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 rimfire 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 's targets were marked with kill 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..."
"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 1300's. 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 gutshot."
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.