Chapter 7 
Chapter 7
News travels fast in a small town.
And despite its enormous size for a complex under one roof, TT-86 was, in fact, a very small town, as isolated in some ways as a medieval village. There was no live television, no live radio, no satellite hookups to talk to relatives left behind. Electronic recreation was available, of course, for a price. Most private quarters had televisions and laser-disk players and nearly every resident owned some kind of computer.
But in order to satisfy the craving for live entertainment, ’eighty-sixers resorted to a time-honored form of recreation first invented by bored cave-dwellers who found themselves stuck in cramped quarters with nowhere to go. ’Eighty-sixers gossiped. About everything. Tourists, other stations, down-time mishaps and adventures, each other . . .
Someone had once laughingly suggested that station management install “backyard fences” in the residential sections. The jokester had immediately initiated a six-month wrangle over where, what color, who would pay for them, wood vs. chain-link, and installation vs. maintenance logistics, until Bull Morgan had finally put his authoritative foot down in the middle of the ruckus and quashed it with a succinct. “No fences!”
Long-time ’eighty-sixers still occasionally grumbled over it.
Kit had no more than opened the gym door than someone called out, “Hey, Grandpa! How’s the arthritis?”
Kit shot back a time-honored response and told Margo, “That way. You’ll find clean gym shorts and T-shirts at the window. Tell ’em to put it on my bill.”
“Okay.”
At least nobody wolf-whistled at Margo’s stilt-heeled progress toward the women’s shower room. Kit changed and emerged to find Malcolm against one wall. Margo had not yet put in an appearance.
“Aren’t you going to spar with us?” Kit asked with a wolfish grin.
Malcolm feigned surprise. “Me? End up wrestling around on the floor with your grandkid? Kit, stupid I ain’t.”
“You’re twenty years younger than I, dammit. Dress out. If you’re short of pocket cash, I’ll pay for the rental. Hell, I’ll pay for the sparring session. If we knock her flat enough, maybe she’ll give up.”
“Well, okay. It’s your party. But I wouldn’t count on it. She does remind me a little of you.”
Kit tossed his towel at Malcolm’s head. The younger man grinned, caught it, and tossed it right back, then headed for the shower room. Margo emerged decently clad in shorts, a loose T-shirt, and rented cotton-soled shoes. She moved well, but that might just have been youth and an unfortunate tendency toward exhibitionism. Clearly, she was perfectly well aware that every male eye in the room was on her.
Huh. It’s not bad enough she’s my granddaughter, but she has to be sexy as a minx, too. And legally old enough to make her own decisions if the age on her ID were accurate. She looked eighteen, anyway. He’d tackle her about her exact age later. Kit tried to adjust himself to the uncomfortable new mindset as she crossed the last couple of yards and came to a halt. She balanced lightly on the balls of her feet. “Well, are you ready?”
Kit shook his head. “Malcolm’s joining us. I want to watch you two spar first. Then you and I will pair off.”
She didn’t look happy about that.
Malcolm finally arrived “Okay, boss. Shoot.”
“Let’s see what the two of you can do, shall we?”
Malcolm nodded and gave Margo a formal bow. She returned it in classic sportsman-like fashion—and Malcolm charged. Half a second later, Margo grunted sharply. Her back connected with the mat. Kit shook his head and tsk-tsked.
“Margo, didn’t your instructor ever teach you to keep your eyes on your opponent?”
She glared up at him from an extremely indelicate position with Malcolm between her knees. He’d pinned her wrists to the floor. “How was I supposed to know he’d cheat?”
Malcolm grinned. “This isn’t a dojo, Miss Margo.”
“And it sure as hell ain’t a high school match,” Kit added drily. “We’re here to see how you can fight. If you want to discuss customs and courtesies in the competitive arena, go talk to an etiquette master.”
Malcolm rose easily. Margo scrambled to her feet, mastering a huffy glare on the way up. “All right,” she muttered. “Let’s see you try that again. This time, I’ll be watching.”
Malcolm moved in fast and grappled her, using classic Greco-Roman grappling styles. The unexpected move completely flummoxed Margo. She staggered backward, trying to extricate herself from wrestling holds she didn’t have the strength or technique to break.
“Hey! What is this?” She tried stamping on Malcolm’s instep. He picked her up, leading to chuckles from across the gym. Interested spectators had halted all pretense of continuing any workouts.
Kit suppressed a grin, wisely deciding that laughing at her would be a mistake. Wordlessly, he separated them. Margo stood glaring and huffing for breath. Malcolm offered a polite bow which she ignored icily. “All right,” Kit said, stepping off the mat once more, “let’s see what else you can do.”
She turned that alley-cat glare on him—and Malcolm came in fast. But this time he didn’t catch her off guard. Margo snapped out a beautifully executed snap kick, lifting her knee and extending her leg so fast it was difficult to follow the motion. Her foot brushed Malcolm’s cheek. That kick would’ve scored wonderfully on the sporting circuit. If she’d kicked him in the nose or forehead, she might even have rendered him unconscious.
Unfortunately for Margo, neither Malcolm’s nose nor his forehead were in the right spot. He kept coming. Margo’s heel sailed straight over his shoulder. Before she could snap back from the unexpected move, she found herself on the floor, in exactly the same position as before with Malcolm between her knees.
“It’s not fair!” she wailed. “That would’ve knocked him out!”
Kit nodded. “Yep, if you’d actually kicked him, it probably would’ve. But you didn’t.”
“Look, I don’t want to break your friend’s face!”
Malcolm chuckled. “I appreciate your concern, Miss Margo.” He let her up, and she rubbed her wrists, then eased a strained muscle in her thigh.
Kit said, “Take five.”
He went back to the equipment room and found sparring helmets, gloves, and padded shoes, then returned to find Margo glowering silently at Malcolm. “Okay, this should be pretty much like what you used in karate competitions.”
She eyed the equipment dubiously.
Oh, great. “Let me guess? You never did any full-contact competitions?”
“Well, no,” she admitted. “We always pulled the punches short and made sure the kicks didn’t connect. Our high school didn’t have money for this kind of stuff.”
Kit thought dark thoughts about any school administration that would allow kids to risk injury in a “sport” that was designed to cripple and kill. Pushing these thoughts aside, he showed her how the padded helmet worked. Similar to the leather helmets boxers wore, it was made of soft plastic, with a big pad across the forehead and down the sides of the face, straps under the jaw, and a pad that extended around the sides of the head a bit. Malcolm strapped on his own helmet, then slipped into shoes and gloves while Margo struggled with hers.
When she was ready, she said uncertainly, “I still don’t want to cripple him or anything.”
Kit nodded. “Just make him go oof and I’ll be happy.”
“Okay.”
Once again, Malcolm charged in, giving her almost no time to react. Margo executed a side check kick and hit him right across the pelvis. He said “oof!” and stopped abruptly. As he folded over, Margo hit him just above his right ear with her left fist. Another sharp “oof!” accompanied the punch. Margo struck with her right fist across the back of the skull on his way down. A third ludicrous “oof!” tore loose. When his face hit the mat, a final, muffled “oof . . .” prompted grins all across the gym.
Margo said sweetly, “You mean, like those four?”
Kit just looked at her. “Aren’t you going to finish him off?”
From near Margo’s feet, Malcolm muttered into the mat, “Oh, God, don’t encourage her.”
