Kit started to say something that would have been entirely too heartfelt, but Malcolm beat him to the punch.

"Fame and fortune and adventure?" he asked in a voice dry as fine wine.

She flushed

Kit felt like cheering. "That's fine," he told her. "But you have to pay the dues. And we have an agreement, Margo. You do what I tell you, when I tell you, or you don't set that first pretty pink toe across the threshold of a gate."

She pouted at the ATLS. Then sighed "All right. I'll go to the library. Isn't there anything to this job besides studying?"

"Sure. Kit sat back. "Plenty, in fact. How much martial arts training have you had?"

She shrugged. "High school stuff: I have a belt."

"What kind, which discipline?"

"Brown belt, Tai Kwan Do."

Kit grunted. All flying kicks and damn near no full contact sparring, not compared to what she'd need. Tai Kwan Do spent too much time "pulling" its punches short to give a student a taste of what it was like to hit-or be hit. He saw the chance for an object lesson that might just sink home.

"All right. Let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

Kit returned the log and ATLS to their leather satchel. "We're going to the gym. I want to test how much you know-"

"You ...now?"

Kit grinned. "Yep. What's the matter, Margo? Afraid an old man will whip you?"

Slim jaw muscles took on a marble hardness. She came to her feet and planted hands on hips. "No. I'm not afraid of anybody or anything. Where's the damned gym?"

"Watch your language," he said mildly. "The gym is in the basement, next to the weapons ranges."

Her eyes widened. "Weapons ranges?" Her expression hovered somewhere between excitement and dismay. "You mean, like guns and stuff?"

Kit exchanged glances with Malcolm, who rolled his eyes. Kit forcibly held back a sigh. "Yes, Margo. I mean exactly like guns and stuff. If it can be shot, slashed with, or jabbed into someone, you're going to learn how to use it."

"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?"