"This is Goldie Morran. Gems and rare coin dealer, money changer, currency expert, and con artist." Slides clicked in the silence. "This is smiling Skeeter Jackson. I don't think I have to tell you what kind of rapscallion this two-bit thief is." He cleared his throat deliberately, pinning the nearest agent with a baleful green stare. "I also know that every one of you has heard by now about their little bet."

Not a single agent in the room dared crack a smile; not with the boss pacing three feet away. A few began to sweat profusely into their stiff black uniforms, wondering if their side bets on the outcome of "the wager" had been discovered.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he folded his hands behind his back and stood in the center of the projected image of Skeeter Jackson, so that the colors from the slide wavered across his uniform and face like stained glass taken from a madhouse, "we are going to let these two have enough rope to hang themselves. I have had a bellyful of watching these 'eighty-sixers hoodwink their way through life, as though the sacred laws which we have been hired to uphold didn't even exist. We may not be able to deport them all and close down this station, but by God, we can catch these two! And I intend to do just that. By the end of the week, I want Goldie Morran and Skeeter Jackson in custody for fraud, theft, and anything else we can think up and make stick. I want them deported uptime to jail where they belong, or I'll have the reasons why a crack troop of ATF agents is incompetent to catch two smalltime crooks in a closed environment. Is that understood?"

Nobody said a word. Hardly anybody breathed. Many kissed pensions goodbye. Without exception, they cursed the fate that had landed them in this career, on this station, under this boss.

"Very good. Consider yourselves warriors in a timeless battle of good against evil. I want undercover teams combing this station, looking for anyone who might testify against either of those two. I want other undercover teams to set up sting operations. If we can't catch them in a fair scam, we'll by God entrap them in one of our own making. And if I hear of anyone betting on the outcome of this wager, I'll have pensions, so help me! Now move it! We have work to do!"

Agents in black fled the room to receive assignments from their captains and lieutenants and sergeants. Montgomery Wilkes remained behind in the empty ready room and gazed cold-eyed at the projected visage of smiling Skeeter Jackson. "I'll get you," he said softly to the colored light on the blank, ten-foot wall. "I will by God get you. And it's about time Bull Morgan understood just who the law around here really is."

He stalked out onto the Commons on course for the station manager's office.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Like most time terminals, TT-86 attracted gifted scholars from around the world, many of them the very best at what they did. Robert Li was no exception. As an antiquarian, he was sought out by private collectors and museums alike as a consultant and had been instrumental in identifying numerous quality forgeries.

There was good reason for this: no one excelled Robert Li at producing forgeries of the genuine article. His work was-usually-strictly legal. Tourists and museum reps often brought items uptime to his studio to be reproduced in exquisite detail, which were then exported to museums around the world as legal replicas bearing the IA trademark. Occasionally, however, like most other 'eighty-sixers, Robert Li would get a bellyful of ATFs high-handed tactics.

He had an exceptionally strong-if unique-sense of right and wrong. The closer Montgomery Wilkes' people watched his operation, the more ire he swallowed until, inevitably, it broke out in such indignant expressions as assisting thieves smuggle out their wares! (Of course, only after he'd charged them a substantial amount of cash to reproduce the item.)

Even so, far more frequent were the times when scouts had returned "stolen" items to their original times when he felt an item shouldn't go missing although, again, he usually reproduced it, first. And occasionally, an item crossed his counter that was so breathtaking, so unique that he simply couldn't resist. He could wax rhapsodic about Min porcelain, but Greek bronzes threw him into utter fits. Unknown to ATF---or anyone else, for that matter-Robert II kept a private safe the size of his bedroom, where he stored his most precious belongings. His collection of ancient bronzes rivaled that of the Louvre and surpassed that of uptime collectors with far more money than he had.

Some things, one simply did not sell.

Greek bronzes were one; friends were another.

Goldie Morran was, at heart, a cheating scoundrel who would've sold her own teeth, if they d been worth enough, but she was also a friend and one of the few people in the world whose knowledge of rare coins and gems approached his own. Goldie had done him a favor or two over the years, obtaining items here and there which his heart had coveted, and he harbored a secret admiration for her skills.

Unlike Kit Carson, he never tried to best her at billiards or pool, knowing his own limitations as fully as his strengths. Normally Goldie would've respected his lack of desire to wager against her. He was equally aware, however, that with Goldie's livelihood on the line, she would consider nothing sacred. So when she entered his studio, Robert Li buttoned his pockets, locked the cases and cabinets he could reach, and put on his best smile.

"Why, Goldie, what a surprise to see you."

She nodded and placed a carbuncle with ornate carving across its upper surface on a velvet pad left lying on the countertop.

"What do you think of it?"

He eyed her speculatively, then picked up the gem and a jeweler's loupe. "Mmm ... very nice. The depiction of the statuary on the spine of the Circus Maximus is excellent and I've never seen a better representation of the turning posts. Who forged it for you?"

Goldie sniffed, eyes flashing irritation and disappointment. "Bastard. How'd you know?"

He just gave her a sorrowful look from under his brows.

Goldie sniffed again. "All right, but would it fool most people? Even a discerning collector?"

"Oh, without a doubt. Unless," he smiled, "they hired someone like me to authenticate it."

"Double what I said before. Triple it. How much?"

Robert laughed quietly. "To keep quiet? Or provide authentication papers?"

"Both, you conniving-"

"Goldie." The reproach in his voice was that of a lover wounded by his lady's mistrust.

"Robert, you owe me a few. I'm desperate."

"ATF's watching me like a hawk. Word's out: Monty's planning to nail you and Skeeter, send you both packing to an uptime jail."

Goldie could swear more creatively than anyone Robert Li knew-and he knew all the time scouts operating out of TT-86.

Robert knew better than to pat her hand, but sympathy seemed called for. "Well, I suppose you could always poison Wilkes, but I think it would be easier to steer clear of anyone you don't know for the next few days. This place is crawling with undercover agents."

Goldie's eyes, sharper than ever, flashed dangerously. "Bull know about that? If ATFs undercover, they're way outside their jurisdiction and Montgomery Wilkes for damn sure knows it."

Before Robert could answer, Kit Carson entered the shop, sauntering over in a gait calculated to appear lazy, but which covered ground with astonishing speed. "Hi. Heard the news?"

"Which news?" Goldie demanded, exasperation coloring her voice.

Kit chuckled and winked at Robert. "Reliable eyewitnesses said the shouting could be heard through the soundproofing."

"Bull and Monty?" Robert asked eagerly. -Ten says Monty stepped over the line just a tad too far this time."