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Updated: June 24, 2025
I've caught them before. Used to be a sort of specialty of mine. And there's one thing about them they'll blab their pointed little heads off if you can get one alive and promise it its catnip...." He'd shucked off his jacket and taken out of it a very large handgun with a bell-shaped mouth. He laid the gun down next to the view screen. "In case," he said, unreassuringly. "Now just a moment."
He replaced the bottle and glass and turned his scowl back to Joe. "Haven't you ever heard of Sándor Rákóczi?" "No." "He happens to be All-Sov-world Fencing Champion and has been for six years. He also is third from the top amongst the Red Army pistol and rifle marksmen. I once saw him put on an exhibition of trick handgun shooting. Uncanny. The man has abnormal reflexes."
The stripling astride the good warhorse who seemed to scent battle in the air, and stood perfectly still, quivering with excitement unslung his handgun from his shoulder, and levelled it at the leader of the band. The next instant a sharp report rang through the silent forest.
Tan shirt and knee-length shorts, knee stockings, soft-soled shoes. Her sun hat hung on the railing, and the dawn wind whipped strands of shoulder-length, modishly white-silver hair along her cheeks. She held a small, beautifully worked handgun loosely beside her the twin-barrelled sporting Denton which gunwise citizens of the Hub rated as a weapon for the precisionist and expert only.
Cogswell chirped, "Now that he's broken the ice, in a couple of hours kids will be scratching their names on our hull." In the morning, two or three hours after dawn, they made their preparations to disembark. Of them all, only Leonid Plekhanov was unarmed. Joe Chessman had a heavy handgun holstered at his waist. The rest of the men carried submachine guns.
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