"What is that thing?" a nearby Time Tours employee gasped.

The enormous animal soared toward the ceiling on thirty-foot wings, scraping a catwalk with one wingtip.

Sue Fritchey said calmly, "Looks like a Pteranodon sternbergi to me. Damned near as big as a Quetzalecoatlus-and that's the biggest pterodactyl we know about. That gate opened right into the Upper Cretaceous. Here it comes Ready ...wait... wait...

Kit hung onto his nerve and faced down a lethally sharp beak as the giant pterosaur swooped directly toward them. The head and neck alone were longer than Sven Bailey was tall. Kit's lizard-brain, that portion of the human cranium that controls fight-or-flight reactions, was screaming "RUN!" at the top of its lungs.

Kit ignored it.

Sue was still cautioning them, "Wait ...almost ...almost... NOW!

A dozen men heaved the big net. It tangled in wings. Another net hit it, settling over the sharp beak and soaring crest. The huge pterodactyl came down hard in a mass of screaming, struggling beak, wings, and claws. Someone fired tranquilizers into it, three shots in rapid succession. Bull Morgan darted over to help hold the nets. A powerful wing lifted Kit off the ground then flung him back toward the shattered cobbles, but he hung onto the rope. Malcolm came loose and vanished from Kit's immediate awareness. Kit thought he heard a cry of pain and an explosive curse, but he was abruptly confronted by a baleful scarlet eye and a snapping, up curved beak that severed half-inch hemp fibers like spaghetti strings.

One of the Pest Control officers darted in with a coil of rope and risked hands in order to rope the sharp beak shut. A twist of the pterosaur's neck lifted him off the floor and sent him flying, but the ropes around its beak held. The tiny crimson eye rolled murderously; then, slowly, that wicked little eye began to close. By the time the tranquilizers had taken effect, Kit was bruised and battered, but La-La Land had quite a zoological prize.

"Good work," Bull said, panting slightly. "What're those?"

He pointed toward the ceiling.

Sue Fritchey was studying the smaller winged figures perched now amongst the rafters-through her field glasses. "Those over there are Ichthyornis, looks like. Little primitive birds, beak full of teeth, about the size of a seagull. Fish eaters. They'd be about the right time period and ecosystem to come through with a sternbergi. Must be twenty of 'em up there. And over there," she swung the glasses around, "we've got about fifteen little pterosaurs the size of crows. Hell, I have no idea what those are. Those, either." She'd swung the glasses around toward a pair sitting by themselves near the rafters. "They look like predators of some sort, but I'm not sure. Could be fish eaters, but the beaks look wrong. Far as I know, there's nothing in the fossil record anything like what I'm seeing."

"Are there enough of any of those things for a breeding colony?" Bull asked sharply

"Maybe. Those two by themselves, probably not. Those pterosaurs, though, and the ichthyornis flock... Close to critical failure of the gene pool, of course, but we've rescued species from that close to the brink. Depends on the number of breeding-or gravid females up there. It's hard to sex birds without plumage differences to go by and I'm not seeing any. And I have no idea how to sex pterosaurs."

Nobody cracked the obvious jokes.

"Any danger to the tourists?" Bull asked, glancing unhappily at the damage and the white-faced tourists still cowering in storefronts.

"Dunno. Probably not, unless the animals feel threatened. I doubt they would unless somebody went after 'em: Birds, anyway, aren't as violently reactive as, say, killer bees, although the pterosaurs may be. Not as likely, but we just don't know." "Then we don't disturb them until we get additional expert advice," Bull decided. "Next time Primary cycles, send for whoever you need Those things eat fish? Okay, stock all the fish ponds in the station and keep 'em stocked. Watch the little buggers and let me know if they put anybody in danger. Well, more danger than being spattered with dinosaur droppings."

The Pest Control crews chuckle Sue Fritchey said, "They're not dinosaurs, they're pterosaurs and protobirds. But don't worry, we'll handle it."

Bull nodded, then glanced at Malcolm and Kit. "Thanks for the help, boys."

"Glad to pitch in," Kit smiled. "It's not every day even I get to wrestle a giant pterodactyl to the ground."

Bull chuckled "Point taken. You all right, Malcolm?.

Kit looked around. The young guide was nursing his wrist. "Yeah, just bloody bruised."

Bull peered closely at the wrist, which was visibly swelling. "Have Rachel look at it and don't argue. My tab. I'll call her."

Malcolm sighed. "Thanks, Bull. Me and my lousy luck."

Kit grinned. "Don't think you get out of this job so easily."

Malcolm gave him a sour glance. "What job? You haven't even told me what it is, yet."

Kit formed a sling from Malcolms shirt and suspend his wrist at chest height. "What I had in mind was nurse-maiding Margo through the Britannia Gate."

Malcolm stared, then eased the sling into a more comfortable position. His eyes had already begun to glow. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. Speaking of dead, what the devil was that thing?" He jabbed a thumb at the creature which had fallen through the ceiling. Judging from the remains, it had been all teeth, tail, and claws. Several tourists had crowded closer already.

Sue Fritchey waded in. "Sickle-claw killer of some kind, about the size of Utah raptor, but a different species from the look of it. We didn't know they'd survived that late into the Cretaceous. Just be real glad it's dead"

Malcolm shivered absently. "Am I ever. Say, that thing is warm!" He leaned over for a better look.

Sure enough, heat was rising from the dead sickle claw.

"Yep," Sue said, moving back after a cursory glance. "Get back, please."

"But, it's warm! Surely you can appreciate what this means for the scientific debate over ornithischian endothermy!"

Sue glared at him. "Yes, I do! I also appreciate that it's a cooling corpse. Its parasites are going to start leaving in droves-and I don't want anyone finding a tick the size of their own pinkie or a pinworm the size of a ballpoint pen! Jimmy, scour and disinfect this whole area!

Malcolm moved hastily away. Tourists abandoned attempts to see the dead 'raptor and crowded around the netted pterodactyl instead. Pest Control was bringing up a forklift hoist and a large wooden pallet to transport it.

"C'mon, hero," Kit said, taking Malcolm's elbow. "Let's clean you up and look at that wrist." He steered Malcolm through the crowd and hustled him off to Rachel Eisenstein's infirmary. She fussed over the wrist, told him he d sprained it heroically and warned him, "Don't tackle anything more strenuous than dinner for a couple of days, okay?" She suspended his injured wrist in a real sling. His shirt, retired from sling duty, had begun to dry, revealing tears and gore stains. The rest of him, however, was squeaky clean: Rachel had given him a bath in disinfectant and new clothes.

"Yes, ma'am." He saluted her with his unbandaged hand.

"Good," Rachel smiled "Now, scoot I have work to do. Some of the tourists were hurt during the ruckus and others are having hysterics. Unstable gates," she grimaced, "are not conducive to integrated psyches. Wish I'd been there to see it. Just my luck I was stuck on call and couldn't leave."

Kit sympathized, then they left Rachel to the demands of her profession. Once in the corridor, Kit said, "You never did answer. Are you game for the Britannia Gate?"

Malcolm chuckled thinly "You should know without having to ask. Where shall I take her? A night at the opera? Or maybe a stay in the East End to discourage girlish romantic fantasies?"