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Nobody did, apparently." "But you must have seen something special about him." Dirisha thought about it for a second before she answered. Yes, he'd seemed a cut above the ordinary, he'd moved well, but either he was good at hiding it or not particularly special. But she sensed that wasn't what Geneva wanted to hear. So she said, "Yes, he was something special, all right."
    "I envy you," the younger woman said. "I wish I could have met him. A man willing to take on an army alone, a man who won."
    "In a manner of speaking, I suppose he won." Geneva seemed startled.
    "What do you mean?" "Well, he made an important point, surely. But they got him, in the end."
    "He allowed them to take him out." Dirisha shrugged. "Whichever. He isn't around any more; I was always taught that honor lies in staying alive to fight the good fight again."
    Geneva was silent for a moment, and Dirisha got the impression she was angry at what she'd said. Well. She hadn't known Khadaji, only the legend which had apparently arisen after his death. Dirisha had seen the man, and he'd seemed human enough to her, whatever he managed to do. But she didn't want to make any enemies here. Not yet, anyway. So she said, "Red did a good job on these. I hardly know they're on."
    Geneva seemed to shake her serious mood. "Oh, Red is good. If you see him watching you like he might sling a dart at you, better find an exit and get to it—he's deadly."
    "Better than Pen?"
    She seemed pleased at the question. "Nobody knows, for sure. They don't keep score between themselves. I figure the pair of them could probably take out the entire school in a shoot, if it came to that."
    "Two men against thirty-three?"
    Geneva nodded. "There's nothing official on record about Pen and Red, but the rumor is that Pen taught Khadaji i himself sumito, years before Greaves.
    Red taught Khadaji j how to use a spetsdod."
    Dirisha nodded, not speaking. It sounded as if there were j some high-class talents working at Matador Villa. It ought to be interesting to see what they were teaching, and why.
    "You know a lot about them," Dirisha said.
    "Not really. But I have an advantage: Red is my father."
    Geneva left and Dirisha spent a few minutes meditating, to clear her mind.
    When she finished, she gathered a handful of the stinger magazines and went to find the shooting range Red had spoken about. If people were going to be shooting at her any time soon, she wanted all the experience she could get with the weapon they and she would be using. There was no point in waiting for official training to begin, especially in light of the Third Rule.
    After forty-five minutes of practice, Dirisha felt more comfortable with the spetsdods. She was far from expert, but by the end of five magazines, she could hit a man-sized target at combat range every time, with either weapon.
    Tagging a target the size of hand—a moving hand, at that— would take a lot more practice, but at least she could fight back with some chance of success.
    Back in her room, Dirisha slid her door shut and locked the closure mechanism. There was no key, and she found her thumbprint would unlatch the lock. Good; still, to be on the safe side, she set a portable squeal on the door. If somebody tried to come through the entrance, the squeal would let everybody for a long way know it.
    Dirisha shucked her clothes and headed for the shower. She passed in front of a full-length mirror in the fresher, and paused to give herself a critical appraisal. 177 cm tall, that was the same; 75 kilos, plus a couple, on this world. Muscles still tight under her chocolate skin, hair cropped short and tightly curled. Not bad for a battered old woman of thirty-one T.S. She grinned. Naked, save for the spetsdods, she stepped into the shower.
    The hot water and ultrasonics washed away travel grime, and she allowed the fatigue to steal over her. She started to peel the spetsdods off, to wash her hands, but stopped. True, she was locked into her room, alone;