"Because."
"Because what? If someone pulls a gun on you, kill him at once. If you can."
"I couldn't. When you told me to cover him, my purse was 'way over there. So I covered him with this." Something suddenly glinted in her other hand and she appeared to be a two-gun fighter. Then she clipped it back into her breast pocket- a pen. "I was caught flat-footed, boss. I'm sony."
"Oh, that I could make such mistakes! When I yelled at you to cover him, I was simply trying to distract him. I didn't know you were heeled."
"I said I was sorry. Once I had time to get at my purse I got out this persuader. But I had to disarm him first."
I found myself wondering what a field commander could do with a thousand like Gwen. She masses about fifty kilos and stands not much over a meter and a half high-say one hundred sixty centimeters in her bare feet. But size has little to do with it, as Goliath found out a while back.
On the other hand there aren't a thousand Gwens anywhere. Perhaps just as well. "Were you carrying that Miyako in your purse last night?"
She hesitated. "If I had been, the results might have been regrettable, don't you think?"
"I withdraw the question. I think our friend is waking up. Keep your gun on him while I find out." Again I gave him my thumb.
He yelped.
"Sit up," I said. "Don't try to stand up; just sit up and place your hands on top of your head. What's your name?"
He urged on me an action both unlikely and lewd. "Now, now," I reproved him, "let's have no rudeness, please. Mistress Hardesty," I went on, looking directly at Gwen, "would you enjoy shooting him just a little bit? A flesh wound? Enough to teach him to be polite."
"If you say so. Senator. Now?"
"Well... let's allow him that one mistake. But no second chance. Try not to kill him; we want him to talk. Can you hit him in the fleshy part of a thigh? Not hit the bone?"
"I can try."
"That's all anyone can ask. If you do hit a bone, it won't be out of spite. Now let's start over. What is your name?"
"Uh... Bill."
"Bill, what is the rest of your name?"
"Aw, just Bill. That's all the name I use."
Gwen said, "A little flesh wound now. Senator? To sharpen his memory?"
"Perhaps. Do you want it in your left leg. Bill? Or your right?"
"Neither one! Look, Senator, 'Bill' actually is all the name I've got-and make her not point that thing at me, will you, please?"
"Keep him covered. Mistress Hardesty. Bill, she won't shoot you as long as you cooperate. What happened to your last name?"
"I never had one. I was 'Bill Number Six' at the Holy Name Children's Refuge. Dirtside, that is. New Orleans."
"I see. I begin to see. But what did it say on your passport when you came here?"
"Didn't have one. Just a contractor's work card. It read 'William No-Middle-Name Johnson.' But that was just what the labor recruiter wrote on it. Look, she's wiggling that gun at me!"
"Then don't do anything to annoy her. You know how women are."
"I sure do! They ought not to be allowed to have firearms!"
"An interesting thought. Speaking of firearms- That one you were carrying: I want to unload it but I'm afraid that it might explode in my hand. So we will risk your hand instead. Without getting up, turn around so that your back is toward Mistress Hardesty. I am going to push your zapgun to where you can reach it. When I tell you to-not before!-you can take your hands down, unload it, then again put your hands on your head. But listen closely to this:
"Mistress Hardesty, when Bill turns around, take a bead on his spine just below his neck. If he makes one little suspicious move-kill him! Don't wait to be told, don't give him a second chance, don't make it a flesh wound-kill him instantly."
"With great pleasure. Senator!"
Bill let out a moan.
"All right. Bill, turn around. Don't use your hands, just willpower."
He pivoted on his buttocks, scraping his heels to do so. I noted with approval that Gwen had shifted to the steady twohanded grip. I then took my cane and pushed Bill's homemade gun along the deck to a point in front of him. "Bill, don't make any sudden moves. Take your hands down. Unload your pistol. Leave it open with its load beside it. Then put your hands back on your head."
I backed up Gwen with my cane and held my breath while Bill did exactly what I had told him to do. I had no compunction about killing him and I felt sure that Gwen would kill him at once if he tried to turn that homemade gun on us.
But I worried over what to do with his body. I didn't want him dead. Unless you are on a battlefield or in a hospital, a corpse is an embarrassment, hard to explain. The management was bound to be stuffy about it.
So I breathed a sigh of relief when he finished his assigned task and put his hands back on his head.
I reached out with my cane, reversed, and dragged that nasty little gun and its one cartridge toward me-pocketed that cartridge, then ground a heel down onto its tubing barrel, crushing the muzzle and ruining the firing mockup, then said to Gwen, "You can ease up a little now. No need to kill him this instant. Drop back to flesh-wound alert."
"Aye aye. Senator. May I give him that flesh wound?"
"No, no! Not if he behaves. Bill, you're going to behave, aren't you?"
"Ain't I been behaving? Senator, make her put the safety on that thing, at least!"
"Now, now! Yours didn't even have a safety. And you are in no position to insist on terms. Bill, what did you do with the proctor you slugged?"
"Huh!"
"Oh, come now. You show up here in a proctor's tunic that does not fit you. And your pants don't match your coat. I ask to see your credentials and you pull a gun-a rumble gun, for the love of Pete! And you haven't bathed in-how long? You tell me. But tell me first what you did with the owner of that tunic. Is he dead? Or just sapped and stuffed into a closet? Answer quickly or I'll ask Mistress Hardesty to give you a memory stimulant. Where is he?"
"I don't know! I didn't do it."
"Now, now, dear boy, don't lie to me."
"The truth! On my mother's honor it's the simple truth!'
I had doubts about his mother's honor but it would have been unmannerly to express them, especially in dealing with so sorry a specimen. "Bill," I said gently, "you are not a proctor. Must I explain why I am certain?" (Chief Proctor Franco is a System-class martinet. If one of his stooges had shown up for morning roll call looking-and stinking-the way this poor slob did, the delinquent would have been lucky merely to have been shipped dirtside.) "I will if you insist. Did you ever have a pin stuck under a fingernail, then the outer end of the pin heated? It improves one's memory."
Gwen said eagerly, "A bobby pin works better. Senator- more mass to hold the heat. I've got one right here. Can I do it to him? Can I?"
"You mean, 'May I,' do you not? No, dear girl, I want you to continue to keep Bill under your sights. If it becomes necessary to resort to such methods, I won't ask a lady to do it for me."
"Aw, Senator, you'll get soft-hearted and let up on him just when he's ready to spout. Not me! Let me show you-please!"
"Well..."
"Keep that bloodthirsty bitch away from me!" Bill's voice was shrill.
"Bill! You will apologize to the lady at once. Otherwise I will let her do to you whatever she wishes."
He moaned again. "Lady, I apologize. I'm sorry. But you scare it right out of me. Please don't use a bobby pin on me- I seen a guy once had that done to him."
"Oh, it could be worse," Gwen assured him pleasantly. 'Twelve-gauge copper wire conducts the heat much better and there are interesting places in the male body to use it. More efficient. Quicker results." She added thoughtfully, "Senator, I've got some copper wire in my small case. If you'll hold this pistol for a moment, I'll get it for you."