Kit chuckled and nudged him with an unsympathetic toe. “C’mon, Malcolm, get up and do it again. This doesn’t prove she’s any good, it just proves you’ve gotten overconfident.”
Margo huffed and crossed her arms.
Malcolm scraped himself off the mat and stood up, moving a little awkwardly. Kit grinned. “What’s the matter, Malcolm? A little slow on the rebound?”
“You,” Malcolm muttered, “are a pain.”
“Every chance I get.”
Malcolm charged without warning. Margo threw up another check kick, but Malcolm stopped short, leaving the kick whistling through empty air. By the time she’d finished executing it, she was turned away from him. Malcolm rushed in gleefully. Kit winced and braced himself for Margo’s wail of protest. Her back was toward him as Malcolm rushed forward—
Then she astonished them both.
Margo stepped toward Malcolm. When he hit her, Margo brought her elbow straight back with the forearm parallel to floor, fist clenched, palm up. She leaned into it and hit him in the solar plexus. He snapped forward with an ugly sound that caused Kit to grimace in sympathy. Margo dropped as he did, then grabbed him around the neck with both arms and jerked him forward. Poor Malcolm landed dead on his backside with Margo balanced lightly on her feet behind him. She grabbed his hair in her gloved fist and punched him in the base of the skull with her right hand, pulling the punch so that it just popped him.
While Malcolm’s eyes and nose streamed wetness, Margo said even more sweetly, “You mean finish him off like that?”
Kit crossed his arms to hide his amusement. He didn’t want Margo getting cocky. Poor Malcolm was blinking and struggling manfully to dry his face with his gloves. “Well, that’s one,” Kit drawled, “but in a real situation, you always need to kill or cripple at least twice.”
“Twice?” Margo echoed. “Oh, so he doesn’t surprise you when you think he’s down.”
When she made to finish Malcolm off again, Kit waved her back.
“No, Malcolm is clearly finished. This time.”
The freelance guide glared at Kit as though to say, “Malcolm does not want to play anymore. Malcolm is in pain and will pay you back for this, good buddy.”
Kit shrugged as though to say, “Who knew?”
Malcolm had struggled to his feet. “You . . .” he wheezed at Kit, “. . . should be damned glad Bull doesn’t allow litigation lawyers in La-La Land.”
“So I should,” Kit said mildly. “And so should you. Go one more time.”
“Gripes, Kit, what’re you trying to do? Give Rachel Eisenstein more business?”
Margo was literally preening.
Kit’s grin was entirely unsympathetic. “The day Margo puts you in the hospital is the day I’ll eat your shoes. C’mon, buddy. Brace up.”
Margo gave him a mocking bow, carefully keeping her eyes on him. Malcolm groaned and settled himself. “All right,” he muttered. “We’ll just see.”
Malcolm, forced into the role of attacker by the requirements of the sparring session, came in again—but this time, he surprised her. Malcolm came at her like a trained Tai Kwan Do fighter, throwing a beautiful front snap kick of his own. It knocked her back with an unladylike sound. Malcolm charged in flailing, punching with both fists, one-two, one-two. Margo staggered back, moving away, bringing her arms up as he tried to hit her. Then she threw up a hook kick, sweeping his arms down out of the way with her foot. Before he could recover, she punched him twice in the face, using the momentum of her forward motion. As he backed away from her, Margo threw her shoulder into his gut, knocking him backwards. Then she really surprised Kit—not to mention Malcolm. She grabbed the back of his leading knee and snatched it up past her own hip while continuing to push with her shoulder. Malcolm smacked the mat flat on his back and gave out an ugly, “whoof!”
Margo landed between his knees in a parody of his early pins. She said, “Your turn!” and raked his face with one gloved hand, then popped him in the Adam’s apple with the other.
“Gak!” Malcolm’s eyes bulged and crossed, simultaneously.
Margo jumped up, grinning impishly, then actually curtsied to Kit. Laughter erupted across the gym, along with sporadic applause. Margo curtsied again to the audience, drawing greater applause. Malcolm rolled over onto his hands and knees, coughed, and wheezed in Kit’s general direction. “Stuff it, Kit. Mamma always taught me never fight with girls. Mamma was usually right.”
Kit managed to return Margo’s triumphant grin with a bored expression. “Thought you were trained in Tai Kwan Do,” he observed drily. “What was that little flip at the end of Malcolm’s second fall?”
Margo’s grin widened. “Well, my freshman year in high school, I took Judo until I found out they weren’t going to let us roll around on the floor like that with boys.”
“Don’t be nasty, little girl,” he said mildly.
Margo just laughed. “Next?” she challenged.
He privately conceded her the right to be pleased with herself, but cocky was dangerous. Time for a reality check. He stepped out onto the mat.
Malcolm wheezed, “Wait a sec. Lemme get out of the way,”
All across the gym, spectators pressed a little closer. Someone gave Malcolm a cup of water, which he gulped down. He took the ribbing surprisingly well, grinning and unfastening the gloves, pulling off the helmet and rubbing at the base of his skull.
Margo watched him with a glow of satisfaction warming her all the way through. She’d scored big time and she knew it. She saw grudging respect in Malcolm’s eyes and open interest in several faces as they appraised her. Finally, she thought, finally, I do something right around here! Maybe now Kenneth “Kit” Carson would start showing her a little respect!
Flying high, Margo playfully lunged straight toward him.
Afterward, she wasn’t sure what he’d done, except that he turned and raised one hand while the other came down. She was never sure if she touched him or he touched her, but she was abruptly sitting on her butt clear off the edge of the mat on a cold, hard floor. The ache jolted all the way up her spine.
When Margo recovered from shock, all she could find to say was a wailing, “Ow!” Then she turned to glare at Kit. “You threw me off the mat!”
“No,” he disagreed with a tiny smile, “you threw you off the mat.”
“HUH?”
“Okay,” he said kindly, “ready to do a little serious sparring now?”
That was more than Margo’s bruised ego could bear. She charged in, launching another nice high front snap kick—only Kit’s head wasn’t there. It was down around her belt level and the left foot she was using for support was suddenly up a little higher than her left ankle used to be, and at least a foot forward, while her backside traveled rapidly straight toward the floor.
This time, Margo was the one who blinked involuntary tears. Owww. . . .Malcolm was in her line of sight, grinning insufferably.
Kit Carson, damn him, said, “Well, don’t just sit there, kid. Come on, I thought you wanted to fight.”
She scrambled up and launched herself forward with a flurry of fists, as fast and furious as the punches Malcolm had thrown at her. Margo saw his open palms come up between her blows, but her fists never hit quite where she expected. Then, quite suddenly—due to a light pressure on her right wrist and elbow—she found it necessary to throw herself at top speed straight toward the floor. She landed hard, face first. At least this time she’d landed on the mat. Margo saw red. She regained all fours while he just stood there, smiling down at her. She lunged straight for his crotch, determined to grab whatever she could.
He grasped her wrist. Lightly. With nothing but his thumb and center finger. Adding insult to injury, he even left his index finger lightly extended. Before she could recover, he backed up enough to straighten her arm, then turned slightly. Her elbow straightened painfully across the front of his knee. He continued his turn, in slow motion to emphasize the point. Margo gasped—then gasped again as that lazy turn forced her to attempt crawling around him in a circle, just to prevent her elbow from being popped out of joint. Howls of amusement erupted throughout the gym. Oh, God, they’re laughing at me . . .
