Margo smiled. "I'd say he's living his dream, huh?" Then more seriously, "Not too many people ever get the chance to try that, do they? I think you're the first person I ever met who was doing it." Except, maybe, Billy Pandropolous, and his dream was more akin to nightmare for everyone who came close to him. "I envy you.
"You know," Malcolm said quietly, "you may be the first person ever to do that."
"Huh. You got lousy friends, then. They can't see what's right in front of 'em. Money's not everything." She flushed suddenly, realizing she'd just insulted Malcolm's friends-at least one of whom was Kit Carson.
"How right you are," Malcolm said with a smile. "I'm glad you're beginning to see that. Some people never figure it out This way.." He nodded toward Urbs Romae. "Better hustle or we'll be late."
Paula Booker's establishment was tucked away in one corner of the Commons. Margo was expecting a hair styling salon. What they entered looked more like the waiting room of an upscale medical clinic. Just as they entered, two men emerged from an inner sanctum. One assisted the other, who shuffled awkwardly as though his groin hurt. The first one said sympathetically, "You think that's bad, you should see what she did to mine."
"Yeah," the second man said through clenched teeth, "but a whole new foreskin? God, I hurt ...."
Margo stared until they had passed through the outer door and vanished down the Commons.
"What was that all about?"
"Zipper Jockeys." Astonishingly, Malcolm Moore wore the blackest scowl she'd ever seen.
"Zipper jockeys?' she echoed
"They're here for one of the sex tours. Bastards go down time and spend the whole trip brothel hopping. Paula takes revenge on 'em, though. Does corrective surgery on them more than deserve, so their modern circumcisions won't arouse suspicion. Most places TT-86's gates lead to, circumcisions were practiced only by the Jewish. Anti-Semitism being the ugly thing it was in many down-time cultures ..."
"Oh. That's lousy. The anti-Semitism, I mean."
"Yes. Bigotry is. But Zipper jockeys deserve what they get. Paula ranks them down around the level of flatworms, which personally I think is too high on the evolutionary scale. She makes sure they hurt good and hard before they head out to rape women. If she could get away with it, she'd castrate them."
Margo glared after the departing men. "Someone should do something! Someone should stop it!"
"Yes," Malcolm said tightly. "Someone should. Time Tours won't. They make money off the trade. So does the government. A lot of money. Half the Zipper jockeys that go down time have to be quarantine when they come back, until Medical can deal with the venereal diseases they pick up."
"That's disgusting!"
"Personally, I think they should be marooned down time to die from whatever they catch."
No compromise softened Malcolm Moore's voice. All at once, Margo realized how very much she liked this time guide. "Thanks, Malcolm."
He shot her a startled look. "For what?"
"Nothing. Just thanks. What about my hair?"
He shook himself visibly and gave her one last penetrating look, then stepped over to a reception window. "Malcolm Moore, for the 8:15 appointment."
"Have a seat, please."
They didn't have to wait long. The inner door opened to reveal the most astonishing individual Margo had ever laid eyes on. She knew her mouth had fallen open, but she couldn't help it.
"Hi, Paula," Malcolm said, rising to his feet.
"Hello, Malcolm."
Paula Booker was ...
Cadaverous.
That was the only word to describe the cosmetologist's appearance. Tall-she topped out at six feet in flat, surgical-style shoes-and gaunt, Paula's face had hollows like a skull's. White hair wisped around a face the color of a bloodless corpse. But she wasn't old If Paula Booker were a day over thirty-five, Margo would eat her own shoes.
With those pale eyes and that funereal expression, TT-86's cosmetologist looked very much like a female Lurch, from an unknown branch of the Addams Family Tree.
"How are you this morning?" Paula asked as Malcolm shook her hand.
Even Paula's voice was soft and creepy.
Margo realized how intensely she was staring when both Malcolm and Paula turned and stared back.
"I -- uh -- "
To Margo's astonishment, Paula started laughing. The sight was so disturbing, Margo actually had trouble getting to her feet. She tripped over her own shoe and stumbled.
"Malcolm," Paula Booker winked, "let's show this young lady my photographs, shall we?"
Margo followed uneasily as Paula Booker escorted them into a private office. One wall was covered literally covered-with photos of one of the most beautiful women Margo had ever seen. Ash-blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, fine bone structure above hollowed cheeks
"My God! It's you!" Margo blurted.
Paula laughed again. "Aren't I a great walking advertisement?"
"You..." Mar go stared from the photos to the apparition before her and back again. "You did that to yourself?"
Paula's grin was a terrifying vision. "Indeed I did. Every morning I put on the finishing touches with makeup."
"But you could've been a movie star! A world-famous model!"
"Oh, I was. A model, that is. It was dead boring," Paula's eyes twinkled. "This is much more fun. And I get to do such interesting plastic surgery, too. I have a medical degree just for that. Somebody Caucasian wants to go to Edo, I doctor them a little and presto, they're virtually indistinguishable from a native-born Japanese. I can alter skin tone, hair color, whatever's required."
Margo thought about the man limping out of Paula's clinic and grinned "That's terrific!" She fluffed her own hair. "What can we do about this? Everyone says I have to dye it."
Paula studied Margo for several moments. "Yes; but we won't want to go too dark, unless you want her looking as funereal as I do?" She glanced at Malcolm. "Black hair with that skin tone will look terrible. Even dark brown is going to make her look anemic."
"Can't be helped. Use your judgment on how dark, but she can't go scouting looking like that."
"No," Paula agreed. "Definitely not. Red hair was associated with witches throughout most of the Middle Ages. Probably one reason red hair is relatively rare today-the gene pool was reduced through burning at the stake. All right, Margo, let's get started. Malcolm, you're welcome to sit in the waiting room. This will take a while."
How long could it take to dye one head of very short hair brown? Margo's answer came when Paula revealed her intention to dye every bit of Margo's hair: bodywide.
"You can't be serious!"
"Dead serious. And you'll need to touch up the roots every four weeks."
"But, but" That seemed to have become virtually the only thing Margo was capable of saying, lately.
Three hours later, Margo emerged, forlorn as a wet cat. She took one look into the waiting room's mirror and burst into tears-again.
"Hey," Malcolm said, rising hastily to his feet, "you look great!"
"No, I don't!" Margo wailed. "I look ...I look awful!"
The mirror revealed a pinched, pale face like an orphan someone had beaten and left for dead in some unspeakable sewer. She'd have died before revealing the ignominy of having hair dye applied elsewhere with a cotton swab.
"Hey, shh. Let's grab a bite of lunch somewhere then change into our costumes and pick up your luggage. We only have a couple of hours before the Britannia Gate opens."
Not even that prospect had the power to dispel the gloom that had settled over Margo. Just one other little consideration she hadn't foreseen in becoming a time scout. To get what she wanted, Margo had to give up being pretty.