Wagers of Sin: Time Scout II by Robert Asprin, Linda Evans Page A
Authors: Robert Asprin, Linda Evans
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when down-and-out newsies weren't conducting official gossip sessions.
And like all other newsies, who were snoops at heart, if someone bet on something, everyone in La-La Land would eventually hear about it, the process just speeded up a little now thanks to S.L.R.T.B.'s inquisitive, intrusive staff. Even minor bets, like how long it would take a new batch of tourists to react to pterodactyl splatters on their luggage, became juicy tidbits to pass along over a beer, across the dinner table, or over the new cable system.
When two of Shangri-La Station's most notorious hustlers made a wager like the one Goldie Morran and Skeeter Jackson had made, not only did it spread like wildfire through the whole station, it captured the top news slot of the hour for twenty-four hours running and made banner headlines in the Shangri-La Gazette: POCKETS-PICK'EM OR PACK'EM! The banner headline was followed immediately, of course, by intimate details, including the full set of rules laid down by librarian Brian Hendrickson.
Skeeter read that article with a sense of gloom he couldn't shake. Everyone who lived on TT-86 knew he never went after residents, but now the tourists would be warned, too, drat it. He crumpled up the newspaper and glared across Commons, wondering how much Goldie had scammed so far. Goldie had no such principles where cheating and theft were concerned, which meant residents were watching their wallets and possessions with extra care. It hurt Skeeter that many now included him in that distrust, but that was part of the game.
He glanced up at the nearest chronometer board to see which gate departures were scheduled and pursed his lips. Hmm ... The Britannia Gate to London tomorrow, Conquistadores this afternoon, medieval Japan through Edo Castletown's Nippon Gate in three days, and the Wild West gate to Denver in four, on a clockwork routine of exactly one week. He didn't like the idea of going after tourists headed for the ancient capital of the japanese shogunate. Some were just gullible businessmen, but lots of them were gangland thugs-and all too often the businessmen traveled under the protection of the gangs.
Skeeter had no desire to end up minus a few fingers or other arts of his anatomy. If he were desperate enough . he'd risk it, but the other gates were better bets. For now, anyway. The nearest gate opening would be the South American "Conquistadores" Gate. That would present plenty of opportunity for quick cash. He could set up more elaborate schemes for the later gates, given the time to work them out. And, of course, he kept one eye eternally peeled for Mike Benson or his security men. He did not want to get caught and Benson would have security crawling around all the gates, now that word of the wager was out.
Skeeter cursed reporters everywhere and went to his room to get into costume. If he had to dodge security, he'd better do something to disguise himself.
Otherwise, he'd be looking for a new home next time Primary cycled. The fear that he would be forced to do just that put the extra finishing touches on his disguise.
When Skeeter finally finished, he grinned into the mirror. His own birth mother-God curse her, wouldn't have recognized him. He rubbed his hands in anticipation-then swore aloud when the telephone rang. Who could possibly be calling, other than Security or some damnable snoop of a reporter who'd somehow dug up the truth about Skeeter from some dusty newspaper morgue?
He snatched the phone from the hook, considering leaving it to dangle down the wall, then muttered, "Yeah?"
"Mr. Jackson?" a hesitant voice asked. -Skeeter Jackson?"
"Who wants to know?" he growled.
"Oh, ah, Dr. Mundy. Nally Mundy."
Skeeter bit his tongue to keep from cursing aloud.
That goddamned historical scholar who interviewed downtimer after downtimer had been here so long he was practically considered a legitimate 'eighty-sixer. Well, Skeeter wasn't a legitimate downtimer and he wasn't about to talk to Nally
And like all other newsies, who were snoops at heart, if someone bet on something, everyone in La-La Land would eventually hear about it, the process just speeded up a little now thanks to S.L.R.T.B.'s inquisitive, intrusive staff. Even minor bets, like how long it would take a new batch of tourists to react to pterodactyl splatters on their luggage, became juicy tidbits to pass along over a beer, across the dinner table, or over the new cable system.
When two of Shangri-La Station's most notorious hustlers made a wager like the one Goldie Morran and Skeeter Jackson had made, not only did it spread like wildfire through the whole station, it captured the top news slot of the hour for twenty-four hours running and made banner headlines in the Shangri-La Gazette: POCKETS-PICK'EM OR PACK'EM! The banner headline was followed immediately, of course, by intimate details, including the full set of rules laid down by librarian Brian Hendrickson.
Skeeter read that article with a sense of gloom he couldn't shake. Everyone who lived on TT-86 knew he never went after residents, but now the tourists would be warned, too, drat it. He crumpled up the newspaper and glared across Commons, wondering how much Goldie had scammed so far. Goldie had no such principles where cheating and theft were concerned, which meant residents were watching their wallets and possessions with extra care. It hurt Skeeter that many now included him in that distrust, but that was part of the game.
He glanced up at the nearest chronometer board to see which gate departures were scheduled and pursed his lips. Hmm ... The Britannia Gate to London tomorrow, Conquistadores this afternoon, medieval Japan through Edo Castletown's Nippon Gate in three days, and the Wild West gate to Denver in four, on a clockwork routine of exactly one week. He didn't like the idea of going after tourists headed for the ancient capital of the japanese shogunate. Some were just gullible businessmen, but lots of them were gangland thugs-and all too often the businessmen traveled under the protection of the gangs.
Skeeter had no desire to end up minus a few fingers or other arts of his anatomy. If he were desperate enough . he'd risk it, but the other gates were better bets. For now, anyway. The nearest gate opening would be the South American "Conquistadores" Gate. That would present plenty of opportunity for quick cash. He could set up more elaborate schemes for the later gates, given the time to work them out. And, of course, he kept one eye eternally peeled for Mike Benson or his security men. He did not want to get caught and Benson would have security crawling around all the gates, now that word of the wager was out.
Skeeter cursed reporters everywhere and went to his room to get into costume. If he had to dodge security, he'd better do something to disguise himself.
Otherwise, he'd be looking for a new home next time Primary cycled. The fear that he would be forced to do just that put the extra finishing touches on his disguise.
When Skeeter finally finished, he grinned into the mirror. His own birth mother-God curse her, wouldn't have recognized him. He rubbed his hands in anticipation-then swore aloud when the telephone rang. Who could possibly be calling, other than Security or some damnable snoop of a reporter who'd somehow dug up the truth about Skeeter from some dusty newspaper morgue?
He snatched the phone from the hook, considering leaving it to dangle down the wall, then muttered, "Yeah?"
"Mr. Jackson?" a hesitant voice asked. -Skeeter Jackson?"
"Who wants to know?" he growled.
"Oh, ah, Dr. Mundy. Nally Mundy."
Skeeter bit his tongue to keep from cursing aloud.
That goddamned historical scholar who interviewed downtimer after downtimer had been here so long he was practically considered a legitimate 'eighty-sixer. Well, Skeeter wasn't a legitimate downtimer and he wasn't about to talk to Nally
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