Wagers of Sin: Time Scout II by Robert Asprin, Linda Evans Page B

Mundy or any other historical scholars about anything, much less his years in Mongolia. In some ways, scholars were worse than newsies for nosing around in a guy's private life.
    Mundy must've seen the news broadcasts or read the Gazette, which had reminded him to make The Monthly Call. Sometimes Skeeter genuinely hated Nally Mundy for having come across that years-old scrap of newspaper clipping. Some thoughtless fool must've put it into a computer database somewhere, one that had survived The Accident, and Mundy, thorough old coot that he was-had run across it on a search for anything that survived relating to Temujin.
    He actually groaned aloud while leaning his brow against the cold wall. The sound prompted a hesitant, "Have I called at an inconvenient time?"
    Skeeter nearly laughed aloud, imagining all too clearly what the good historian must be thinking. Skeeter's reputation with women being what it was ... "No," he heard his voice say, while the rest of him screamed, Yes, you idiot! Tell him you're screwing some tourist through the bed so you can get out of here and steal anything you can get from all those Conquistadores! They're even stupider than you are! But he couldn't very well say that. Fortunately, Dr. Mundy rescued him from saying anything at all.
    "Ah, well, good, then." The good doctor-like all 'eighty-sixers-knew better than to ask Skeeter anything about his current affairs (business or otherwise), but some men were stone-hard persistent about Skeeter's past affairs. "Yes, then, well, to business." Skeeter reined in considerable impatience. He'd heard all this before from the fussy little man. "I'm starting a new series of interviews, you see, with generous compensation, of course, and there is so much you could reveal about Temujin's early years, the father and mother who molded him into what he eventually became. Please say you'll come, Skeeter."
    Skeeter actually hesitated a moment. Generous compensation, huh? The old fiddler in other people's lives must've received a beaut of a grant from somewhere. And Skeeter did need money badly, for the bet. But Brian Hendrickson would never allow money earned from an interview with Nally Mundy to count toward his bet.
    "Sorry, Doc. Answer's still no. Don't want my name and photo scattered all over the goddamned world. I've made a few enemies, you know, over the years. Professional hazard. I'd be pretty goddamned stupid if I let you put my name and photo all over your next little research paper. Hell, it wouldn't be stupid, it'd be suicidal. Forget it, Doc."
    A nasal sigh gusted through the receiver. "Very well, then. You do have my number?" (Skeeter had thrown it into the trash a long time ago.) "Good." Mundy took his silence for assent, a trick Yesukai had taught him: when to speak and when to hold silent as a lizard on the sun-warmed rocks. "If you change your mind Skeeter, whatever the reason, whatever the hour, please call me. We know so very little, really about Temujin, his early childhood, his relatives-anything that could shed light on the boy who grew up to be Genghis Khan."
    Skeeter did realize enough to know that sending researchers down the gate would be tantamount to murder. The scout who'd brought him back had died in the attempt. Either Temujin's band of hunted brothers and followers would kill them, or Temujin's enemies would. He really was the only source. And since Yesukai had taught him the knack of remaining silent, he did so. The Dreaded Call would come every month of every year, anyway, regardless of what Skeeter did. Maybe one of these days he'd even be desperate enough to accept Mundy's terms. But not yet. Not by a long shot.
    "Well, then, that's it, I suppose. I always hate letting you go, young man. One of these days I'm going to read in the Gazette that you've ended up dead through one of your endless schemes and that would be a great loss to scholarship. A very great loss, indeed. Do, please call, then, Skeeter. You know i'll be