"Pull!" As the rifle cracked, the clay bird broke into several pieces.

"Got it!" Doc Wiemann yelled. He was surprised to realize that he was more excited than the boy. Henry smiled.

"Pull!" This time the clay bird disintegrated in midair.

"Perfect! Christ, you must've nailed it dead center! I never would have thought you could smoke one like that hitting it with just one bullet. Damn, Henry, Max wasn't kidding when he said you were good with a rifle. Keep going."

By the time Max Collins finished his work on the pattern board and came over to see how his nephew was doing, Doc Wiemann had had to go into the skeet house and refill the thrower with clay pigeons twice. Henry had shot at a hundred twenty-four targets and had hit seventy-eight of them. He had switched back to standard ammunition after the fifty-round box of tracers was empty.

Max stood silently at the back of the range and watched as Henry hit eight birds with ten shots. As the boy pulled the magazine tube out of the Winchester's buttstock to reload the rifle, Max walked over to the two of them.

"Looks like he's getting the hang of it," Max said dryly.

"Max, if you had told me you had a ten-year-old nephew that could run over fifty percent at skeet with a rifle, I'd have called you a damn liar. How long you been shooting, Henry?" Doc asked the boy.

"Two and a half years."

"May I?" Doc asked, indicating the rifle.

"Sure," Henry replied, and handed the older man the gun. "Magazine's full, chamber's empty."

Doc Wiemann examined the weapon carefully. "Any idea how many rounds you've put through it?" It was obvious the rifle had seen considerable use.

"I'm on my fourteenth case of regular ammo, and just finished my fourth case of tracers. I don't know how much the first owner shot it, but it looked about the same as it does now when I got it. It's over twenty years old."

"Ninety thousand rounds?" Doc exclaimed, having done the multiplication. "Has anything broken on it?" The retired surgeon looked at the rifle with renewed respect.

"I've broken five or six firing pins, but that's from when the hammer falls on an empty chamber. I normally count shots and know when it's empty, but, uh, you can't do that when it's...shooting rapid fire." Henry looked uncomfortable for the first time that day. His uncle grinned at him.

"Go ahead, Henry, show Doc. He won't mind." The boy looked unconvinced. Max saw the look and went on. "He'll get a kick out of it. Show him."

Henry Bowman shrugged, took his rifle back from their host, and worked the action, chambering the first round. This time he did not hold the rifle at his waist, but instead put it up to his shoulder. He also shifted his grip slightly and deliberately inserted his trigger finger into the Winchester's trigger guard.

"Pull!" When the clay pigeon was about thirty yards away a staccato noise erupted from the rifle and the clay bird vanished in a cloud of black dust. Doc Wiemann's jaw dropped and Max Collins started laughing.

Henry opened the action to make sure the rifle was empty and gripped the rifle's takedown screw between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. After loosening it, he pulled the buttstock off the receiver and carefully laid the barreled action in the grass. He held the buttstock and trigger mechanism up so that the older man could see it, and reached into his pouch, withdrawing a small screwdriver.

"On a Winchester 63, the sear has an egg-shaped hole in it that lets it rock back and forth, under spring tension, on this pin." He pointed with the blade of the screwdriver to the parts he had just described. "If the gun gets really dirty and that hole gets clogged up," or if you stick a paper match in the hole and break it off he added mentally, "the sear will stay down when you pull the trigger. That can happen on most semiauto .22s, and usually the hammer follows the bolt down on the second cartridge and the gun misfires after the first shot. That's 'cause the hammer is moving more slowly and is cushioned by the bolt, and it doesn't have enough power to set off the primer." Henry swallowed and then continued.

"On a Winchester Model 63, though, the hammer is much bigger and heavier than on other .22 autos." He pointed to the internal hammer with the screwdriver. "Even though it's slowed down, it's still got enough force to fire the next cartridge. So the gun goes full auto, like you just saw."

"But it wasn't doing it before, and your rifle doesn't look like it's all that dirty yet," Doc protested. Henry Bowman looked self-conscious, and was about to reply, but Max cut in.

"Henry figured out how to hold the gun in a certain way so that when the action cycles upon firing, the sear gets bounced out of the way of the engagement notch just from the internal harmonics of the operating mechanism."

The boy reattached the buttstock to the rifle and held the weapon with its left side facing up. "If you push your trigger finger all the way through the trigger guard so that you're pulling the trigger with the second finger joint, like this," he demonstrated, "then the tip of your trigger finger will be pressed against the left side of the receiver. That seems to transfer some of the shock of the bolt to the sear, and bounces it out of the way. At least, that's what I think is happening."

"Do all Model 63s do this, or just this one?" Doc asked incredulously.

"I've only tried three others, but they all did it just like mine. They don't do it as reliably if you try it lefthanded," he added as an afterthought.

"Henry can dump the whole magazine onto a playing card at ten yards from the hip," Max said proudly.

"That's using a sling," Henry explained quickly. "Even a .22 on full auto will climb, because they cycle so fast. I loop a long sling over my shoulder from the barrel to the butt-stock and push down on the gun with both hands before firing." He demonstrated by holding the rifle as he had described. "With a sling you can really keep them close together. With tracers, it looks like a laser beam."

