The comparison hurt.

Skeeter found that nearest bar, ignoring tattooed Yakuza and wide-eyed japanese businessmen, and got roaring, nastily drunk. Had his luck gone sour? Was all this a punishment for screwing over-and thus guaranteeing the loss of-his only friend? He sat there amongst the curious japanese businessmen and thugs who stared at the gaijin in "their" bar, and wondered bitterly who he hated worse: His father? Marcus, for pointing out how much Skeeter had turned out like him? Or himself, for everything he'd done to end up just like the man he'd grown up despising?

He found no answers in the japanese whiskey or the steaming hot sake, which he consumed in such enormous amounts even the japanese businessmen were impressed, eventually crowding around to compliment and encourage him. A girl dressed as a geisha-hell, she might have been one, since time terminals could afford to pay the outrageous salaries their careers demanded-refilled his cup again and again, attempted vainly to flirt and draw him out with conversation and silly games the others played with enthusiasm. Skeeter ignored all of it, utterly. All he wanted was the numbing effect of the booze.

So he let them talk, the words washing over him like the cutting winds of the wide, empty Gobi. There might not be any answers in the whiskey, but alcohol made the emptiness a little easier to bear.

Three sheets to the wind (a sailing term, Skeeter had discovered years earlier when his father had taken them on a short cruise so everyone of any importance would see his new sloop), Skeeter was just about to give into to drunken stupor when the phone rang. He snagged the receiver, tripping and knocking over a chair on the way. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Jackson? Chuck Farley, here."

Surprise rooted him to the carpet. "Yes?" he asked cautiously.

"I've been thinking about your offer the other day. About time guiding. You had a good point. If you're not engaged, I'd like to hire you."

Skeeter recovered from his surprise gracefully "Of course. What gate did you have in mind?"

"Denver."

"Denver. Hmm..." He pretended to consult a nonexistent guiding calendar while pulling himself together. "The best time for Denver's just a tad over two weeks from now, after the Porta Romae makes a complete tour cycle. Yes, I'm free for that Denver trip."

"Wonderful! Meet me in half an hour in Frontier Town. We'll discuss details. There's a little bar called Happy Jack's ..."

"Yes, I know it. Half an hour? No problem. I'll be there."

"Good."

The line clicked dead. Happy Jack's was a wild place, where anything could happen. Especially to one particular fat money-belt. Skeeter grinned as he emerged from his apartment.

Profit, here I cone!

Happy Jack's bore an enormous wooden sign over the entrance, of dancing, dueling cowboys shooting at one another's feet. A large glass window was painted in bright Frontier Town colors, as well, proclaiming the bar's name in red, blue, and garish gold. Skeeter pushed open the Hollywood-style saloon doors and entered the raucous establishment, where a piano player was already busy pounding out tunes popular in Denver-the lyrics of which would've given the NAACP a collective fit of apoplexy. Many of those popular old tunes, heard and bellowed in dance halls and saloons from New York to San Francisco during the 1880s, were not flattering to the darker races.

There was a running war between uptime delegations and Frontier Tar owners over the playing of those songs, but no resolution was in sight. So the pianists played on, accustoming patrons to what they'd actually hear downtime-shocking, crude, racist, and all. Skeeter figured it beat having some uptime type throw a fit in the real downtime Denver, were more modern attitudes publicly and forcefully expressed would get a tourist into hot water fast.

Skeeter shook his head. Some folks just didn't get it. Human beings weren't nice, given half a chance not to be. If crusaders with legitimate gripes wanted to fix things, getting into legal wrangles with station bar owners wasn't the way to do it. Couldn't change the past, no matter what you did, and the bar keepers were just doing their part to acclimatize customers, after all. Crusaders needed to stay uptime and pour their resources into causes that might actually do some good: like raising the level of education for uptimers of all colors and breeds of human being. Same went for those enviro-nuts who wanted to go downtime and save the environment. Besides, it was plain wrong to murder a bunch of downtime commercial hunters and loggers for doing what their time thought perfectly normal.

For a half-wild, adopted Yakka Mongol, Skeeter just couldn't figure out what was so horrible about taking a good, long, clear-eyed look at one's past and facing whatever one found in it. Making up the past to fit whatever idea some politically correct group wanted to pass off as reality this week seemed a lot more dangerous to him than facing brutal facts, but then, he was just a half-wild, adopted Yakka Mongol in his innermost heart. What did he know from social theory and uptime politics?

Chuck Farley was there ahead of him, sitting at a table near the front and sipping whiskey. Skeeter smiled his best and slid into a chair. Above the roar of piano and human voices, he said, "Evenin' pardner."

Chuck smiled slowly. "Evenin'. Have a drink with me?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Farley signaled the waiter. A moment later, Skeeter was sipping some fine whiskey. Ahh ... "Now. You wanted to plan a trip to Denver?"

Farley nodded. "What I really need is an experienced time guide to set up my trip and show me the ropes before I go through the gate."

"Well sir, then I'm your man. But my fee is high."

Farley reached into a coat pocket and extracted a bulging envelope. "Half of this is yours before we leave, half when we get back."

"You realize, sir, that tickets to the Denver Gate go quickly; we'll need to purchase them right away." Skeeter half hoped that Farley would hand over the money right then.

Instead, Farley put the envelope back and said, with the air of a man relieved not to have to bother with petty details, "I'll leave it to you, who knows the ropes, to make arrangements, then."

Skeeter grinned philosophically. "Sure thing. Where and when shall we meet next?" If this envelope was only a fraction of what Farley carried in that undeclared money belt, Skeeter would soon be a rich man.

Farley named a spot off the Commons in a quiet corridor near the Epicurean Delight. "We'll meet there in, say, an hour?" Farley added.

"I'll be there." Skeeter smiled.

"I'll be lookin' for you, pardner." Farley lifted his glass. "To adventure."

Skeeter clinked glasses and drained his whiskey. "To adventure. See you in an hour." Perfect, he gloated. Just where I want him. Goldie's gone for good.

He strolled out of the saloon and headed straight to the nearest money machine. He regretted having to front the ticket money himself, but he figured he needed to bait his hook with high-class worms to catch a rich fish. He then made his way to the Wild West Gate Time Tours ticket booth. "Hi, I'd like two spots on the Denver trip two weeks from now."

"Sure, plenty of tickets left." The woman behind the glass-who knew Skeeter as well as any long-time 'eighty-sixer-frowned and said, "But let's see the cash, Jackson."

He grinned, producing it with a flourish. The woman groaned. "Poor sucker. I pity him-or her. All right, here are your tickets."

She stamped generic tickets for the correct departure date and handed them over. "Don't forget to tell your rube he'll need his time card with him," she added sarcastically.

Clearly, she didn't expect Skeeter's supposed victim to make it anywhere near the Wild West Gate. Skeeter cheerfully blew her a kiss, then headed for the assignation with Farley behind the Delight. He whistled as he walked, tickets in his pockets, along with a little remaining cash of his own to buy supper with. He chuckled midwhistle. After he got possession of that money-belt, the little bit of his own money he carried would be insignificant by comparison.