"My favorite was a man with a wood-splitting and equipment business who likes to fish. He carries cash when he goes on fishing trips in case he finds any deals on used equipment along the way. Cops stopped him in his pickup for five over, saw the bulge in his pocket, found eight Gs, so they searched his whole truck. Wasn't so much as an overdue library book, but they kept the cash, and he still doesn't have it back." Henry laughed humorlessly. "So they do this big article, but they might as well have been reporting the weather. Nothing changed."

Ray Johnson said nothing. What his friend was telling him seemed difficult to believe. Ray looked at Henry and saw him smile humorlessly and nod towards the front of the car.

"And speak of the Devil..." Henry said with a sardonic chuckle. Up ahead on the right shoulder of the highway were seven police cars, all with their lights flashing. A uniformed officer was waving a flashlight, motioning the car ahead of them to pull over. Henry slid in behind the Oldsmobile and braked to a stop.

"What the hell's this all about?" Raymond asked.

'"Safety Check' is what they call it," Henry replied. "They stop everyone, see if they're wearing seatbelts, look for open liquor bottles, sniff the driver's breath, check out the inside of the car, all that. Just keep your hands in plain sight and act like nothing's going on," Henry advised as he pressed the button to lower the driver's side window, then put both his hands back on top of the steering wheel.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the Missouri Highway Patrolman said with an air of superiority as he swept the beam of his flashlight around the inside of Henry's GMC.

'"Morning, officer," Henry said, breathing heavily in the man's direction so that he could immediately know that Henry had not been drinking.

"Been to the airport, I see," the man said.

"Cheapest fares are at the worst hours," Henry said with a smile. The officer nodded.

"Drive safely," the patrolman commanded, and waved his flashlight to send Henry and Raymond on their way. Henry checked his mirror, cut the wheel, and accelerated back onto the highway.

"I don't believe what just happened," Ray said after Henry had rolled up the window. "I can't believe anyone here stands for it. They sure as hell wouldn't in South Africa."

"The hook they use is drunk drivers," Henry explained. "There's all sorts of people keep harping on drunk driving and demanding all sorts of shit: lower blood-alcohol level limits for drivers, mandatory jail time for convicted DWI offenders, legal liability for bar owners, legal liability for distilleries, you name it.

"The interesting thing about it is that the death rate from DWI cases is lower than it's ever been. It's been declining every year for several decades. I don't know the exact figures, but when you left the country, back in the early 'sixties, the rate was three or four times what it is today. Does that make sense? You have a condition that you seem to accept, then after three-fourths of the problem goes away by itself, then you declare a crisis, and toss out the Constitution?" Henry shook his head, as if to clear it.

"Now, I'm an alcoholic who hasn't had a drink for more than twenty years, but twenty years ago, I drove drunk, and I remember what it was like. I don't mean to sound like an advocate for drunk driving, but I don't think drunk drivers as a group have worse vision, reflexes, and motor skills than eighty-year-old sober drivers. Fair number of fatal accidents are caused by old people having strokes and heart attacks behind the wheel." Henry heard Ray draw his breath in sharply at this comment.

"No, I didn't forget about your parents. I'm sorry if I was tactless, but my point is that I expect to have to watch out for that kind of thing. I don't want to live where jack-booted lackeys stop cars with white-haired drivers and make them get out and demonstrate their reflexes, and if they're slow or clumsy, arrest them."

"Is that why everyone drives so slowly?" Raymond asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's four in the morning, there's only a few cars around, we're on a four-lane highway, and I don't see anyone going over about fifty. Are they all worried about these random stops?"

Henry laughed. "They're driving fifty-five, Ray, because that's the national speed limit." "Fifty-five miles an hour on a road like this?" Ray Johnson almost yelled.

"That's right, Mister Van Winkle, sir. Thirty years ago, seventy-five was fine in a solid-axle car with drum brakes, a single master cylinder, lousy steering, no seat belts, and tires with a little more grip than the ones on a shopping cart.

"Today, most cars have rack-and-pinion steering, four wheel discs with anti-lock, and will stop from eighty in the rain quicker than a '58 Mercury would in the dry. The tires have gotten so good that this truck will go through a slalom course faster than a big-block Corvette could in the '70s. We've got dual air bags, more impact protection, and car phones to call in accidents and other road hazards so we don't need nearly so many highway patrol cars driving around. So the fifty-five makes perfect sense."

"But...why?" Ray asked in utter bewilderment.

"The law was passed in '73, supposedly to save gas during the 'energy crisis'. Any state refusing to comply didn't get any federal highway funds, which nobody bothered to realize was our own money the feds were so graciously returning to us.