While she continued crawling around in a state of growing panic and embarrassment, Kit told her, ‘That’s enough for today, I think. Get showered and we’ll talk about this.”
He finally let her go. Margo stuffed a wail back inside before it could burst loose, but she couldn’t stop the impulse to rub her wrist. All around men were chuckling and returning to their own workouts. She bit back a scathing comment, realizing even through a haze of humiliation that she had a lot to learn. He set me up, dammit, he set me up . . . Well, she’d asked for it, hadn’t she? That thought got Margo through a long, miserable shower. Hot water pounded against bruises and relaxed knots of muscle from her neck to her toes. When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, she found the locker room attendant and tried to reclaim her clothes. The woman smiled and handed her another set of clean workout clothes.
Margo groaned. “Oh, God, not another torture session?”
“No,” the attendant smiled, “just something a little less, um, I think Kit said scandalous than your dress.” She handed that over, too, along with the stilt heels, bedraggled hat, and corset. “Keep the gym shoes, too.”
“Thanks,” Margo muttered, earning a sympathetic laugh.
Margo considered putting her own clothes back on, Kit Carson be damned, but she was so muscle-sore, just the thought of cinching herself into that corset was unendurable. Besides, she’d had enough humiliation for one day. She didn’t want any reminders of her own poor judgment where Skeeter Jackson was concerned. She hoped that rat made himself scarce. She never wanted to see him again, let alone talk to him. Margo wadded the dress, corset, and shoes into a ball and balanced the hat on top.
“Well,” she sighed, “chalk one up to experience, Margo. It’s going to be a longer day than you thought.”
She lifted her chin, refusing to acknowledge utter defeat. She’d bested Malcolm Moore and convinced Kit to train her. That was worth a great deal. With those moderately cheering thoughts, Margo headed toward her next confrontation with the maddening man she’d chosen as teacher. Surely, she told herself by way of a pep talk, it’ll get better soon. And if it didn’t? Or if he decided she didn’t have what it took?
Well, he could toss her out, but by God she wasn’t going to quit!
While Margo showered and changed, Kit sent Malcolm off with enough pocket change for a good, solid meal, then phoned to transfer funds into Malcolm’s account to cover the sparring session and damages sustained. He had further plans for the guide concerning his granddaughter’s training, which meant he didn’t want Malcolm quitting for good before Margo’s lessons had even begun. Malcolm didn’t know it yet, but he was about to become substantially richer—and probably a little bit greyer. Kit shook his head. Who’d have guessed the kid would work him over so thoroughly?
He took advantage of Margo’s tardiness in the shower to hunt up the next of Margo’s instructors. The weapons ranges were nearly empty. Ann Vinh Mulhaney was seated cross-legged on the floor next to an empty shooting bench, cleaning several break-action revolvers. “Hi, Kit,” she smiled. “I hear Margo gave Malcolm a working over.”
“News travels fast,” he chuckled. “Poor Malcolm. He’ll get over it, though. Especially when I offer him the chance to get even.” Ann laughed. “Poor Margo. Where is the Wunderkind, by the way?”
“Showering. I think she’s in there sulking, actually. She, er, didn’t do so well against Aikido.”
“So I heard. What’s up? Rumors are flying that you plan to teach her to scout, but I didn’t put much stock in them.”
Kit scratched the back of his head. “Well, actually . . . I want you to teach her to shoot.”
“You want me to what?” Ann Vinh Mulhaney’s eyes widened. TT-86’s resident firearms instructor planted hands on slender hips, ignoring smears of carbon residue and solvent on her hands. “Don’t tell me those rumors are true?”
Kit cleared his throat.
Ann stared at him in dawning horror. “Oh, God, you are teaching her, aren’t you? Any particular reason? I mean other than you’ve clearly lost what brains you ever had?”
Kit flushed. “Dammit, Ann, she’ll do this on her own if I don’t. You know how stubborn I am. She’s just as bad, and just turned eighteen, and convinced the world’s hers for the plucking. She doesn’t give a hoot about the risks, she just wants to follow in my goddamned footsteps. . . .”
Ann’s demeanor changed at once. “Oh, Kit. You poor thing.” She rested a hand on his arm. He relaxed slowly, letting the anger and worry go muscle by muscle. When he could breathe without hurting his chest again, Ann said, “All right, Kit. I’ll teach her. But if I pass judgment and it’s bad . . .”
He met her eyes. “Maybe she’ll listen to another woman.”
“Maybe. I’ve got a lesson starting in a few minutes or I’d offer to take her on right now. Go talk to Sven and see what he has to say; then come back tomorrow morning and we can get started.”
“Thanks, Ann.” He squeezed her arm in heartfelt gratitude.
She smiled. “Don’t thank me. This is going to cost, Kenneth Carson.” But she winked to remove the sting.
Kit just groaned. “What do you want?”
“How about the honeymoon suite for a week?”
“A week? Do you have any idea what I could get for . . .” He trailed off. “Okay. A week.”
“And my normal fees, plus fifty percent for private tutoring.”
Grandkids were expensive. “Anything else? My signature in blood?”
Ann chuckled. “You think I’m expensive, wait until you tackle Sven.”
“Great. Thanks. What does he want?”
“Out of the whole deal. I can hardly wait to see what you offer him that changes his mind.”
Kit decided to kiss an entire quarter’s worth of profits goodbye and went looking for Sven. Kit found him in the armory sharpening a Radius.
“Hi, Sven.”
“Hi, yourself. The answer’s no.”
The scream of naked steel on the whetstone didn’t encourage argument. Kit found a chair and plopped down. “Bull hockey.”
Sven glanced up. “No way. She gets killed, you come hunting me, I have to break your neck. . . . Nope. No thanks.”
“Would you rather have her go down time without lessons?”
“Huh. You’d rope her down, first.”
“Yeah, but she’d have to go to the bathroom sometime and that’s one determined kid. I mean it, Sven. I need you on this one. Ann can teach her everything she needs to know about projectile weapons, but she needs blades, too, and more martial arts than she’s got. She needs lessons. Good lessons. Your lessons.”
Sven put a finer edge on the gladius, then turned it and started working the other side. “You won’t interfere?”
“Nope.”
“Or get pissed off if she gets hurt?”
“Not a bit. The rougher it gets, the more likely she is to wake up and pick another career.”
Sven snorted. “You’re all heart, Grandpa. Well, the answer’s still no. She’s cute. She’ll come to her senses.”
Kit counted ten. Searched for some other argument. “I’ve got a Musashi sword-guard.”
Sven halted mid-stroke, then swore and reshaped the ruined edge. “Bastard. Is it signed?”
Gotcha. “Yep.”
Sven glared at him. “Where the hell did you get an original Musashi tsuba?”
“Found it in the Neo Edo’s safe. There’s some amazing stuff in that safe.”
Sven laughed darkly. “I’ll just bet there is.” He set the gladius aside and leaned back “If it was just the tsuba, Kit, I’d tell you to get the hell out of here.” He held Kit’s gaze. “You really want to teach the kid that bad?”
“Yes, I do,” Kit said quietly. “If I thought there was a way out of it . . . but I haven’t found one yet. I want her to have a fighting chance.”
