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some precipitation-hardened metal for their engine, just lighter enough than their state-of-the-art to do the trick. Somebody finally noticed the anachronism maybe a century later, but they just credited it to dumb luck.”
    Harry smiled back, also smug. "Maybe it was dumb luck, Mike. You don’t seem to be too good at Interventions." He shook his head, trying to look sad this time. "You left a calling card up in 1862, Citizen. Sloppy." There wasn't anything too surprising about my use of the stun shot being detected. That the word had made it further Downtime, though, indicated Harry and his outfit were running multiple jumps to the same Downtimes. Apparently, his client had money to burn. "You think we can't spot stun after-effects?"
    His insult stung a little despite my resolve to stay impassive. "'We'?” I asked with exaggerated interest. “Is that the royal ‘we’? Have the locals anointed you emperor, Harry?"
    He glared back, momentarily off-balance. “No. I’m not working alone. My clients, unlike yours, could afford to hire an outfit with more than one T.I., Mikey."
    I just grinned, letting the old taunting form of my name glide off my back. "Some people prefer quality to quantity, Harry."
    Harry's grip on the big steak knife in his hand shifted, momentarily canting the point my way. "Look, Mikey, you already lost."
    "Really? When did this happen?"
    That smirk I remembered all too well lit his face again. "Several months from now. Hang around a while and keep reading the papers. You'll see it."
    "I'm looking forward to it. Do you have any more wisdom to pass on?"
    "Yes." Harry’s smirk shifted into a snarl. "Get out of the here-and-now. You're playing out of your league."
    I laughed, loudly enough to draw some disapproving stares from the Southern aristocrats in the vicinity. "I thought you said you already won, Harry. So why are you trying to threaten me?”
    “Just trying to protect an old friend. You’d take my advice if you were smart.”
    “Thanks. Why is this so important, Harry? What’s your client’s stake in a victory by the Southern Confederacy?”
    “You think I’m unprofessional enough to tell you that?”
    I shrugged as if the point were a small one. “Harry, I already know what your client wants, a victory by the South. I’m just curious why.”
    “What’s it matter to you?”
    “I’m an historian, remember?”
    “Oh, yeah.” Harry grinned nastily, as if recalling school days. “The client’s a funny old guy, Mikey. He’s also dying, but he figures that’s because he’s got defective genes.”
    “That’s nuts. Everybody dies.”
    “Yeah, but rich people figure they ought to be exempt. This guy thinks if his blood was pure he’d live longer than a couple of centuries.”
    “Pure blood?” I had to dredge up memories of some antiquated prejudices before the connection made sense. “He thinks if his ancestry had been pure, what did they call it, Aryan or something, he’d be healthier?”
    Harry grinned wider, enjoying the chance to mock his client. “He thinks he’d be a superman. So, if we make sure these Southerners win, that’s a step on the way to keeping racial separation a reality for a while.”
    “Did you tell your client that during slavery there was more racial mingling than afterwards for a long time?”
    “The client is always right, Mikey, especially when they’re rich.” Harry leaned back, using the knife to clean his fingernails. “So,” he wondered in a too-casual voice, “what’s your client’s beef with my client?”
    “My client hates slavery, Harry. It’s a moral thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
    Harry lost his smile, sitting up straight and canting the knife back toward me. “Too bad, because slavery’s gonna be around a while longer, like it or not. Get out of the here-and-now.”
    “And if I don’t?”
    "There's a war going on, Mikey. People can get hurt.”
    “I’ll remember that. I’ll also make sure my Personal Assistant