"So they all shut up and spread their legs, 'cept one or two states that got creative. I'd've liked to've seen Missouri say 'fuck off' and raise the limit to eighty, but our legislature loves federal power even more than most state governments do. Montana, which had no daytime open-road speed limits at all went along with the law, then said that under a hundred, you were guilty of 'wasting a natural resource', but not a moving violation, and the fine was five bucks. Gave the cops a stack of postpaid envelopes so the driver could just stick a five in it and be on their way. Nevada had no open-road limits day or night prior to the fifty-five, and I hear cops there pretty much ignore speeders. I haven't been there since '68.

"Anyway, the country endured this nonsense for about ten years or so, and a giant new consumer electronics industry was built around ever more effective radar detectors. Made Mike Valentine a multimillionaire, and he deserved every penny.

"Then, after a lot of pressure, the feds decreed that sixty-five was okay, but only on interstates and even then only on sections way the hell outside of cities. Never mind that the whole point of the interstate system was uniform, limited-access roads to allow safe, fast travel everywhere, and the roads were all engineered for a safe seventy-five in cars built in the late '50s." Henry quit talking for a few moments, then made a final comment on the subject. Raymond thought he sounded almost apologetic.

"Normally, I'd drive a little faster than I am right now, 'cause I carry police creds that'll usually get me some professional courtesy. But the guns you got in the back would bring twice what this GMC is worth, and you've already had them almost stolen once today. I don't think we should tempt the cops any more than we have to. They're greedy enough as it is."

Ray Johnson nodded.

"Let's leave your bags in the car until I show you your room," Henry said, sniffing. "I think Allen's cooking something." He ushered his friend into the back door of the house. Ray brought his carry-on bag with him as they stepped into Henry's kitchen.

"Hope you guys want breakfast," Allen Kane said. "I made enough for about five people."

"I hadn't expected you up this early," Henry replied. "Yeah, it smells great. Ray, this is my friend Allen Kane from Indiana. He's on his way to a gun show in Reno, and stopped here yesterday so we could shoot a little. Allen, Ray Johnson."

"Pleased to meet you," Kane said as he put down the spatula and shook Raymond's hand. "I've seen Henry's pictures and video footage from Rhodesia. You gave him the best hunt I've ever heard of." Ray smiled at the compliment as he reached into his bag and pulled out his shaving kit. "I wanted to get going early, so I thought I'd get breakfast done before you two got back from the airport. Grab a plate."

"Need to take one of these asthma pills first," Ray said as he unzipped the battered leather kit. "You've got asthma?" Henry said, glancing over from the counter where he was pouring himself a glass of juice.

"Real mild case, acts up once in a while, mainly when I change climates."

"I guess we are all getting older, come to thi-Holy Shit!" Henry almost shouted. "You went through Customs with those?" His eyes were wide. "And had them in the car with us?" he added unnecessarily.

"What?" Raymond asked, as his eyes went back and forth between Henry and the flat cardboard box in his hand. "These? They're just over-the-counter antihistamines, made by an international drug company. Just like aspirin."

Henry shook his head. "Not here they're not. That's Clenbuterol, and it's a controlled substance in this country. Might as well be cocaine. If the customs guy had noticed it, you'd be in a cell right now. If that Highway Patrol guy that stopped us had found it, my car and all your guns would be gone forever. They would have been used in the transportation of a controlled substance, and taken under the seizure laws." Henry took the package from his friend's hand, pulled the plastic heat-sealed packet from inside it, and handed the pills back. Then he began to methodically tear the pasteboard box into tiny pieces and drop them into the garbage disposal. "Grab a plate and I'll tell you about it while we eat." He picked up his glass of juice and went on.

"Whole story: A few years ago, this guy named Bill Phillips, out in Colorado, had a newsletter he put out for athletes. He gave them straight, unbiased information on nutrition, natural supplements, and drugs, as they related to strength training, using empirical evidence instead of opinion. Had a lot of info on various anabolics.

"Then the DBA reclassified anabolic steroids, and put them in same category as cocaine, LSD, hashish, and all that. All of a sudden, to get anabolics, instead of having your doctor or vet write a scrip for you and going to a drugstore and buying something made by a drug company like Merck or CIBA-Geigy, you had to deal with the same people that smuggle crack. And you were probably getting God-knows-what, brewed up in a filthy garage in Mexico and stuck in a used bottle with a counterfeit label. Anabolics are much harder to make than amphetamines, so 99% of the stuff coming in had no steroids in it at all, just bathtub speed, which is a hell of a lot harder on your system.

