that the cops couldn’t?’
‘I believe,’ said Bunty weakly, ‘in P.P.S. Holy Jesus, that was a bitch.’ She lurched, and the Data-Mate hitched her under the arm, without speaking.
‘E.S.P.,’ said Johnson kindly. ‘You shouldn’t go on these things if you haven’t a strong stomach. Ask the gentleman with the earrings where the powder room is.’
‘Johnson,’ I said, ‘let me introduce the designer of Missy’s Golden American Wonderland. His name’s Hugo Panadek. That’s his castle over there.’
Johnson turned. The dragon droned round the moat. He watched it critically. ‘You can’t,’ he said, ‘do much entertaining?’
‘I get it,’ said Hugo. ‘You’re Charlie’s newest Data-Mate. Jeeze, that computer’s a bum.’
They stared amiably at one another. With no change of tone Hugo added, ‘Glad to meetya. I hear Rosamund’s psyched out of her skull with the oil painting. What’s the slumming for?’
‘It seems to be a benefit for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m not complaining,’ said Johnson. ‘We’ve finished, really, except for watching Bunty’s P.P.S. operate.’
Hugo Panadek grinned. The flashing teeth, the lashes, the dimples all confirmed the first, magnetic impact he’d made at Bunty’s flat. He surveyed the kids and flung out his arms. ‘The Great Shoot-Out,’ he said. ‘And then steak’n French Fries and ice cream all round. Fudge ice cream. Maple walnut ice cream. Butter Brickie ice cream. Chocnut and Pineapple and Mint and Chocolate Chips . . .’
The Mallard girls were all squealing with joy and I saw in Charlie’s eye a reflection of my own simple juvenile greed. It wasBunty who said, ‘Do you mind? My stomach’s still wrapped round my tonsils,’ and led the way, behind Hugo, to the shooting stall.
Having no sons, my father taught me to shoot. I brought down my first pheasant at twelve, and parted from blood sports at fifteen, but I’ve always kept a soft spot for fun-fairs. You could say I’d shot all over the world, from target practice at a pound for two bullets in Russia, to flying monsters in Paris, to activated comedy popups in Tivoli. Lead me to Madame Tussaud’s and there I’ll be in the fun parlour, mowing down planes in an airfield.
The Great Shoot-Out had none of that kid stuff. Four guns were trained on four cut-out Mid-Western town backdrops through which, on an endless belt, cattle rustlers appeared and vanished. You got a second to shoot and reload. Six out of six rustlers got you a free replay. Three free replays, if your loading arm hadn’t broken, got you a woolly bear to take back to mother. There was another twist. If you shot a rustler and missed, he shot back at you. With a bang and a little red light. I kid you not.
Charlie tried first, and it shocked her at any rate. At the first burst of counterfeit counter-fire, she flung herself back on the pram and woke Sukey, who started to yell, in competition with the stallholder, a large Greek with black curly hair, who was explaining tetchily that all the explosions were totally harmless. But Charlie’s nerve had expired, and she fired her five other shots without winging a rustler; though they didn’t get her actually, either.
The Data-Mate, stepping up casually, killed all the rustlers, got a free reload, killed them again, and then got over-confident and missed the one that dodged out through the bar-flaps.
Johnson shot and made a hash of it.
I had an unfair advantage, through standing there watching the sequences. I got the one on the jail roof, the one through the bar-flaps, the one through the hotel window and the one who jumped out the waterbutt. I waited, and got the one who peeked out of the stable door. The last one jumped from a Wells Fargo van and I got him right through the heart. Hugo kissed me with fervour and Grover said, ‘You bang the guns this time.’ I offered the rifle to Bunty, who turned it back.
‘Don’t be mad, you’ve got a free shot. Go on.
‘I believe,’ said Bunty weakly, ‘in P.P.S. Holy Jesus, that was a bitch.’ She lurched, and the Data-Mate hitched her under the arm, without speaking.
‘E.S.P.,’ said Johnson kindly. ‘You shouldn’t go on these things if you haven’t a strong stomach. Ask the gentleman with the earrings where the powder room is.’
‘Johnson,’ I said, ‘let me introduce the designer of Missy’s Golden American Wonderland. His name’s Hugo Panadek. That’s his castle over there.’
Johnson turned. The dragon droned round the moat. He watched it critically. ‘You can’t,’ he said, ‘do much entertaining?’
‘I get it,’ said Hugo. ‘You’re Charlie’s newest Data-Mate. Jeeze, that computer’s a bum.’
They stared amiably at one another. With no change of tone Hugo added, ‘Glad to meetya. I hear Rosamund’s psyched out of her skull with the oil painting. What’s the slumming for?’
‘It seems to be a benefit for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m not complaining,’ said Johnson. ‘We’ve finished, really, except for watching Bunty’s P.P.S. operate.’
Hugo Panadek grinned. The flashing teeth, the lashes, the dimples all confirmed the first, magnetic impact he’d made at Bunty’s flat. He surveyed the kids and flung out his arms. ‘The Great Shoot-Out,’ he said. ‘And then steak’n French Fries and ice cream all round. Fudge ice cream. Maple walnut ice cream. Butter Brickie ice cream. Chocnut and Pineapple and Mint and Chocolate Chips . . .’
The Mallard girls were all squealing with joy and I saw in Charlie’s eye a reflection of my own simple juvenile greed. It wasBunty who said, ‘Do you mind? My stomach’s still wrapped round my tonsils,’ and led the way, behind Hugo, to the shooting stall.
Having no sons, my father taught me to shoot. I brought down my first pheasant at twelve, and parted from blood sports at fifteen, but I’ve always kept a soft spot for fun-fairs. You could say I’d shot all over the world, from target practice at a pound for two bullets in Russia, to flying monsters in Paris, to activated comedy popups in Tivoli. Lead me to Madame Tussaud’s and there I’ll be in the fun parlour, mowing down planes in an airfield.
The Great Shoot-Out had none of that kid stuff. Four guns were trained on four cut-out Mid-Western town backdrops through which, on an endless belt, cattle rustlers appeared and vanished. You got a second to shoot and reload. Six out of six rustlers got you a free replay. Three free replays, if your loading arm hadn’t broken, got you a woolly bear to take back to mother. There was another twist. If you shot a rustler and missed, he shot back at you. With a bang and a little red light. I kid you not.
Charlie tried first, and it shocked her at any rate. At the first burst of counterfeit counter-fire, she flung herself back on the pram and woke Sukey, who started to yell, in competition with the stallholder, a large Greek with black curly hair, who was explaining tetchily that all the explosions were totally harmless. But Charlie’s nerve had expired, and she fired her five other shots without winging a rustler; though they didn’t get her actually, either.
The Data-Mate, stepping up casually, killed all the rustlers, got a free reload, killed them again, and then got over-confident and missed the one that dodged out through the bar-flaps.
Johnson shot and made a hash of it.
I had an unfair advantage, through standing there watching the sequences. I got the one on the jail roof, the one through the bar-flaps, the one through the hotel window and the one who jumped out the waterbutt. I waited, and got the one who peeked out of the stable door. The last one jumped from a Wells Fargo van and I got him right through the heart. Hugo kissed me with fervour and Grover said, ‘You bang the guns this time.’ I offered the rifle to Bunty, who turned it back.
‘Don’t be mad, you’ve got a free shot. Go on.
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