Sven shook his head. “A woman scout. And a raw kid, at that. My friend, you’re crazy.” He gave Kit a lopsided smile. “But then, we always knew that. All right. I’ll do it. And Kit—keep the Musashi. God knows, I owe you a couple of favors here and there. Just let me look at it now and again and we’ll call it even.”
Kit, who couldn’t have taken the priceless Musashi sword-guard back up time in any case, decided he’d just found Sven’s next birthday present. ‘Thanks, buddy.”
“Sure. Any time you want to go off the deep end, you just let me know. When do you want her to start?”
“Any time you’re ready.”
Sven sighed. “Well, hell I guess that’s now. Have you eaten dinner?”
Kit shook his head “No, and I suspect Margo’s half starved. Why don’t I call and see if the Delight has a table open?”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll meet you upstairs as soon as I finish locking up down here.”
The Epicurean Delight’s decor reflected its location in Urbs Romae: mosaic floors, frescoed walls (some of them painted by a muralist who’d spent a year down time studying with ancient master artists), and tables interspersed with genuine Roman-style dinner couches for those with the desire to eat lying down. Live music was provided by an accomplished lyrist dressed in Greek slave’s robes. The waiting staff, too, dressed as well-liveried slaves. The evening’s clientele boasted six instantly recognizable millionaires, one anonymous Japanese billionaire and his current mistress, a member of Great Britain’s House of Lords and his current mistress, and three world-famous actresses who chatted animatedly about the down-time research they planned to do in London for their next film.
All in all, it was another typical night at the Delight. Kit noted Margo’s eyes widen when the head waiter seated them next to the actresses. “That’s—”
“Yep,” Kit said, cutting her off. “Get used to it, Margo,” he grinned. ‘“IT-86 is a magnet for the jet set, miserable lot of deadbeats that they are. Just don’t plan on joining their ranks and you’ll live a happier life. Now, while we wait for Sven to join us . . .”
Margo’s face took on a shuttered, wary look. “Yeah?”
“Relax, kid, I don’t bite. Those three,” he nodded toward the actresses, “are here doing role research. You said you wanted to be on stage, right?” She nodded.
“Good.” Kit leaned forward and interlaced his fingers comfortably. “I want you to think of scouting as role research for the most challenging stage play you’ve ever been cast as lead actress in.”
Margo grinned. “That’s dead easy.”
“No, it isn’t. If you flub your lines, there won’t be any prompters backstage. You won’t have a director to yell, ‘CUT! Take it from page six. . . . You’ll be on your own. Your performance won’t be judged by a critic, it’ll be judged by survival. Your audience will be the down-time people you encounter Fool them and maybe you’ll get back in once piece. Now . . . about your performance in the gym.”
Her eyes flashed. “I’ll get better!”
“I’m sure you will. I want you to answer one question for me, but I want you to think about it before you answer.”
“I’m listening.”
Kit nodded. “I want you to tell me what the goals of a time scout are. Ah, hello, Arley, how are you?”
Arley Eisenstein greeted Margo warmly, welcoming her to TT-86, then recommended the House Special. “It’s a new recipe, Egyptian, wonderful. You’re my guinea pigs.”
Kit smiled. “I’m game. Margo?”
With a combative look in her eye, Margo said, “Anything he’s having, I’ll have.”
“Anything?” Arley said with an up-tilted eyebrow.
“Anything.”
Arley rubbed his palms together in gleeful anticipation. “Oh, good. This ought to be fun. I’ll tell Jacque to get started. Is anyone else joining you?”
“Just Sven, far as I know, but I don’t mind company if somebody wants a chair.”
“Good, good. The more the merrier,” Arley laughed “Wine? Appetizers?”
Kit glanced at Margo, who was clearly tired but still on edge. “Is this Special of yours poultry, fish, pork, or beef? Or something else altogether?”
Arley winked. “Seafood. Mostly.”
“All right, why don’t we start with a half-carafe of Piesporter Michelsburg and some fresh fruit and bread and I’ll let you choose the wine for the main course?”
Arley flashed a delighted smile. “Mead. Egyptian mead. I’ll send Julie out with the appetizers,” Arley promised. He smiled warmly again at Margo, then threaded his way through the Delight, pausing now and again to speak with other clients. Sven Bailey arrived.
“So this is the one, huh?” he said without preamble. His long, shuttered stare brought an uncomfortable flood of color to Margo’s cheeks—and a glitter of irritation to her eyes.
“I’m the one what?” she asked coldly.
Sven just grunted and ignored her. He plopped into a chair. “You’re sure about this?”
Kit shrugged. “Yep.”
“Huh.”
Margo glanced from Sven to Kit, then back. She clearly wanted to ask a question and just as clearly wasn’t sure she wanted to risk the answer yet. Kit took pity on her.
“Margo, this is Sven Bailey, acknowledged far and wide as the most dangerous man on TT-86.”
Margo’s eyes widened. Sven just snorted. “Damned right I am. Last man who tried to prove otherwise ended up dead.” He guffawed, leaving Margo to stare uneasily anywhere but at him. Kit didn’t bother to explain that the gentleman in question had been a mad tourist who’d insisted on using the Biddle style of formal knife-fighting, despite Sven’s solemn warnings that it would get him killed (which it had, in some filthy little Soho alley, where he’d found out that knife-fencing and street fighting were not the same animal, after all).
Sven high-signed Julie, who beamed in their direction while balancing a wine carafe and glasses on a silver tray. “Hi, guys,” she said brightly, setting down glasses and a perfectly chilled carafe of Piesporter, along with tumblers of ice water. “What’ll your poison be, Sven?”
He sniffed at the wine. “Not that. How about a Sam Adams?”
“Any thoughts on dinner? We have a wonderful seafood special tonight, a new dish from ancient Egypt . . .”
“Hell, no. Let Arley experiment on somebody else. You still doing that beef thing you had in here last week?”
Julie dimpled. “We sure are. Rare?”
“Make it moo.”
Margo looked like she was about to lose her appetite—or worse.
Kit grinned. “What’s wrong, kid? No stomach for blood?”
Margo compressed her lips. “I’m fine.”
Sven eyed her. “You sure act squeamish for a kid about to try time scouting.”
She fidgeted in her chair, but refrained from comment. “Speaking of time scouting,” Kit said, rubbing the side of his nose, “any thoughts about the answer to that question I posed?”
Margo glanced at Sven. She looked suddenly very young and uncertain. Then her chin came up. “Well . . . A time scouts job is to find out where a gate leads.”
Kit shook his head. “I didn’t ask what a scout’s job was, I asked what a scout’s goals are. That’s a little different proposition.”
For a second, she looked so tired and hungry and miserable and confused, Kit thought she might cry. He prompted, “Just tell me what pops into your head. What’s a scout’s primary goal?”
‘To make money.”
Sven let loose an astonishing guffaw that startled diners in a circle three tables deep, then pounded Margo’s back with friendly affection. She nearly came adrift from her chair, but managed a sheepish smile. Kit grinned. “Money, eh? Well, yes, if you’re lucky. If the gate you push doesn’t lead to the Russian steppes in the middle of the last ice age. A few scientists might want a peek, but there’s not much commercial potential in a mile-high glacier. What else?”
“To stay alive,” she said, with a tiny toss of her short hair.