"The only guys getting the real stuff made by real drug companies were the people that had enough dough to be wired in to the feds, like pro football players, pro wrestlers, and pro bodybuilders. So this newsletter writer began to dig into obscure medical papers, trying to find any info on over-the-counter stuff like caffeine, or aspirin, or whatever, that documented side effects that would be of interest to athletes.

"And guess what? He found this clinical test on a European over-the-counter asthmatic called Clenbuterol. Clembumar, in South America. The report noted that patients who took the drug, in addition to having their bronchial passages dilated, also experienced increased fat loss and a slight gain in lean muscle mass. Not much of a gain, but a detectable one. Athletes started to use the stuff, since it was made by a real drug company and it didn't screw up your system like caffeine or other stimulants. So DEA reclassified it. Now it'll get you sent to prison in this country."

"Unbelievable."

"Was probably a good thing you had that hat on, to take the Customs guy's attention away from your shaving kit." Henry turned to Allen Kane. "Ray had a little run-in with Customs over his leopardskin hatband, then they tried to steal his Holland, his G-model FAL, and his two-inch Chiefs Special 'cause he didn't have proof he'd bought them here before he left the States. Had to call in a favor with a supervisor I know in New York. Told him to let the agent keep the hat and the .38, but Mike yanked his chain, I guess, and Ray got through with everything." Allen Kane nodded, then scowled.

"What was wrong with the Chief? Oh, that's right-short barrels can't be imported after '68, 'less you bring 'em in with long barrels and swap the parts after they're here. Let me take a look at that G-model after we're done eating," Allen said to the new guest. "See if you got a real early one."

As the three men devoured the biscuits, Canadian bacon, fresh cantaloupe, scrambled eggs, and orange juice, Allen Kane asked Ray about hunting in Africa. From Kane's questions and comments, it became apparent to Ray Johnson that although Allen Kane had never hunted big game, he was even more expert than Henry Bowman on firearms design. Like Henry, he lived on a property where he could shoot whenever he wanted to, and he fired large quantities of ammunition almost daily.

"As you know, Ray, I'm licensed to deal in machine guns," Henry explained to the professional hunter. "Allen here has a license above that. He's a destructive device manufacturer and DD ammo manufacturer. I do a decent business selling squirt guns to police departments and rich collectors, but it's still only parttime. Allen really does it as a business, and he knows more than anybody in the country about making machine guns and cannons work right. He reworks stuff for the Secret Service, does swaps with the Enfield Pattern Room in England, you name it. Last year he did a big demo where he showed one of the SEAL teams how a bunch of foreign belt-feds worked, ones they hadn't been able to get to fire more than two shots straight. They thought it was a miracle." Kane laughed and shook his head.

"Fat lot of good it's done me. I can't even get this goddamned Israeli .308 ammo cleared. I wish someone on the SEAL team could call Imports branch and tell them we're all on the same side. Maybe hurry them up a little. It's been six months, for Christ's sake."

"What's the problem?" Ray asked.

"It's AP," Kane said, in a tone that showed he thought his two-word answer was sufficient explanation. "And...?" Ray said, raising his eyebrows.

"Allen," Henry broke in, "Ray's been out of the country for thirty years. There've been a lot of changes since '63 that don't make sense to him."

"Thirty years? Shit, you must think you're on a different planet!" Kane exclaimed. "Okay, AP ammo- better give you the whole story." Allen Kane took a final bite of biscuit, wiped his mouth, and leaned back in his chair.

"Ever since '34, and especially since a little after you left, there's been a push to ban guns, put more restrictions on them, all that crap, on a federal level. Lot of shit has gone through, but of course not as much as the Big Government folks wanted.

"Then, back in the early 'eighties, a couple of politicians who'd had some of their proposals shot down decided to take a different tack and focus instead on the ammunition. But they needed a hook. Like 'Saturday Night Specials' in the 1970s and 'Assault Rifles' in the late 1980s, the fuckers knew they needed some evil-sounding term to describe a type of inanimate object that would fail their straw-man test of 'sporting purpose'. The phrase these jerks settled on was 'Cop-Killer Bullets'. Once they got that label into common use, they were home free. Who could oppose a ban on bullets that were specifically designed to kill police officers? Only dangerous lunatics, right?" Kane leaned back and took a drink of his Coke.

"Once they had set the terms," Henry broke in, "the prohibitionists then set about to define which bullets were 'cop-killers', and which were not. The beauty of this strategy was that once the legislation was passed-and it was-the definition of the types of bullets that were banned could be broadened by BATF decree, bypassing the annoying legislative process. It was like putting atheists in charge of deciding which religions are acceptable to practice."

