Young, vulnerable ...

He turned away silently and went to bed.

But not to sleep.

Malcolm came for Margo early in the morning the day the Britannia Gate was due to open.

"Hi!" The world was wonderful this morning. Today was the day she would finally step through a gate into history.

"Sleep well?" Malcolm asked.

Margo laughed. "I was so excited I hardly closed my eyes all night."

"Thought as much," he chuckled. "Kit up yet?"

"In the shower."

"All packed?"

"Yes!"

"Good. We have one last appointment before we go."

Uh-oh. Margo regarded him suspiciously. "What is it?

A pained smile came and went. "You're not going to like it, but I think it's vital."

"What?"

"We need to visit Paula Booker."

Margo wondered who the devil that was. "For?"

"Your hair."

Margo touched her short, flame-colored hair. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing-for here and now. Everything, for down time. That color stands out We want to be inconspicuous. The less noticed you are, the better."

"What are you going to do about it? Dye it?" Margo asked sarcastically.

"Yep.."

She stared "Oh, no."

Malcolm sighed. "I knew this wouldn't be well received. That's why I wanted Kit's opinion."

"On what?" Kit asked, emerging from the bathroom. He was-uncharacteristically-clad only in a towel. His hair was still wet and he hadn't shaved yet Margo stared, knowing it was rude, but she couldn't help it

There were scars. Terrible ones.

"Margo's hair," Malcolm said. "I think Paula should dye it."

Margo managed do drag her gaze off Kits whip-scarred torso and met his gaze. He ignored her stricken look and merely studied her critically. "Yes," he said slowly, "I didn't think it was too important yet, but you're probably right. She's awfully noticeable."

"Thanks for the compliment," Margo muttered. The last thing she wanted to be was "noticeable" if attracting attention earned her scars like Kit's, but the timing was rotten. She'd spent the last twenty-four hours trying hopelessly to memorize Latin declensions and conjugations and whatever else all those verb and noun forms were called. All those fickle, changeable word endings left her head spinning. She'd tried-really tried and now as a reward they wanted to dye her best feature some hideous, drab color to match the clothes they'd picked for her to wear.

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."