“Absolutely,” Kit agreed.
“You’re gettin’ there, girl. What else?” Sven asked, taking the burden of grilling her off Kit’s hands.
She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. “Learn stuff about where you are, of course. Do you take a camera?”
Kit thought about Catherine the Great and her Russian boar and winked at Sven. He’d clearly read the same article, judging by the sudden twinkle in his eyes. “Sometimes. Usually not. Cameras aren’t essential equipment.”
“What else ought to be my goal, then?”
Kit nodded. “Good. You’re asking questions.” He leaned forward. “Point number one: the kind of karate you’ve learned in high school might be great for a soldier attacking someone else, but soldiering—fighting battles—isn’t the primary goal of a scout.”
“Hell, no,” Sven muttered. “You want a battle, go live in Serbia or anywhere from Istanbul down to Cairo. Last I heard, Israel was threatening to pop a nuke or two if the Moslem states didn’t stop recruiting jihad fighters from down time and I can’t say as I blame either side. Gad, what a mess.”
Even Margo had the sense to shiver. What the time strings had done to the incendiary Middle East didn’t bear thinking about. A coalition of Moslem and Jewish women had come together to try and stop the fighting, but so far neither side was listening to the voice of sanity. The whole region had been declared off limits after TT-66 had been bombed into oblivion. Kit, like most ’eighty-sixers, had lost good friends during the death of the station.
Kit cleared his throat and defused the sudden chill by pouring wine for Margo and himself. “All right, then,” Kit said, “a scout’s goal isn’t to engage in battle. It’s to go someplace, to learn whatever he can, then get away clean, doing the least amount of damage to the local environment—including the denizens of that environment.”
“Especially the denizens,” Sven said, by way of emphasis. “Anything else is borrowing trouble. Big trouble. If you piss off somebody who can’t be killed and you end up in a life-or-death situation with them, you’ll be the one kissing your backside goodbye.”
“Wait a second,” Margo said with a frown. “What do you mean, somebody who can’t be killed? Anybody can be killed.”
“Not exactly,” Kit said quietly. “If someone’s death would alter history, then that person can’t be killed. At least, not by an up-timer. Paradox will not happen. History won’t change. People have tried. It never works.
“Never. Let’s say you try to assassinate somebody famous, like George Washington. Your gun will jam or misfire, or you’ll trip at the last second so the knife doesn’t hit a vital spot. Something will happen to prevent you from changing anything critical. The tricky part here is, it can happen when you least expect it.”
“Like if you get into a fatal fight with somebody who seems unimportant,” Sven said quietly. “If their death would affect history, then they won’t die. That doesn’t mean you won’t.”
For once, Margo looked worried instead of flippant. She glanced at Sven, then back to Kit. “Okay.” It came out surprisingly subdued. “What else?”
“Another point to remember is that we’re the outsiders, down time. Even if somebody is unimportant enough that their death wouldn’t matter to history, we don’t have a moral right to go barging in with a macho attitude that we’ll just smash anything that puts us in danger, without taking precautions to avoid problems in the first place.”
“The best way to win a fight,” Sven put in, “is to avoid fighting in the first place. The real kicker, of course, is learning how to avoid the fight.”
Margo chewed one thumbnail. “And if you can’t? I mean, what if some psychopathic kook jumps you?”
His cruel comments about Jack the Ripper had clearly made an impression. Kit refilled her wineglass. “That’s always possible, of course, and sometimes there may be nothing for it but to break a neck or shatter a kneecap, but most of the time your goal is to be invisible. If you can’t be, then your goal is to keep someone from breaking your neck or shattering your kneecap. And, of course, to get the hell back to the terminal in one piece. When it comes to scouts, heroes are just people who confuse cowardice with common sense.”
Sven gestured lazily with one thick hand. “Anybody knows that, Kit does. A real running expert on smash and skedaddle. And the only man on the station I can’t throw five out of five times, sparring.”
Kit chuckled thinly, drawing little circles in the condensate on the tabletop. “Only before I retired, buddy. I wouldn’t go near you, right now.”
“Only proves you should,” Sven came back with a grin. “Keep you on your toes. Keep you young.”
“Don’t rub it in too deep,” Kit laughed. “You’re not that far behind me. Let’s see, how old will you be come June?”
“Old enough,” Sven said with a mock glower that fooled no one.
Margo was staring, oogle-eyed, from one to the other. Then quite suddenly she relaxed, as though she’d finally decided Sven didn’t plan to pick up his steak knife and do her in between the salad and the main course.
“Now, that’s not to say,” Kit said with a smile, drawing the discussion back to the topic at hand, “that there’s anything inherently wrong with good karate. I’ve got a black in Sho Shin Ri and another in . . . Well, I have several and they’re all useful now and again. But Aikido—which is what happened to you, by the way—is probably the perfect defensive art.”
Margo did another beautifully executed stationary female flounce and glared at him—although less murderously than in the gym. “That was humiliating.”
“So’s dying,” Sven said laconically.
Margo flushed. “Okay, so I have a lot to learn. That’s why I came looking for a teacher. At least it’ll be more interesting than math!”
Sven grinned. “You don’t know math, you’ll kill yourself just as dead as a back-street punk with a dirk would. Now, if you really want to kill, Korean Hap Ki Do or Hwarangdo are interesting forms to get into. If you have six or eight years. Of course,” Sven rubbed his hands together and grinned, “Kit will tell you the years spent studying Hap Ki Do’s art of invisibility would be far more useful to a scout than its fighting style.”
Kit ignored the gambit to reopen a favorite discussion. “Unfortunately,” Kit told Margo, “you don’t have years because you’ll be spending most of your time studying, not sparring. So what we’ll do is set you up with an Aikido instructor to give you a good grounding in basics and a few specific moves, things that maybe could get you out of tight spots.”
Sven punched Margo good naturedly in the shoulder, causing her to wince. “That’s right. Stuff to let you use those damned attractive legs of yours to run like hell.”
Margo scowled at Sven. “My legs are none of your business!”
“Oh, yes they are,” he grinned, an evil, thickset imp who leaned back and cracked his knuckles while staring her down.
Margo turned a dismayed look on Kit. “He isn’t . . .”
Kit nodded.
“Oh, no . . .” She sat back in stunned horror. “My teacher?”
“Yep,” Sven said as his beer arrived with the bread and fruit plate. “Tomorrow morning, 7:00 a.m. Dress out and be prompt. Because if you’re late, I am going to wipe up the mat with you.” Then he laughed. “Hell, I’m going to wipe up the mat with you either way, but if you’re late, I’ll be irritated when I do it.” He held up his glass in a toast. “Enjoy your dinner.”
The look of stricken horror Margo tried to hide was comical.
Kit grinned and refilled her wine glass. “Drink up, kid. Tomorrow you go into training, which means no more alcohol.” The stricken look deepened.
“None? Not even wine?”
“None,” Kit and Sven said simultaneously.
“A muddle-headed scout—” Kit began.
“I know, I know,” Margo groaned. “Doesn’t live long.”
Thus proving she can learn, if she hears it often enough. “After you finish up with Sven, Ann Vinh Mulhaney will be ready for you.”
“What does she do?” Margo wailed.
“She shoots the pants off me,” Sven chuckled.
Margo just covered her face. “I’m doomed.”
