”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.