Not for the first time, Malcolm permitted himself a moment’s bitter resentment of Time Tours and their whole slick, money-milling operation. If not for their shady, underhanded tricks …
”Penny for ’em,” someone said at Malcolm’s elbow.
He started and glanced around to find Ann Vinh Mulhaney gazing up at him. He relaxed with a smile. She must have come straight from the weapons range when the klaxon sounded. She hadn’t bothered to unholster the pistols at her belt or loosen her hair from its confining elastic tie. At five feet, five inches, Ann was a little shorter than Malcolm, but evenly matched with Sven Bailey, who strolled up behind her. He, too, was dressed for the weapons range.
They must’ve just released a new class, probably the one scheduled for London. Sven, who out massed dainty little Ann by at least two to one despite their matched heights, nodded politely toward Malcolm, then watched the departing tourists with a despairing shake of his head.
”What a miserable bunch they were,” he commented to no one in particular. “Stupid, too, if you’re still here.” He glanced briefly toward Malcolm.
He shrugged, acknowledging the well-meant compliment, and answered Ann’s question. “I’m just watching the fun, same as everyone. How are you two?”
Sven, TT-86s recognized master of bladed weapons, grunted once and didn’t deign to answer. Ann laughed. She was one of the few residents who felt comfortable laughing at Sven Bailey. She tossed her ponytail and rested slim hands on her hips. “He lost his last bet. Five shots out of six, loser picks up the tab at Down Time.”