"Of course," Kane threw out, "the way the news played it up, everyone who watched television got the idea that criminals were regularly killing vest-wearing cops by shooting them with exotic ammunition specifically designed to shoot through police body armor." Kane laughed. "Fact was, at the time the stupid 'cop-killer bullet' ban was passed, there had never been one documented case of a police officer wearing body armor being shot through his vest, let alone killed." Henry nodded vigorously in agreement, then broke in again.

"Any thirteen-year-old in science class could tell you that basic physics made the entire argument ludicrous for two reasons. First, and as you well know," Henry said, looking at Ray, "in a given caliber at a given velocity, you can trade expansion for penetration, but you can't increase both. Say for example a standard .44 Magnum round will cut maybe twelve layers of Kevlar. It depends on the particular weave, but say it'll go through twelve, and fifteen layers will stop it. An enthusiastic twelve-year-old with an icepick can zip right through thirty layers of the same material, no sweat." Henry raised his eyebrows and continued.

"So now you, Mister Exotic Ammunition Manufacturer, decide you're going to load some armor piercing .44 mag ammo. What do you do? You give the .44 bullet more penetration by making it more like the icepick: sharp and pointed instead of blunt, and made of a hard, non-deforming material like steel, titanium, or tungsten, instead of soft and malleable copper and lead. You decide to go whole hog and make centerless-ground, sharpened tungsten bullets, then coat them with Teflon so they won't ruin the barrel. Using your $5-a-round superduper ammo, the .44 will penetrate a 15-layer vest but not an 18-layer one. Big change, right, and on top of the huge cost, your new, pointy, non-deforming bullet is much less deadly when it hits flesh, because it causes much less trauma than a bullet that's either blunt, or designed to expand on impact."

"And the second reality," Allen Kane broke in, "is that any bullet, regardless of its construction, will go through all known soft body armor if it's going fast enough. Henry's got some .38 Special ammo he loaded with plastic bullets and a bunch of Winchester 230. They're so light, they won't even go the length of a football field, fired like this," Kane said, demonstrating by pointing his right index finger at a forty-degree angle.

"Yeah, and at five feet, fired out of your little two-inch-barreled Chiefs Special," Henry broke in, "they'll chop a dime-sized hole in a vest rated to stop a .44 Magnum. Velocity's the key. Doesn't matter what you make the bullet out of."

"Which is why every modern rifle round will shoot through both sides of a typical vest, regardless of what the bullet's made of. Hell, the .243, .270, 7mm Magnum, .338, .375, and .458 loaded with goddamned softpoints will cut half-inch steel plate, for Christ's sake. Half-inch steel's a lot more bullet-resistant than any soft body armor I ever saw."

"So...what are 'cop-killer bullets'?" Ray asked. "For legal purposes, I mean."

"Legislators decided that for legal purposes, AP ammo would be defined as any handgun ammunition loaded with bullets that were primarily composed of any metal harder than lead or copper," Henry answered. "Sale of this ammo was then restricted to law enforcement entities, like the ATF agents who shot each other down in Waco, Texas. They were using MP5s loaded with some steel 'Cyclone' rounds made up for a government contract."

"Which they shot each other with while diligently trying to execute ninety members of a religious group," Kane threw in.

"Over a suspected $200 tax liability," Henry added.

"I read about that," Ray said, nodding.

"Wait 'til you see the footage the news crews shot before the feds made 'em move back a mile," Henry said meaningfully. "Anyway, back to the AP bullet thing. Way the law's written, federally-licensed dealers, even those like me who are authorized to deal in machine guns, are looking at a $250,000 fine and ten years in prison if we sell one round of pistol ammo loaded with a steel bullet."

"That's ridiculous."

"Yeah, but it gets worse," Allen Kane said. "One by-product of the whole mess was the news people gave a postgraduate education to all the violent criminals in this country. Most of them didn't know so many cops wore vests, 'cause most of the vests out there are made by New Lease up in Michigan, and they make the most comfortable vests, that don't show when you wear 'em under your clothes."

"Yeah, that's Dave Richards' company. He's always told everybody, 'If they see the armor, they shoot for the head.'"

"Which is exactly what all the bad guys started doing," Allen Kane interjected. "Press told 'em all the cops were wearing vests, which was actually a crock, since lots of cops leave 'em in the trunk even if they've got 'em, but the bad guys believed it, and started shooting 'em in the head."

"What does this have to do with your .308 ammo?" Ray asked immediately.