"Dead serious. Speaking of dead, what the devil was that thing?" He jabbed a thumb at the creature which had fallen through the ceiling. Judging from the remains, it had been all teeth, tail, and claws. Several tourists had crowded closer already.
Sue Fritchey waded in. "Sickle-claw killer of some kind, about the size of Utah raptor, but a different species from the look of it. We didn't know they'd survived that late into the Cretaceous. Just be real glad it's dead"
Malcolm shivered absently. "Am I ever. Say, that thing is warm!" He leaned over for a better look.
Sure enough, heat was rising from the dead sickle claw.
"Yep," Sue said, moving back after a cursory glance. "Get back, please."
"But, it's warm! Surely you can appreciate what this means for the scientific debate over ornithischian endothermy!"
Sue glared at him. "Yes, I do! I also appreciate that it's a cooling corpse. Its parasites are going to start leaving in droves-and I don't want anyone finding a tick the size of their own pinkie or a pinworm the size of a ballpoint pen! Jimmy, scour and disinfect this whole area!
Malcolm moved hastily away. Tourists abandoned attempts to see the dead 'raptor and crowded around the netted pterodactyl instead. Pest Control was bringing up a forklift hoist and a large wooden pallet to transport it.
"C'mon, hero," Kit said, taking Malcolm's elbow. "Let's clean you up and look at that wrist." He steered Malcolm through the crowd and hustled him off to Rachel Eisenstein's infirmary. She fussed over the wrist, told him he d sprained it heroically and warned him, "Don't tackle anything more strenuous than dinner for a couple of days, okay?" She suspended his injured wrist in a real sling. His shirt, retired from sling duty, had begun to dry, revealing tears and gore stains. The rest of him, however, was squeaky clean: Rachel had given him a bath in disinfectant and new clothes.
"Yes, ma'am." He saluted her with his unbandaged hand.
"Good," Rachel smiled "Now, scoot I have work to do. Some of the tourists were hurt during the ruckus and others are having hysterics. Unstable gates," she grimaced, "are not conducive to integrated psyches. Wish I'd been there to see it. Just my luck I was stuck on call and couldn't leave."
Kit sympathized, then they left Rachel to the demands of her profession. Once in the corridor, Kit said, "You never did answer. Are you game for the Britannia Gate?"
Malcolm chuckled thinly "You should know without having to ask. Where shall I take her? A night at the opera? Or maybe a stay in the East End to discourage girlish romantic fantasies?"
"I leave that to your discretion and wisdom. I would suggest we collect my granddaughter, though, and head over to Connie Logan's. Kid'll need a good down-time kit." .
Malcolm nodded. "Are we playing tourist for this trip or am I getting her ready for her role as disguised boy?"
Kit considered. "Again, use your discretion, but I'm inclined to think a little of both."
"So am I. I'll, uh, meet you at Connie's," he said. "In, say, fifteen or twenty? These pants Rachel gave me, uh, pinch."
"Make it the Prince Albert and we'll finish lunch before we collar her."
Malcolm grinned. "Whatever you say, boss! You may shower me with free food and money all you like."
Kit just snorted "I'd tell you to go soak your head, but you already did. See you at the Albert."
Connie Logan's establishment was--in keeping with La La Land's reputation-one of the true first-class Outfitters in the business. Connie was young for it, barely twenty-six, but she'd started with an advantage. A theatrical aunt who'd owned a small touring company had raised her in the business of historical costuming, then died and left her with an inventory, a room full of cloth waiting to be turned into historically accurate clothing, considerable skill as a seamstress and designer; and enough money to attract venture capital.
Connie Logan was sharp, creative, and a delight to 'eighty-sixers. They often laid wagers on what she'd be seen wearing next. The sign over her doorway was short but effective: CLOTHES AND STUFF. A few tourists were stupid enough to prefer shops with fancier names, but not many. On their way across the Commons, Margo admitted that she hadn't been inside yet.
"I hate to shop when I'm too broke to buy anything," she admitted "It's depressing."
"What about that barmaid's dress?"
Her cheeks colored. "Skeeter gave me money for that. He told me to buy it in Costumes Forever because the prices were better. I, uh, haven't been shopping since."
"Well, you're in for a treat, then." Kit smile but he wondered privately if this scheme would help or only abate matters. When he steered her through Clothes and Stuff's doorway, Margo spent a full minute in the center of the main aisle just staring. Then she gave a low sound of utter ecstasy, turned in a complete circle to gape at shelves, display racks, and glass cases, then ended with a wide-eyed, "Shopper's freaking paradise!"
She thereupon bolted for the nearest dress racks.
Malcolm took one look at Kit's face and convulsed with silent laughter.
"Oh, shut up," Kit groused. "Some help you are."
"Kit, you have to admit, there's a pretty darned funny side to this. She's eighteen. She's female. She's just been given an expense account in heaven."
"Oh, great. Make me feel better."
Malcolm's long face creased in a wide grin. "I suspect the Neo Edo can support it."
"Huh. Your taxes aren't due next time Primary cycles." Malcolm's eyes twinkled. "Oh, yes they are. I just don't have enough income for it to matter."
Kit thumped his shoulder. "Just wait I'll take care of that little problem."
"Thanks," Malcolm drawled. "I'll go from owing zip to owing a third of whatever you pay me."
"Well, I could just pay you two thirds of what we agreed on ...."
"Fat chance. A man's got his pride, after all. Hey, look, Connie has a new line ready for the London season."
He wandered off to do his own window shopping. Intrigued as always by the content's of Clothes and Stuff, Kit cruised the aisles as well, just to get a feel for what they'd need. Neat racks displayed costumes appropriate to La-La Land's resident gates. Costumes were situated in carefully arranged groupings, neatly labeled as to geographic location, exact time period, and appropriate occupation or social occasion. Items could be either rented (for those on a budget) or purchased (for those with essentially sky's-the-limit funds).
Shelving units and glass cases held every manner of accessory, including an astonishing variety of footgear, belts, undergarments, gloves, fans, hosiery, hats, coats and cloaks, appropriate equivalents of the modern handbag, jewelry, timepieces, even items designed to conceal weapons: shoulder holsters for guns and knives, belt holsters and sheaths, ankle rigs, even garter-belt sheaths and holsters. One entire case was devoted to wigs and false hairpieces in every conceivable shade, most attached to hairpins or combs to be added as necessary to elegant coiffures. Every one of them was styled after authentic period hairpieces.
Another section of the shop included appropriately designed luggage, lighting equipment from candle lanterns to oil lamps, sanitary and survival gear, tools, weapons, even historically appropriate eyeglasses. One employee on Connie's payroll did nothing but grind prescription glasses and long-wear contact lenses to order for those who needed them.
If it had existed down time and people had used it, or if it was necessary to survival and it could be disguised, Clothes and Stuff stocked it or was prepared to manufacture it.
Connie herself, in direct contrast to her shop, was anything but neat and organized She emerged from the back where she kept her office and design studio, noticed Kit, and waved. Kit chuckled. Beneath a hand basted kimono that gaped open because she hadn't tied on an obi to hold it closet she was clad in bits and pieces of Victorian undergarments. She wore hobnailed Roman "boots" on her feet and an ancient Meso American feathered headdress appropriate for a jaguar priest over long, glossy black hair. Her eyes, a startling Irish blue, sparkled as she came across the shop, clomping every step of the way in her ancient footgear.