the rudiments of weapons.
Siller balanced my flash gun in his hand. "Somebody named Branton invented the energy storage cell. Or maybe he only found it and rediscovered the principle. That's what you have under that flap on your jacket. Slip one into the butt of the gun, it strikes two contacts. Pull the trigger"— spat ! a blue bolt sped from the gun to splash against a crudely painted outline of a man on the stone wall—"the circuit is closed. A one-hundredth part of the energy is released. The barrel is non-conductive. It channels the energy in the direction the gun is pointed.
"There's a button on the barrel. If the forefinger presses this when the trigger is pulled, the burst is ten times as long. That's useful against a mob. The cell itself has a small lever on the side. When the cell is inserted in the butt of the gun, that lever is pressed down. Otherwise no energy can be released. You can press it down by hand, though. Drop it, or throw it, and the lever will spring up, and the cell will let loose all its energy at once when it strikes against an object."
I practiced short bursts. From the first I seemed to have a natural aptitude for shooting. My shots seldom wandered far from the outline of the figure on the wall, and soon they were centering in the body every time.
"The body is the place to aim with a flash gun. It's the largest target and the target most difficult to move. A body-hit and you're dead. If you shoot at the head, you're bragging. Braggarts don't live long."
Siller was a storehouse of gunman's wisdom.
"A flash gun is the fist in the face, the heel in the teeth, the knee in the groin. It's brute force, unabashed violence. I like the needle gun. A poisoned needle in the right spot will kill almost as quickly and far more quietly. The needle gun is the poison in the cup, the knife in the back. It's subtle, secret, stealthy; it gives no warning before, no notice after. A flash gun has its advantages—if you ever have to face a half-dozen attackers or a mob. I'll never get in a spot like that. Besides, needles are cheaper. And you can always get them. Cells are scarce."
All that day I practiced. Soon, from fifty feet, I could hit the part of the body I aimed at, nine times out of ten. After that I practiced drawing the gun out of the shoulder pocket. But I couldn't equal Siller's catlike quickness. When he went up to the suite for food, I inspected his jacket. Into the gun pocket was clipped an ingenious little device constructed from a spring, a catch, and a release lever. When the gun was thrust in, it cocked the spring. When the hand entered the jacket, pulling it out a little from the body, the lever released the catch and the gun shot upward into the palm.
I unclipped the device from his pocket and fitted it into mine. When Siller returned, put on his jacket, and shoved his gun into the pocket, he looked puzzled. We drew. I had my gun pointed at him before the barrel of his gun had cleared the jacket.
He frowned, but it slowly turned into a grudging smile. "You're smarter than I thought, Dane. You might have a chance outside after all."
I offered to return the device.
"Keep it," he said. "I have others."
I went on practicing. Draw and fire. Draw and fire. Draw, turn, fire. Practice until the movements became as automatic as breathing. Siller would say, "Dane!" A gun would appear in my hand. He would take a cautious step forward, a whisper of a movement that scarcely stirred the dust, and I would spin, crouched, a gun spitting flame into a blackened stone figure.
We dueled for hours.
"Watch the eyes," Siller would say. "The eyes are mirrors of decision. Before the hand knows, the eyes have revealed the mind's intention. Except Sabatini. His eyes never change expression whether he's kissing a girl or mutilating a child."
I would cover Siller with my unloaded gun. His hand would dart out, snakelike, to twist the gun away, push it aside, and draw his own.
"Not so close. Keep the gun
Siller balanced my flash gun in his hand. "Somebody named Branton invented the energy storage cell. Or maybe he only found it and rediscovered the principle. That's what you have under that flap on your jacket. Slip one into the butt of the gun, it strikes two contacts. Pull the trigger"— spat ! a blue bolt sped from the gun to splash against a crudely painted outline of a man on the stone wall—"the circuit is closed. A one-hundredth part of the energy is released. The barrel is non-conductive. It channels the energy in the direction the gun is pointed.
"There's a button on the barrel. If the forefinger presses this when the trigger is pulled, the burst is ten times as long. That's useful against a mob. The cell itself has a small lever on the side. When the cell is inserted in the butt of the gun, that lever is pressed down. Otherwise no energy can be released. You can press it down by hand, though. Drop it, or throw it, and the lever will spring up, and the cell will let loose all its energy at once when it strikes against an object."
I practiced short bursts. From the first I seemed to have a natural aptitude for shooting. My shots seldom wandered far from the outline of the figure on the wall, and soon they were centering in the body every time.
"The body is the place to aim with a flash gun. It's the largest target and the target most difficult to move. A body-hit and you're dead. If you shoot at the head, you're bragging. Braggarts don't live long."
Siller was a storehouse of gunman's wisdom.
"A flash gun is the fist in the face, the heel in the teeth, the knee in the groin. It's brute force, unabashed violence. I like the needle gun. A poisoned needle in the right spot will kill almost as quickly and far more quietly. The needle gun is the poison in the cup, the knife in the back. It's subtle, secret, stealthy; it gives no warning before, no notice after. A flash gun has its advantages—if you ever have to face a half-dozen attackers or a mob. I'll never get in a spot like that. Besides, needles are cheaper. And you can always get them. Cells are scarce."
All that day I practiced. Soon, from fifty feet, I could hit the part of the body I aimed at, nine times out of ten. After that I practiced drawing the gun out of the shoulder pocket. But I couldn't equal Siller's catlike quickness. When he went up to the suite for food, I inspected his jacket. Into the gun pocket was clipped an ingenious little device constructed from a spring, a catch, and a release lever. When the gun was thrust in, it cocked the spring. When the hand entered the jacket, pulling it out a little from the body, the lever released the catch and the gun shot upward into the palm.
I unclipped the device from his pocket and fitted it into mine. When Siller returned, put on his jacket, and shoved his gun into the pocket, he looked puzzled. We drew. I had my gun pointed at him before the barrel of his gun had cleared the jacket.
He frowned, but it slowly turned into a grudging smile. "You're smarter than I thought, Dane. You might have a chance outside after all."
I offered to return the device.
"Keep it," he said. "I have others."
I went on practicing. Draw and fire. Draw and fire. Draw, turn, fire. Practice until the movements became as automatic as breathing. Siller would say, "Dane!" A gun would appear in my hand. He would take a cautious step forward, a whisper of a movement that scarcely stirred the dust, and I would spin, crouched, a gun spitting flame into a blackened stone figure.
We dueled for hours.
"Watch the eyes," Siller would say. "The eyes are mirrors of decision. Before the hand knows, the eyes have revealed the mind's intention. Except Sabatini. His eyes never change expression whether he's kissing a girl or mutilating a child."
I would cover Siller with my unloaded gun. His hand would dart out, snakelike, to twist the gun away, push it aside, and draw his own.
"Not so close. Keep the gun
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