end, Margo cried again, nearly as hard as she had that terrible day in Rome. But this time instead of running, she clung to him and let him comfort her with silly, nonsensical words meant to reassure. Evidently they did, because she fell asleep cradled against the hollow of his shoulder, tear trails streaking her cheeks and his bare skin. Malcolm kissed her hair and marveled, wondering if she would ever trust enough to share her mind as she had come to trust sharing her body.

The ring glittering softly on her left hand gave him, hope. It was a start, anyway. Just as this joining had been. Malcolm lay awake, languorous and wondering, for hours, just holding her while she slept. When she finally woke, their second coming together was even sweeter than the first. And this time, as she drifted off once more against his chest, the words he had longed to hear came like a sigh in the darkness.

"I love you, Malcolm Moore. Hold me..."

And so he did.