Fortunately, station security arrived on the scene. Mike Benson took one look and hauled Kynan to his feet. Benson cuffed the Welshman's hands behind him, then, in a quick maneuver that was anything but gentle, put him face-down on the floor and hobbled his legs. A strangled sound of pain escaped him.

"Better have someone look at him," Kit sighed. "I think I broke some of his ribs."

Mike Benson grimaced. "Serves him right, I'd say. Where'd this bastard get a weapon?"

"Hell if I know." Kit handed over the croquet mallet. "I'd check the outfitters' stores, see if any of 'em are missing part of a set."

Robert LI spoke up from the doorway of his antiquities shop. "I think he stole it from a group of grad students practicing for the spring garden parties in London. I heard a couple of them talking about a mallet missing out of their set the other day." He glanced at Kit. "I'm sorry, Kit. I had no idea the theft would turn out so serious. I just thought it was part of a practical joke or something. You all right?"

Kit nodded. curtly. "I'm fine." Hell would freeze before he admitted to broken ribs. He'd bribe Rachel Eisenstein, if necessary, to keep it quiet.

Benson ordered his men to take Kynan to a holding cell. The Welshman looked as though he'd considered struggling, then glanced at Kit and settled down to trudge away in his hobbles.

"You're standing mighty funny, Kit." In his late fifties, Mike Benson was solidly built, with thinning grey hair and cold blue eyes that had seen everything, sometimes twice. "How're your ribs?"

Aw, held...

Without asking, Benson peeled back his shirt. "Hmm ... Better have these x-rayed. I think he broke a few."

"I'll take care of it," Kit grated

"What was that guff he was giving you when I came up?"

Kit explained.

Mike Benson ran a hand across his short hair and gazed into empty space as though considering the wisdom of speaking. He glanced at Kit's ribs and spoke anyway. "Kit, that girl's been nothing but trouble since she got here. No offense, but she's a magnet for disaster."

"Great. What else has she done I don't know about?"

"Nothing illegal, if that's worrying you. Just ... well, watch out when she's around Skeeter Jackson and the occasional drunken billionaire aren't the only hotheads panting over her."

Great. Just wonderful.

A strained smile appeared around the security chief's eyes. "At least it's been more interesting around here since she arrived Sometimes herding tourists from gate to gate is like dealing with squabbling schoolkids. If I'd wanted that, I'd have stayed on the force in Chicago when they tried retiring me to crossing guard."

Kit forced a laugh. "You'd have lasted six weeks. You thrive on La-La Land's unique brand of lunacy."

Benson sniffed "Maybe I do. Maybe I do, at that: Of course, I could say the same. You might've retired uptime a couple of years ago. What keeps you hanging around this asylum?"

Kit let his shoulders relax, which was something of a mistake. He hissed softly and adjusted his stance. "Search me. Sheer meanness, I guess. What'll you do with Kynan?"

A wicked grin came and went. "Bull told me to watch out for that one. Almost confined him when he attacked Margo. I think about a month of restricted environment"-Kit mentally translated jail -- "and community service for assault with a deadly weapon ought to change his attitude. The garbage pits are short of help just now"

Kit winced. "Poor bastard. Sometimes I think it'd be easier on the down timers if we just drugged them until their gates reopened."

Benson shrugged. "Yeah, but some never do. As you damned well know. Be sure Rachel looks at you."

"Huh. I've gone to ground in hog lots with worse than this and survived Man'd think I'd turned into a mewling baby since I retired, the way people act..."

Benson grinned. "Hog lot, eh? You must tell me that story sometime."

Kit laughed. "Sure. You buy the beer and I'll tell all."

"Deal. Stay out of trouble."

Kit watched him stroll away, then winced. His ribs smarted "Well," he quoted a very ancient comedy team, "this is another fine mess you've gotten us into, isn't it?"

He didn't feel up to tackling Margo's attitude toward education just now. Better go crawling to Rachel and deal with my injuries. With any luck, the promise of another down-time excursion would help repair this latest breach in his relationship with Margo. And the trip itself ought to go a long way toward convincing her she couldn't "fake it" down time.

"What're you coming to, Kit," he muttered on the way across the Commons, "bribing your own grandkid with expensive down-time presents?"

Kit knew-from first-hand experience--that once you gave in and paid Dane-geld, the Dane never went away.

Well, it was a little late for that now. And she did need a lesson in coping with down-time languages and customs completely alien from her own. Of La-La Land's major gates which fit that bill, Porta Romae was by far the safest.

Margo loose in Rome was an image of sufficient horror to sober even the most reckless of time guides. And Kit had never, in his entire professional career, been considered reckless. When, he wondered a little despairingly, does the worrying end and the enjoyment begin? Given the way his luck had been running of late, probably never.

"Must be Malcolm's fault," he decided. "His luck's rubbing off."

And that was the very best Kit could find to say about the whole mess.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Porta Romae, the Roman Gate, opened into the storage room of a busy wine shop on the Via Appia. Ancient Rome's "Main Street" ran from the Appian Gate to the great Circus Maximus where it turned north past the foot of monumental Palatine Hill, home of gods and emperors.

The hulking Circus rose like a battleship from the valley floor, its bulk silhouetted against a brilliant white sky. In deepest antiquity the Circus had been merely an open sweep of valley where even the Etruscans had run sacred funerary races. Over the intervening centuries the Circus, with its towering monuments and soaring wood-and-stone bleachers, had come to dominate the valley between the Palatine and Aventine Hills, one of the most sacred spots in the city of Rome.

The air of electric excitement which permeated the whole district when a games day approached was apparent the moment one stepped through the Roman gate and heard the screams of caged beasts, the shrill calls of high-strung racing horses, and the roar of Roman voices betting, arguing, laughing, and ordering food.

For Malcolm Moore, the chance to step through Porta Romae, the first of the great time gates to be explored (and subsequently the first owned lock, stock, and barrel by Time Tours) was worth every moment of the heartache, the uncertainty and misery which accompanied the life of a freelance guide. Whenever he stepped through onto the packed-earth floor in a crowd of excited tourists, something in his soul came back to life again.

Stepping through into the midst of the festival of the Magna Mater of Rome was simply icing on the cake.

Malcolm had guided tourists through the Porta Romae many times.. But he'd managed to attend the Hilaria and the Ludi Megalenses only twice and this was the first year imperial decree would permit the Procession of Attis in its entirety through the streets of Rome. He could scarcely contain an idiotic grin.

Margo, of course, approached the trip in much the same light she'd approached London. Young Margo had no concept what the next two weeks would entail. Given the glimpses he'd seen in London of a bright and thoughtful young mind struggling to overcome something terrible in her past and make something good and decent of her future, Malcolm found himself looking forward to watching her process of self-discovery in Rome. He hoped she would surprise him.