Free I Dare by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

marked "Club Members Only."

    Beyond the door there was better lighting, upgraded carpeting, and a small canteen, manned by an alert looking young man. The individual lanes fanned away from this concourse, eight on each side of two small central shooting theaters capable of accommodating four marksmen at once.

    Only one of the single lanes was occupied, and through the thick plastiglass a man could be seen laboriously packing an armored travel bag with an array of small pistols. On the floor next to the shooting stand was an identical bag, sealed.

    Their hostess escorted them past the semi-circle of observer's seating to the theater on the left, activating the keyplate and lights with a card and—after the door slid soundlessly aside—motioning them down the ramped entranceway to the sunken shooting floor with its equipment benches and controls. She made no attempt to descend to the floor herself: only shooters were allowed in the fire-zone.

    "I think you gentlemen will be comfortable here," she said. "The range isn't scheduled until this evening. You're cleared for up to three hours of shooting; the timer starts with the first shot or when you invoke the tracking computer, whichever comes first. Once again, we will be pleased to waive all charges, should Lord Pat Rin care to sign our guest book."

    Pat Rin accepted the keycard and the code as she left, and in short order he and Cheever McFarland had arranged their equipment, donned the club-supplied ear protector headsets and began the straightforward testing-and-truing of what the Terran termed "the hardware".

    On Cheever's bench sat two massive chemical LaDemeters and several dozen cartridges, a much smaller and also chemically powered double-barrel derringer-style boot-pistol with its bright shells next to it, and a brace of standard pellet pistols, three extra charges for each sitting by. In his hand was what appeared to be a large—even for a Terran of Cheever's not-inconsiderable size—survival knife. Before each of his three shots with it he turned and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and as soon as he finished the third shot he carefully reloaded it, sheathed it, and immediately slipped it back into his boot.

    He moved on quickly, though not as stealthily, to the derringer, squeezing off shots quickly and accurately, the gun almost hidden in his big hands. The noise of its firing—like that of the knife-weapon—was a sharp snick , even through the ear protectors. The chemicals left a slightly smokey haze and an acrid odor, which was quickly cleared away by the air filtering system.

    Pat Rin was still working with his first weapon, a standard caliber Liaden dea'Nobli pellet pistol. While the caliber may have been standard, the pistol itself was a work of art, with filigree metal work, a custom jay-bead quick-sight, and grips of lovingly hand-shaped kreel-horn. Each shot produced a quiet whap through the ear protectors, though the accompanying magnetic whine seeped through without hindrance. His "show gun," the dea'Nobli was more accurate than many clans' dueling pistols and more costly than most.

    The targets varied from stationary bull's-eye, to gallery-like mythic creatures, to moving human silhouettes, chosen by the shooter's whim. Satisfied with the dea'Nobli against the bull's-eye, Pat Rin was about to bring up something more challenging when the rhythm of his companion's shots altered—and stopped.

    The big man's hand motion was discreet but clear. Lowering his gun, Pat Rin turned and saw that they'd drawn a pair of observers, who were lounging in the chairs on the other side of the plastiglass, mugs and food on the table before them.

    The man was certainly Terran—not quite perhaps of Cheever's size, but larger than the average male of the race, with the dark and beginning-to-wrinkle complexion of one who has been overexposed to solar radiation. An ex-mercenary perhaps, or a native of one of the back-worlds, his face