Kit tousled her hair, earning a fierce glare. “You could always quit and go home.”
“Never!” The alley-cat snarl prompted a grin of anticipation from Sven Bailey.
“Well, then,” Kit smiled, “eat your dinner and pay attention. Uncle Sven and I are about to start your first lesson in survival theory.”
She gave them both a dubious glance. “That being?” Sven guffawed. “When the fight starts, be someplace else. And always remember, nobody watches your butt for you when it’s You versus the Universe—and Margo, the universe just don’t give a damn. Death’s a high price to pay for stupidity or carelessness, but they’ll get you eventually if you don’t do your job. And that job,” he took another sip of his Sam Adams and warmed to the subject, “ain’t pushing gates to get rich and famous. Now. The underlying principle of Aikido is real simple. There’s you,” he dropped a couple of droplets of water into the bowl of his spoon, “and there’s the universe.” He dropped another couple of drops nearby, carefully balancing the spoon so they remained separated.
“The trick with Aikido is to become one with the universe,” he allowed the droplets to run together, “so that nothing catches you by surprise. Master that and you can offer an enemy reconciliation instead of battle. The rest is just vigilance and practice.”
Margo was staring dubiously at the water droplets. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
She sighed. “Okay. What do I have to do to snuggle up to the universe? Chant ‘om’ a couple thousand times an hour?”
Sven and Kit exchanged glances. Sven’s questioning look clearly said, “Are you sure about this?”
Kit’s grimace said “Yeah, dammit, wish I could say otherwise.”
‘Well,” Sven said almost tiredly, “no, you don’t chant ‘om.’ There isn’t a secret key, some trick that will do it. Either it happens or it doesn’t. The way you begin in Aikido is to start by doing wrist exercises.” He demonstrated as Julie made her way toward their table with a heaping tray on which their dinner plates had been cast in the starring role. Sven shook out his napkin. “Why don’t you practice that while Miss Julie puts that plate of eels and steamed octopus in front of you?”
Margo swung around in her chair. “What?”
Julie dutifully conjured a dish of baby octopus—tentacles artistically arranged around the eels—swimming in a garlic sauce that brimmed with unidentifiable spices and grated vegetables.
“Oh, my God . . .”
Kit couldn’t help it. He started laughing. Sven was already wiping tears.
“C’mon, Margo,” Kit teased, “what happened to your brave challenge? I thought you’d try anything I was game to try.”
“But . . . but . . .”
“Let me guess,” Kit said drily, “they didn’t serve octopus in whatever little town you grew up in?”
Margo was still transfixed by the sight in front of her. The eels, which had been gutted and de-boned, still had their heads, producing the indelible impression that the plateful of slippery food was staring back. She swallowed convulsively. “I, uh . . .” She picked up her fork with an air of grim determination. “All right. How does one eat them?”
“That’s the spirit,” Sven laughed. “The eels, you cut into pieces. The octopi, you eat whole.”
She shut her eyes and swallowed again, then tried a bite. She widened her eyes. “Hey, that’s good!”
Kit chuckled. “Of course it is. Arley Eisenstein wouldn’t serve it otherwise. Bon appetit.”
He dug in with gusto.
True to her word, Margo matched him bite for bite—and enjoyed every last morsel.
The best thing Margo could say about her first lesson with Sven Bailey was that she didn’t have to pay for it. The worst thing was, Malcolm Moore showed up to watch. After the first five minutes, she seriously regretted the previous day’s sparring session. He enjoyed her utter trouncing far too thoroughly to outlast the brief satisfaction it had given her to show him up. After the first seven minutes, she had more bruises than she’d given Malcolm—and Sven Bailey was just getting warmed up. She gritted her teeth and stood it. After fifteen minutes of hell, which proved beyond any doubt that Margo was in over her head, Sven Bailey stepped back and said, “Okay. What’ve you learned?” Margo rubbed the freshest set of bruises and said, “That I have a lot to learn. I knew that last night.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve figured out?” His tone relegated her to the realm of idiots, worms, and cockroaches.
Margo bit her tongue with difficulty.
Sven rested hands on hips and studied her. “I was under the impression you were here to learn something.”
“So show me something to learn! All you’ve done so far is throw me around like a sack of flour!”
“Sit down.”
“What?”
He jabbed an emphatic middle finger toward the mat.
“Sit!”
She sat.
“Close your eyes.”
She did so.
“Now, breathe.”
Margo felt like an idiot, sitting in the middle of the gym with people staring at her while she did nothing out breathe.
“Forget Malcolm, forget the other people. Concentrate on your center. Breathe. Down to the bottom. Hold it. Hold it. . . . Exhale. Again.”
Grudgingly, her body began to relax. Tension made itself known in burning muscles from neck to hips. She shifted slightly for a more comfortable position.
“What are you feeling?”
“My neck is tight. My shoulders, too. My back hurts.”
“Good, that’s where you’re fighting yourself. That’s what I’m talking about when I ask what you’ve learned. You’re fighting yourself as hard as you were fighting me. Keep breathing.”
For half an hour, all Sven Bailey let her do was breathe and listen to her body’s multiple complaints. When he finally allowed her to stand up again she felt looser, but restless.
“Now,” Sven said, circling her slowly, “let’s practice wrist exercises. The strength in your wrists is pathetic. To study Aikido, that has to change. Like this . . .”
For another half-hour, Margo exercised her wrists until her arms trembled and her wrist bones ached.
“Very good. Now, let’s practice standing.”
“Standing?”
Sven crossed his arms. “Are you going to question everything I tell you or do you want to learn something?”
“Yes! I’d just like to learn it before I’m eighty!”
Sven’s appraising stare was about as warm as last winter’s icicles. “You can’t even crawl yet and you want to run the marathon?”
Margo clamped her lips shut. If she antagonized her teacher, Kit would yank her right out of training. Her mother’s voice came back to her: Margo, you’re too impatient for your own good. Slow down. You’ll get it all done. Yes, she would—but would she get it done in time? She was still fighting a relentless deadline, but if she hoped to succeed, she had to do things their way. If only you hadn’t gotten sick, you bastard. . . . But he had. And like Sven Bailey’s relentless personality, there was nothing she could do to change that. She could only adapt and incorporate the fact into her plans.
Margo drew several deep breaths. “Okay. All right. I’m sorry. Mom always told me I was in a tearing rush to do everything, even when I was learning to crawl. I’ll do better. I promise.” She tried a sweet smile and knew she’d succeeded when a little of the darkness left his scowl. “Okay, Mr. Bailey, how am I supposed to stand? Show me.”
Sven put her in position, then began to talk—surprisingly enough, about something besides breathing and strengthening her wrists.
“The idea we have in mind is to give you a broad foundation in unarmed combat before we move to armed combat. No, Margo, sink down a little further, that’s right, hold it. If you rely on the weapon alone, without backup layers of self-defense, you risk being caught helpless if you lose use of the weapon. Whether you’re carrying a firearm, a knife, some kind of chemical, or a club, you need to have other layers of protection in your defenses. One layer is alertness. If you don’t notice an attacker, he’ll take you by surprise. And once that happens, you’re in trouble. For the next twenty-four hours, I want you to practice a little game. Tomorrow, tell me how well you do. See how many times you notice someone before they’re aware of you and how many times they notice you first. Keep a record and we’ll talk more about alertness tomorrow.”
