Kit scowled. "Very funny Frankly, I'd say it hit at least 7.5 on the Richter. Had Goldie's name all over it. Give me a Kirin, would you?"

Samir chuckled and dug for a cold bottle. "I keep telling you, Kit. If you want to beat Goldie Morran, play her when she's unconscious."

Kit downed the Kirin in five long swallows and felt better immediately. "Well, a man can dream, can't he? Hillary had Everest, Peary had the Pole, and I cling to the dream of beating Goldie Morran at pool."

Samir, a deeply sympathetic soul, broke into song, giving him a stirring rendition of "To Dream the Impossible Dream."

"Oh, you're no help," Kit grinned. "Why do I come in here, anyway?"

Samir chuckled. "That one's easy. All time scouts are gluttons for punishment. It's in the job description." .

Kit laughed. "You've got me there. I wrote the damned thing."

Samir thumped him on the back byway of condolences and sent him on his way. Kit shoved hands into pockets, cue case tucked under one arm. Well, that story ought to be a nine-day wonder. It'll be all over La-La Land by bedtime. He strolled glumly through Urbs Romae, going nowhere in particular, then sniffed appreciatively at the scents wafting from the Epicurean Delight. Dinner sounds good, after that beer. Hmm...

He wondered what Arley Eisenstein had written on didn't make corporate decisions. He just dealt with the field problems and gritted his teeth while making the home office a ton of money.

Kit eased Connie down to the bench. "There," he smiled. "All safe and sound."

She winced and wriggled to avoid pins, then sighed. "Thanks a million. Computer design may be my forte, but it just doesn't take the place of field testing. Sometimes," she grimaced at her feet, "it's a little rough on body and soul."

Kit stooped and eased off her shoes, earning a deep sigh. Connie's feet, clad in tabi socks, were visibly swollen even through the cotton. He rubbed gently. She collapsed bonelessly against the backrest.

"Oh, God ...I love you, Kit Carson."

Kit chuckled. "That's what all the ladies say. Had dinner yet?"

She peeled one eyelid. "No, but I don't have time. Still have a special order for the London run to finish designing and after that I have a new batch of sketches from Rome and some samples that you just wouldn't believe, how gorgeous they are ...."

Kit grinned. "I'll take a rain check, then. Don't forget to order pizza or something."

"Scout's honor." Connie melted another few inches down the bench while Kit finished her feet, then sighed and stood up. She wriggled cotton-clad toes against the concrete. "Blessings on your soul, Kit. I may be able to limp back, now."

"Mind if I ask a stupid question?"

"Shoot."

"How come you tortured yourself into walking halfway down the Commons in those things?"

Connie grinned. "I paced it out beforehand,-to the exact distance of the harlots' processions through Yoshiwara. If I can go the distance in those infernal shoes, anyone can."

Connie Logan wasn't exactly sickly, but she was fragile. Kit scratched the side of his jaw. "Well, I guess you have a point. Still seems a helluva way to design costumes."

Connie laughed. "This, from the man who pioneered masochism into a new art form. Just why did you become a time scout?"

"I cannot tell a lie." He leaned closer and whispered, "Because it's fun."

"There you have it. l get to play dress-up, every day." She stooped for the hideous shoes, then gave him a quick hug full of pins. "Thanks, hon. Gotta go. Oh ...I saw that kid the other day,. with Skeeter Jackson."

Kit groaned.

Connie's brows twitched down. "Good grief, Kit, she really got to you, didn't she? You ought to say something to her. She worships you, and Skeeter's going to get her killed. You wouldn't believe what he had her wearing."

"Great. Since when did I get promoted to greenhorn daddy?"

Connie flashed him a grin. "You don't fool me, Kenneth Carson. You care. It's why we like you. Gotta run."

Kit was still grumbling under his breath long after Connie had vanished back toward her outfitters' shop. "Sometimes," he groused, "this Mr. Nice-Guy rep is more trouble than it's worth." He sighed. "Well, hell." He really couldn't countenance allowing Skeeter Jackson to pass himself off as an instructor of time scouts.

Normally residents didn't interfere in other residents' business dealings. But there was a difference between fleecing obnoxious tourists out of a few dollars and perpetrating negligent homicide. Skeeter, never having been a scout-having rarely even been down time, probably didn't realize just how deadly his current scam was. Kit swore under his breath. He probably wouldn't earn any thanks, but he had to try.

Kit dropped by the Neo Edo just long enough to put away his cue case and be sure Jimmy had the business well in hand, then started asking around for Skeeter. Typically, nobody recalled seeing him. Kit knew some of his favorite haunts, but the rascal wasn't in any of them. Skeeter generally avoided Castletown, since even he didn't care to risk fleecing the wrong person and end up someplace really nasty, minus several fingers. Kit checked all of Skeeter's favorite watering holes in Frontier Town, then hit the pubs in Victoria Station. Nothing. Skeeter Jackson was making himself mighty scarce.

"Well, he's got to be someplace."

With no gates currently open, Shangri-la Station was closed up tight. The only exits were hermetically sealed airlocks leading-if the main chronometers and Kit's own equipment were correct into the heart of the Tibetan Himalayas, circa late April of 1910. The only reason those airlocks would ever be opened would be to escape a catastrophic station fire. And since halon systems had been built into every cranny of La-La Land...

Skeeter hadn't left the station, not unless he'd fallen through an unstable gate somewhere.

"We should be so lucky Kit muttered "Well, genius, now what?" He planted hands on hips and surveyed the breadth of Victoria Station, which wound from one side of Commons to the other in a maze of pseudo-cobbled streets, wrought-iron "street lamps," park-like waiting areas, picturesque shop fronts, and the inevitable cobwebbing of catwalks and ramps which led up to the Britannia Gate near the ceiling.

A tourist in a garish bar-girl costume left the Prince Albert Pub and fumbled in a small purse that would have been more appropriate for an American frontier matron. Slim white shoulders rose above a shocking neckline. Kit couldn't see her face. A drooping bunch of black feathers from a hat that should have been paired with a tea gown hid her features. The hemline of her dress was cut rakishly high enough to reveal shoes that were completely out of period.

"Huh. She went to a lousy outfitter."

The tourist closed her purse, then turned on an emphatic stilt heel. Kit groaned. It figured.

Margo ...

"Well, Connie did warn me." He squared metaphorical shoulders and moved to intercept her, stepping out from behind a "street lamp" into her path. "Hi."

Margo glanced up, badly startled, and teetered on high heels. Kit let her regain her balance.

"Oh. It's you." Belatedly, she said, "Hi." Then her chin came up. "I found a teacher."

"Yes, I know. That's why I want to talk to you."

Margo's eyes widened. "You do?" Almost instantly, suspicion flared. "Why?"

Kit sighed. "Look, can we just declare a truce for about fifteen minutes?"

She eyed him narrowly, then shrugged. "Sure." She tossed her head slightly to bounce feathers out of her eyes.

Kit started to say, "That hat's on backwards," then bit his tongue. He didn't want to antagonize her. He wanted to save her life. So he suggested, "Let's go over to the library. It's quiet. We shouldn't be interrupted."

Margo eyed him curiously. "Why are you taking the trouble? I thought you hated me."