"Oh."
Clearly, this was another aspect of time scouting his granddaughter had not considered. She looked like she'd rather have picked up a live cobra than picked up a weapon. Good. Maybe this would convince her to quit. Given the set of her jaw, Kit rather doubted that, but it made for a pleasant fantasy. He had a sinking feeling nothing he did or said would dissuade her.
Margo said primly, "If we're going to spar, I'll need to visit the lady's room first."
Malcolm shot to his feet and hovered at the back of her chair, but didn't quite offer to take her hand to assist her. Kit glowered. Margo gave Malcolm a sweet smile that left Kit's glower even darker. Malcolm had the good grace to look sheepish as Margo made her way through the crowded bar. Very nearly every eye in the place followed her progress. Kit shook his head. The dress had to go. Preferably into the trash. Or maybe over Skeeter Jackson's head.
"How about you, Malcolm? You coming to the gym, too?"
The freelance guide chuckled. "Just try and get rid of me. I wouldn't miss this for a full-time job."
"You," Kit muttered, "are a pain in the neck."
"Hey, don't blame me," Malcolm laughed. "You're the one who agreed to teach her."
"Yeah, I did. I figure it's either teach her or bury her."
Malcolm's laughter vanished. "Yeah. I know. You need help, you let me know"
Kit gave him a pained smile. "I'll do that. I figure I owe you."
Malcolm groaned. "How come I have a bad feeling about this?"
"Because," Kit punched his shoulder, "your luck stinks."
The younger man chuckled. "Well, I won't argue that. All right, here she comes. Smile, Grandpa."
Kit muttered, "You'd better salute when you say that, mister." Malcolm just laughed. Kit said forlornly, "I will never live this down. Never." He pasted on what he hoped passed for a smile. "Okay, Margo, let's go."
Phase One underway.
And a lifetime's worth of worrying yet to come.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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 everythin. 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! Hows 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 leaning easily 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 am, 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 sportsmanlike 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 dryly. "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 Malcolms 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.