For once, Margo could see the immediate usefulness of the lesson. She vowed to score one hundred percent on this particular test. Nobody would catch her napping.
“All right, shift your stance like this. Good. Now . . . one reason to stay alert. Suppose you have a gun.”
Margo nodded. “Okay.”
Sven backed up at least twenty feet. “I’ve got a knife.” He brandished a closed hand as though holding a knife in a fencing grip. “Lady, I’m gonna cut your throat. Draw from your holster and shoot me.”
He rushed at her. Margo grabbed for her hip, pretending to go for a gun—
And landed hard on her back. Sven’s hand slashed her throat.
She widened her eyes. “Hey! No fair!”
“There’s no such thing as fair, girl.” He let her up. “Get back into your stance. Remember, a man armed with a knife can cover twenty feet faster than you can draw a gun. Keep your distance from potential threats and stay alert.”
Quite suddenly, the game wasn’t so funny.
Margo reassumed her stance. “What else?”
“Forget everything you’ve ever seen in movies. I’m talking martial arts, knives, fistfights, or guns. Movies are crap. They’ll get you killed. A knife fight is likelier to leave you dead than a gunfight—dead or crippled—if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Know how to use your weapon. Ann will teach you projectile weapons: firearms, archery, even blowguns. I’ll teach you the rest. Getting tired? Good. Next, you fall.”
And she did, too. Repeatedly. Sven taught her a better way to fall than her karate instructors had ever shown her. By the time Sven was satisfied that Margo had at least learned how to fall down, she was shaking with exhaustion and covered with sweat.
“Okay,” Sven finally told her, “shower and change into fresh clothes. Ann’s waiting for you on the range.”
Margo held back a groan and scraped herself off the mat. Malcolm Moore abandoned a kata of his own and intercepted her hallway across the gym.
“Please,” Margo said, holding out both hands to ward him off, “don’t rub it in.”
“No hard feelings.” He smiled, surprising her with the friendliness in his eyes, and held out one hand. She shook it warily. “Really, Margo,” he said with a self-conscious laugh, “you pointed out how badly I need to practice. I’ve been lax lately. Thanks for reminding me to get back in shape.”
“Oh. Well, you’re welcome.”
“Sven gave you a hard time.” It wasn’t a question. His friendly smile prompted a heartfelt response. “All he let me do was breathe, stand in one place, and fall down!”
Malcolm grinned. “I can think of worse things he might have made you do.”
Much to her surprise, Margo found herself laughing. “Well, yeah, I guess that’s true.” She nodded toward the shower. “I, uh, have to get cleaned up. I’m supposed to learn how to shoot.”
Her lack of enthusiasm must have communicated itself to Malcolm Moore, because he chuckled. “I’ll make a wager with you. An hour from now, you’ll be singing a different tune. In fact, I’ll bet you enjoy it so much by the end of the week, you’ll be sneaking in to practice when you’re supposed to be studying math.”
Margo rose to the challenge with glee. “That’s a bet! What’ll you wager?”
Malcolm grinned again. “Me? Hell, Margo, I’m broke.”
She laughed. “Me, too.”
“Okay, how about something besides money?”
“Like what?” She was abruptly wary.
Malcolm blinked, clearly taken aback for a moment by her tone. Margo gave herself a mental kick. Malcolm wasn’t Billy Pandropolous or even Skeeter Jackson. Kit Carson wouldn’t trust him if he were, for one thing, and he wasn’t like any guy Margo had ever met, for another.
“Well,” he said slowly, “about the only thing I have to offer is guide services. I could take you down time to London—if Kit agreed to pay for the tickets,” he added hastily.
Margo’s pulse started to pound. Down time to London? Oh, please . . . But what to wager in return? And would Kit Carson say yes even if she won the bet?
“All right, one down-time trip with all the trimmings against . . .” She swallowed and risked it. “What do you want?”
Malcolm eyed her thoughtfully. Margo braced herself for the worst. But Malcolm Moore didn’t say, “An hour in my bedroom” or anything even remotely close to that. “How about your life story?”
“Huh?”
“Well . . .” That nice smile of his made her feel warm and funny inside. “How else do people get to be friends, if they don’t know anything about one another?”
But . . .
Her life story? She turned away. “There’s not much to tell.” To her horror, her voice wobbled.
He touched her arm gently. “Margo, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just thought it might be nice to get to know you.”
She wrapped both arms around herself and wondered about that. Was she a person worth getting to know? Her father had certainly never thought so. Billy Pandropolous had—for reasons of his own, involving sex and cold, hard cash and a booming market for pretty Minnesota. But Malcolm wasn’t like that. Was he? Billy had seemed nice at first, too. Or maybe Malcolm was just looking for a chink in the armor, to get even? It was silly of her, perhaps, but she didn’t think so.
But tell Malcolm about her father’s drunken rages? Or finding her mother and a stranger she’d never seen beaten to death on the kitchen and living room floors? Or running for New York the second she turned sixteen to try and earn the cash to find her grandfather, only to land in Billy Pandropolous’ loving hands?
She blinked back tears. Well, she could always lie. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “I guess it wouldn’t be much of a bet if I didn’t have an incentive to win?” He smiled. “True enough. Do we have a deal?” She shook his hand. “Deal. And now I really do have to go. I don’t want to keep a teacher waiting.”
“Mind if I watch? Or would I make you nervous?” Margo thought about it and decided she really didn’t mind. “No, I think maybe I’d feel a little less nervous if I had a friendly face around.”
“Scared of guns?” he asked sympathetically.
“Well, wouldn’t you be?”
Malcolm chuckled. “You’ve been watching the evening news too much. Get showered. I’ll tell Ann it’s my fault you’re late.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Irrationally, Margo felt better as she headed for the showers. Maybe—just maybe—she’d found her first real friend.
Hearing protectors and range glasses were mandatory on TT-86’s firing line. The range was indoors, of necessity. One lane was a hundred yards long, designed for high-power rifles as well as rim-fire rifles, shotguns, and pistols, but most of the lanes were ten yards long, about the right distance for most personal defense training. La-La Land’s weapons trainers dreamed of a three-hundred-yard lane, but the cost for that much space was just too high. There were no clay pigeons to shoot at, no cute little metal animals or numbered bull’s-eyes. All targets were either blank sheets of paper, human silhouettes, or plain, circular steel plates. Other time terminals which boasted safari tours included animal-shaped targets marked with kill zones.
Ann Vinh Mulhaney’s targets were marked with loll zones, too: centered around the human torso and braincase.
Margo looked a little green already. Malcolm, lounging comfortably on a bench nearby, felt sorry for her.
“Get used to it,” Ann told her. “Time scouting is not a picnic.”
“So everybody keeps telling me,” Margo said with a shaky little laugh that didn’t fool anyone.
“Did anyone talk about the dangers of tangling with people who can’t be killed down time?”
Margo nodded. “Last night, yes.”
“Good. People who are critical to history can often be . . . dissuaded . . . even if they can’t be killed. Self-defense is a dangerous proposition at best, but self-defense down time is really tricky, because you never know if what you try will actually work. So it’s good to have a variety of options—fast legs, the ability to ride horses or drive a harnessed team, a good grounding in martial arts. Remember, the first lesson of self-defense is—”
“Avoid the situation in the first place,” Margo sighed. “That’s what Sven said.”
