Before new arrivals had finished clearing the gate, Malcolm reminded Margo to take a reading with her ATLS. He pulled her off to one side and put her through the drill of ATLS readings and log updates, then checked her work. He glanced carefully through her notations, double-checked her ATLS readings, and nodded. "Very good. You're getting the hang of it."

She beamed

He finished his own notations then put away his equipment in the carefully disguised bag he would carry. Malcolm then adjusted his slave's collar and scrutinized the drape of Margo's provincial garb.

"I want her to look like a trader from somewhere really remote," Kit had said in the back room of Connie Logan's Clothes and Stuff. "Ideas?"

"Roman Syria," Malcolm -had suggested at once. -Palmyra's perfect."

"Why Palmyra?" Margo asked curiously.

"Palmyrenes were almost unknown in Rome of A.D. 47. No one should question your complete lack of ancient languages-which also means they won't be able to question you about 'home.' And since they can't talk directly with you, I'll be able to `translate'-and I do know the answers. Palmyra was only incorporated as an autonomous part of Roman Syria thirty-seven years before A.D. 47, with very tenuous trading ties to Rome, at best."

The costume Connie had come up with was delightful: draped folds of a Parthian-style tunic with voluminous trousers and leggings embroidered in wine-red designs. Metal "suspenders" supported the leggings, fastening them to the tunic's gold-embroidered hem. The trousers and even the long, narrow sleeves fell in a series of soft, U-shaped drapes down arms and legs. Overhanging the draped tunic came a cloak that fell in loose folds down the back. The shoes were elaborately embroidered "Persian" slippers. Capping off the costume came a cloth belt from which hung a scabbard for a long dagger.

When Margo heard the size of the estimated bill, she actually paled. "My God! Why so much?"

Connie grinned. "Any guesses?"

Margo glanced at the half-finished garments strewn everywhere in Connie's design studio. Computer-controlled sewing machines dominated two whole walls. "I have no idea."

"The chain-stitch sewing machine was invented in 1830. The lock-stitch machine came even later. Before that, all clothing was assembled by hand."

"But not all your costumes are this expensive. Not even close. What are you going to do? Hand spin the thread for this thing?"

Connie laughed. "No, although I've done that, too, on occasion, and spent hours at a loom hand weaving. Most costumes can be assembled by machine from the threads up. Even for pre-sewing-machine time periods, we can sometimes fudge. Take this."

She snagged an extraordinary gown from a peg. In three parts, it consisted of a coat-like overdress, a wide, skirt-like affair, and a triangular piece that was evidently meant to go across the front of the bosom, tapering to a point at the waist.

"This is an eighteenth-century English gown. One of our smaller gates opens into colonial Virginia every five years or so. It's due to open in about a month and a couple of researchers are going through for an extended sabbatical in Williamsburg." She chuckled. "Goldie Morran always makes a killing, exporting China metal to Williamsburg through whoever's going down time. The researchers carry the stuff through to help pay for their research trips."

"China metal?" Margo asked. "What on earth is that?"

"Ordinary nickel-silver," Malcolm grinned. "Not any silver in it, even. It's a base-metal alloy similar to German silver. It's used in cheap costume jewelry, junk trays and candlesticks, that sort of thing."

"Yes," Kit chuckled, "but in colonial Williamsburg it was worth as much as gold." His eyes twinkled. "Much like Connie's gowns."

Connie grinned. "Speaking of which ... This gown has seven-hundred eleven inches of seams alone, never mind hems for both skirts and the sleeves or the decorative stitching visible from the surface. I can do an average of ten inches of seam an hour by hand, against a few seconds by machine. If I fudge and set the computers to simulate the slight variations in hand stitching, I can assemble a whole gown in a few hours-except for decorative stitching, any quilting the customer wants, and so on. I can't do that by machine. Someone down time would notice. Fashion has always been closely studied, both by practitioners and by poorer folk who want to ape the newest styles in cheaper versions. So some of it can't be fudged.

"Now, with your Palmyrene costume, I can't fudge anything. It'll take hours and hours of work to complete. I won't have to hand spin or weave, but the embroidery alone will be murder. I'll have to pull a couple of assistants off other jobs to finish it in time."

"Which is expensive," Margo sighed. "I guess," she said, giving Kit and Malcolm a hang-dog look, "I'd better not get it dirty, huh?"

Malcolm, like Kit and Connie, had laughed.

But now, the overly cautious way Margo moved told Malcolm she was terrified of ruining Connie Logan's exquisite creation.

"Margo," he said, "one piece of advice."

She glanced up, trying to avoid a dusty stack of wine jars. "What's that?"

"That costume is meant to be lived in. It may have been expensive, but it isn't a museum piece. Keep walling around like that and some Roman snob is going to think you're a puer delicatus for sale."

Margo's face registered absolute bafflement.

"Pretty boys brought twice as much at the slave markets as pretty girls, whether they were destined for a brothel or a private bed."

Lips and eyes went round with shock.

"This isn't Minnesota. It isn't London, either. Morals here aren't at all what they are up time. Not even remotely close. Neither are the laws. So don't go mincing around as if you're afraid to smudge your clothes. You're a wealthy young foreigner, son of a merchant prince in one of the richest caravan states the desert ever produced. Act like it."

She closed her mouth. "Okay, Malcolm."

"Study wealthy Romans on the street for body language. That isn't the same here, either. Neither are common gestures like nodding and shaking your head.

To indicate yes, tip your head back. To indicate no, tuck your chin." He demonstrated. "Shake your head side to side and a Roman will wonder what s wrong with your ears."

"What if I screw up?"

"Intelligent question. Romans were notoriously rude about their cultural superiority. If you make any minor errors, they'll put it down to a rank provincialism without the saving graces of intelligence, manners, or culture."

"Worse than the Victorians?"

"Lots worse," Malcolm said dryly.

"Too bad. It's a horrid thing to say about people who invented ... well, lots of things."

Malcolm sighed. -Margo, you really have to study."

"I know! I am studying. I'll study more when we get back! At least I can now tell you everything Francis Marion ever did, said, or thought!"

Still a sore subject. He was sorry, indeed, that she and Kit had fought about it. All La-La land had buzzed with the gossip when Margo had walked out of the Delight and headed for the library in tears-leaving Kit so rattled a down timer, for God's sake, had nearly gotten the better of him in a hand-to-hand with a croquet mallet. That was the primary reason Malcolm was here: to convince her how important those studies were. Malcolm took his job seriously.

Then he had to stifle a grin: If the Hilaria and Ludi Megalenses didn't convince Margo she needed to study, nothing would.

A Time Tours guide opened the outside door again to communicate with employees in the wineshop proper. The roar of noise from the Via Appia just beyond caused a wave of excited laughter to ripple its way back through the tourists. The soundproofed door closed and the Time Tours guide stepped onto a crate to command attention.