Clearly, she was out for Goldie's blood.

Robert Li sold many things, for many prices.

But he had never sold a friend. Not even a snake of a friend like Goldie Morran. Just because she'd sell him out at a moment's notice didn't mean he needed to reciprocate her lack of morals, never mind plain bad manners. And that was something ATF agents just didn't seem to comprehend. Not the ones trained by Montgomery Wilkes, anyway. Sometimes Robert wondered what drove the man so. Whatever it was, it boded ill for many an 'eighty-sixer before this business with The Wager was finished.

He dialed a number from memory.

A voice on the other end of the phone said, "Hello?"

"There's a sweet young thing on Monty Wilkes' staff making the rounds, trying to sting Goldie, and maybe you in the process. She just left here and she's goddamned good. All honey and goo-goo eyes until she realizes she can't have what she wants. Can't miss her. Just thought you ought to know."

"Huh. Thanks. I'll start passing around word, myself. You wanna take A to M or N to Z?"

"I'll finish in the group where I started. A to M."

"N to Z it is. Thanks for the tip-off."

The line went dead.

Robert grinned. Then punched another set of numbers.

"Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in five minutes. All departures, be advised that if you have not cleared Station Medical, you will not be permitted to pass Primary. Please have your baggage ready for customs inspection by agents of the Bureau of Access Time Functions, who will assess your taxes due on downtime acquisitions ..."

Malcolm Moore leaned over to Kit and said, "I wouldn't want to be in that line today. Those agents look bloody angry."

Kit chuckled. "You'd think with their boss in jail, they'd be more relaxed, not edgier than ever. Of course, after the fights some of 'em have been in ..."

Half the male agents in sight sported blackened eyes and bruised knuckles. A few of the women bore scratches down their cheeks. Mike Benson had been forced to discipline half his own staff-then, he'd had to order the ATF agents into temporary quarters in one of the hotels nearest Primary, just to separate them from Station Security until the worst blew over.

"I rather expect most of them wish Skeeter Jackson and Goldie Morran had never been born, never mind made that idiotic wager," Malcolm noted wryly.

Kit glanced up at the chronometer board again.

Malcolm laughed. "The clock won't move any faster just because you keep staring at the numbers."

Kit actually flushed, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, I guess I've missed the brat."

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Well, since you mention it, I am rather anxious to see her again."

Kit gave him an appraising glance. "Yes. She might say no, you realize."

"I know." The quiet anguish in his voice betrayed him. He couldn't shake the fear that his notorious luck might still be holding steadily on "bad."

"She might say no to what?' a voice boomed behind them.

Malcolm winced. He and Kit turned to find Sven Bailey, hands on hips, watching them like a bemused bulldog.

"What in bloody hell are you doing here?" Malcolm muttered.

Sven grinned, a sight that made most men's blood run cold. "Waiting for my pupil, of course. Gotta see if she remembers anything I taught her."

Kit chuckled. "If she doesn't, we'll both wipe up the mat with her."

"Oh, goodie." Sven Bailey, widely acclaimed the most deadly man on TT-86, rubbed thick-fingered hands gleefully. "I can hardly wait. I never get to have that much fun with the tourists."

Malcolm rubbed one finger along his nose. "That's because the tourists would sue."

The terminal's martial arts and bladed-weapons instructor grunted. "No lawyers allowed in La-La Land and you know it."

A new voice said, "Good thing for you, too, isn't it, Sven?"

They glanced around to find Ann Vinh Mulhaney grinning up at him. Very nearly the only person on TT-86 who dared laugh at Sven Bailey, the petite shooting instructor's eyes sparkled with delight. Their matched heights produced a comical appearance: squat fireplug, stood beside a sleek bird of prey.

"What is this," Malcolm muttered, "a welcoming committee?"

"Well, she is my student," Ann pointed out. "I'd like to say hello and see if she remembers anything." Her eyes flashed with unspoken humor, whether at Malcolm's discomfiture or in remembrance of Margo's early lessons, Malcolm wasn't sure.

Sven just snorted. When Ann glanced curiously at her counterpart, Kit chuckled. "That was Sven's excuse, too. You two are complete fakes. Why you should even like that brat after what she put us all through is beyond me."

"Like her?" Sven protested. He managed to look hurt, an astonishing feat, considering that his eternal expression was that of a rabid bulldog about to charge. "Ha! Like her. That's good, Kit. I just want another look at that Musashi sword guard of yours. You know, the one you said I could peek at if I trained her."

"And I," Ann said sweetly, pulling off the wheedling tone far more effectively than Sven, "covet another week in the honeymoon suite at the Neo Edo." She batted her eyelashes prettily.

Kit just groaned. Malcolm grinned. "You're as bad as they are, Kit, if you expect me to buy that theatrical groan any more than I buy their excuses."

Kit just crossed his arms and compressed his lips in a pained expression, as though he'd crunched down on a poisoned seed pod and didn't know whether to admit it or curse. "Friends." Disgust dripped like ice from voice.

"Kit," Ann laughed, touching his shoulder in a friendly fashion, "you are the biggest fake of any 'eighty-sixer walking this terminal. It's why we love you."

Kit just snorted rudely. "You sound like Connie. Do all the women on this station get together and compare notes?

Ann winked. "Of course. You're famous. Half the tourists who come here are dying for a glimpse of the Kit Carson."

Kit shuddered. His loathing of tourists was La-La Land legend. "I would remind you, I'm not the only famous `Kit Carson' by a long shot."

Sven nodded sagely. "But you're both scouts, eh?"

Kit grinned unexpectedly. "Actually, I'm not named for Kit Carson, Western scout, at all."

All three of them stared. Malcolm scraped his jaw off the floor before the others. "You're not?"

Kit's eyes twinkled wickedly. "Nope. I used to build balsa airplanes and launch 'em when I was a kid, then shoot 'em down with a slingshot off the side of some cliff. Dahlonega, Georgia," he added dryly, "might not have much left but a checkered history, but cliffs we had in plenty. So when I started hitting every little balsa plane I'd made with a nice, fat rock, he took to calling me `Kit' for his favorite WWII Ace Pilot, L. K. `Kit' Carson. Came darn near to matching Chuck Yeager's record."

"A fighter pilot," Sven said, eyes round with lingering astonishment. "Well, hell, Kit, I guess that's not too bad a thing, being named after a flying ace. Ever have a chance to do any real flying?"

Kit's expression went distant. Malcolm knew the look. "Yeah," he said very softly.

Before anyone could -pry the station announcer interrupted.

"Your attention, please. Gate One is due to open in one minute ..."

The four watched in companionable silence as the circus of a Primary departure wound up to a crescendo of baggage searches, purple faces, outraged protests, and the exchange of shocking sums of money collected by agents in no mood to put up with anyone's lip on this particular departure. By the time the gate began to cycle, causing the bones behind Malcolm's ears to buzz, tempers were ragged on both sides of the tables.

"Good thing the gate's about to open or we'd have a fight or two, I think," Malcolm muttered to no one in particular.