‘Then you’d better remember it. All right. A gun is only one layer of your defense. But if you’re going down time, it’s useful to know how to use one. You won’t carry one with you, because you’ll never know whether or not a firearm will be an anachronism there. But once you get where you’re going, you may need to pick one up in a hurry, if they exist. Firearms have changed a lot since their invention in the 1300s. So we’re going to start with something simple and fairly modern, something easy to shoot, just to get you used to marksmanship principles. Once I’m convinced you can hit what you’re shooting at, I’ll start teaching you historical firearms all the way back to the early pole guns. You’re going to have homework, too.”
Margo groaned and looked to Malcolm for support.
He grinned and shrugged. “Can’t learn without studying. Remember, I already have my Ph.D. and I spend my spare time studying everything I can get my hands on.”
Margo managed a smile that looked a little strained.
“All right. What will I be studying?”
“Principles of safety. Types of mechanical actions. Types of ammunition. How to load and unload. How various specific firearms function and differ from one another.”
‘Yuck.”
“You could always find another career,” Ann said sweetly.
“So show me!”
To Margo’s horror, her “shooting lesson” began with a three-hour NRA course on basic safety. Granted, her teacher covered several basic types of modern guns, too, but she was required to pay attention while Ann Mulhaney just stood there and talked, showed her photographs and models, and repeated, “Keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction; keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot; and keep the action open and the gun unloaded until it’s ready for use” so many times Margo thought she’d go mad.
“All right, what’s the first safety principle?”
“Keep the damned thing pointed in a safe direction!”
‘That being?”
“Away from what I don’t want to shoot. My foot. The neighbor’s window. Not up, if there’s a second floor to the building I’m in, or down if I’m upstairs somewhere.” Margo crossed her arms. “When do I get to shoot?”
“Later. Let me see you de-cock that single-action revolver again.”
Margo fumbled the job three times before she got it right She grinned in proud relief when she finally managed it correctly.
“Remember, a lot of these older-style guns and some of the modern ones have no mechanical hammer blocks, Margo. Screw this up with a loaded single-action that doesn’t have a way to block the hammer from striking the firing pin, and you’ll have an accidental discharge. If it’s pointed at your stomach—” Ann forcibly moved the muzzle away from Margo’s middle “—you’ll end up gut-shot.”
Margo’s sense of accomplishment dissolved. She felt like crying. First Kit had roughed her up, then Sven had hurt her, and now Ann Mulhaney was making her look like a dangerous fool. “I’m sorry! I’m tired and hungry. . . .”
Ann said shortly, “Get used to it, Margo. You won’t have the luxury of choosing the time and place for a gunfight to save your life.”
She wanted to scream. Instead she tried to reason with her tormentor. “Yes, but I could choose the time and place for the lessons! How am I supposed to learn this stuff when I’m beat on my feet? Don’t you people ever eat?’”
Her tummy rumbled in echo. Malcolm Moore must’ve heard it, too, because he chuckled.
Ann sighed and smiled ruefully, then retrieved the Colt Army single-action pistol. “All right, Margo, point taken. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning and don’t be late this time. I have other lessons tomorrow besides yours.”
Margo wanted to collapse right where she was. “I’ll be here.”
Where she’d find food, Margo had no idea. She didn’t have enough money even for a hotdog.
“Well,” Malcolm said on their way out of the gym, “what do you think?”
“You haven’t won your bet yet,” Margo said sourly. He laughed easily. “I have until the end of the week, remember? That gives me a couple of days. How about lunch?”
“I’m broke. I mean really, truly broke. I think I have ten cents to my name.”
“Where are you staying?”
“On a couch in Kit’s living room.”
The chagrin in her voice caused Malcolm to chuckle. “How come you never call him ‘Grandpa’ or ‘Grandfather’?” He watched curiously for her reaction. She looked uncomfortable. It took her a moment to answer. “Well . . . he’s not exactly the kind of person it’s easy to call that.”
Malcolm drew his own conclusions. “He scares you.”
She glanced up swiftly. The little-girl vulnerability in her eyes shocked Malcolm nearly speechless. Then the moment passed and the flippant “who cares” look was back. “Nothing scares me.”
Malcolm stopped several feet short of the elevator, causing Margo to stop short as well.
“What?” she wailed. “What’d I do now?”
“Margo,” he said gently, “if nothing scares you, then I may not have very long to get to know you. And that’s sad. Sadder than you can know.”
A tiny vertical line appeared between manicured brows the color of bright new flames. She studied him with frank curiosity, head tip-tilted to one side like a canary faced with an unknown beast beyond its wire cage. It occurred to Malcolm that she was very, very young and trying desperately to hide it. Hard on the heels of that thought was another: She’s been roughed up by life already. Dammit, she’s too young to look like that. What the hell happened to this kid before she found Kit? The interest he felt turned suddenly protective.
Margo sighed, which prevented him from saying anything he might have later regretted. “You’re odd, Malcolm,” she said slowly.
“Am I?”
“Yes. You . . .” She didn’t finish.
I don’t hit on you like the other boys? Is that it?
Or maybe, considering the wary tension in her body, it wasn’t just boys her own age who’d . . .
Malcolm forced his thoughts into less private realms of speculation. “How about some lunch? I have sandwich fixings in my fridge. We could meet somewhere for a picnic on the Commons. Unless you have another lesson?”
Margo relaxed fractionally. “Not that I know of,” she said a trifle ruefully. “A picnic on the Commons sounds nice. I . . .” She broke off abruptly.
“What?”
She mumbled something that sounded like, “Never mind,” and avoided his gaze.
Malcolm touched her shoulder very gently. “Hey. It’s me, remember? The guy you wiped up the mat with?”
Almost as though disobeying a stern command to stay down-turned, a corner of her lips quirked upward. She sniffed once. “Huh. I gotta beat up a guy before he’ll ask me out?”
Malcolm laughed. “No, but it ought to give you a little peace of mind, knowing you can.”
She gave him an odd look, then both corners of her lips twitched upwards.
‘That’s better,” he smiled. “Why don’t you find a nice spot somewhere in Castletown, maybe by one of the garden pools. We’ll have a quiet lunch.”
Her smile brightened. “All right. You know, that sounds wonderful. Thanks, Malcolm.”
“My pleasure.”
He held the elevator door with a courtly flourish that brought sparkling laughter to her eyes. That brought a sense of dismay to Malcolm’s determination to remain an utter gentleman. He could fall for this kid—hard—without much trouble at all. Margo got off at the Commons level with a cheery smile and headed toward Castletown. Malcolm watched her go, then punched the button for his floor. Whatever that little girl was hiding inside, it was hurting her. He’d started out the week feeling sorry for Kit. Now he felt sorry for them both.
“Well,” he told himself philosophically as the elevator rose with an efficient whir, “looks like another job for Mr. Fix-It.” He just hoped Kit’s granddaughter didn’t get them all into a jam they couldn’t untangle. Given what he’d seen so far, she could wreak havoc just by breathing.
She could also break Kit’s heart without even trying.
The insight left him with a chill chasing itself down his back. Malcolm made himself a promise, then and there: I’ll do whatever I can—whatever Margo and Kit will let me—to keep that from happening.
Where that promise might lead him, Malcolm didn’t even want to consider.