"You've seen a laser?" Doc Wiemann demanded. This day was proving to be full of surprises. "Just one in a magazine," Henry admitted sheepishly. All three laughed at that.

"It looked to me like it was getting too easy for you," Max said, changing the subject. "Let's see what you can do from the next station over." Henry moved a few yards to the left and slightly back, and stood on the concrete pad of station six. He withdrew the magazine tube and loaded the rifle with ten cartridges.

"Pull!" Henry swung on the bird and missed. "This is going to be a lot harder," he said pointedly. "I wish I had more tracers with me, but that was the last box I had left." On the eighth shot Henry connected, and a big smile crossed his face. "Okay, I think I got the lead figured out." He broke seven of the next twelve clay pigeons.

"Want to try station five?" Doc asked.

"Okay." Henry walked to the next pad over. He was in a position where the birds were flying much more from right to left than before, and were farther away from him to begin with when they emerged from the skeet house. This time it took fourteen shots before Henry connected. Out of the next forty-four birds, Henry broke seven.

"I'm out," he said finally, opening the rifle's action to make sure it was indeed empty. "I'm going to have to do a lot more practicing if I'm ever going to get any good at the middle stations." He walked over to retrieve his rifle case and slid the Winchester into it.

"Max, you bring your nephew out here any time he wants to come. I'll make sure someone runs the machine for him if I can't do it myself." The three of them started walking back to the clubhouse. "Henry, how did you get interested in shooting aerial targets with your rifle?" Doc asked the boy.

"Four years ago, Uncle Max gave me a copy of Ed McGivern's book on shooting things in the air with a revolver. As soon as I got my rifle, I started trying to hit things in the air with it. After my dad put the rear sight farther forward on the barrel, it got easier."

Doc Wiemann pulled the screen door of the clubhouse open and held it for his guests. "You do any shooting with a revolver?"

Henry shook his head. "This Winchester is the only gun I own."

"You sure as hell know how to use it. Would you like to try a revolver? I've got one I haven't shot in quite a while."

"Yes!" Henry said immediately. Then his face fell. "But I'm out of ammo."

"I may have some here. Just a minute." Doc Wiemann went into the other room. Henry and Max could hear him opening drawers. In a few moments he returned with a brown cardboard box and handed it to the boy. Henry lifted the lid and took out the blued Smith & Wesson Model 17. He pressed the cylinder latch forward and swung the cylinder out to make sure the gun was unloaded. He aimed the revolver at a spot on the top of the opposite wall, sighting along the six-inch barrel.

"I was mistaken about the ammo. Thought I had some twenty-twos here, but I don't. You take that K-22 on home and see how it shoots for you." Henry gave Doc Wiemann a worried look, but the older man shook his head. "I don't think I've put a box of shells through that thing in five years. It's just been sitting in my desk drawer. Shooting won't hurt it, and I can see you take good care of your guns. Come back with it next time and show me what you can do."

"The grips look a little big for his hands," Max Collins broke in. "I think I've got some smaller ones that fit a K-frame Smith back at my house. You want to sell that gun, Doc?"

Doc Wiemann waved the question away. "See if he likes it first. He may decide he wants a shorter barrel, or something lighter, like the Smith kit gun, built on the J-frame."

"Thanks, Doc!" Henry said earnestly as he and his uncle turned towards the door of the clubhouse. *. "Afternoon, Mr. Gutierrez, how are you?"

Pedro Gutierrez looked startled at the question, and at being addressed in such formal manner. Pedro had never talked to a lawyer before, and now he had been hailed by Mr. Raymond Johnson, who rented an apartment in the New York building where Pedro worked as a maintenance man. Raymond Johnson was the only lawyer he had ever spoken to in his life, and he was surprised that the young man knew his name. He was about to give the standard one- or two-word reply and walk past when he saw the look of genuine goodwill on Raymond Johnson's face.

Ray smiled easily at the nervous man. Pedro reminded him of one of the ranch hands his father and uncle had employed for a few years while Ray was still in high school. A lot of the men who worked on ranches in Colorado were lean, wiry men of Spanish descent.

Raymond was about to say something else to put the man at ease when all of a sudden, the older man's face crumpled. He made a visible effort to recover, but the smile he finally put on his face was a ghastly caricature. Horrified, Raymond reached over and put his hand on the small man's shoulder. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Pedro Gutierrez, like most men, had a definite sense of pride. He had kept his troubles to himself for so long, and the young lawyer's kindness had been so unexpected, however, that words started pouring out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"It's about my daughter, Mr. Johnson," the man said. "My youngest one. She will be four years old next month. I know it is God's will, and I should be strong, but my heart is like a block of lead when I look at her."

Ray Johnson was not aware that Pedro Gutierrez had a daughter, let alone a sick one, but he had learned a long time before that if he let people talk at their own pace, sooner or later he would find out more than if he made the constant interjections and comments that most people uttered out of habit. Raymond said nothing, but cocked his head and raised an eyebrow to urge the man to continue.

"She is blind, Mister Johnson, blind from birth. But that is not the worst of it. When I was a young boy, I knew a blind girl in our village. A blind daughter would be a child I could show love to and help her as she grew into a woman." He gave a helpless gesture as his words trailed off. "But Rosita..." Anguish showed plainly on his face.

Raymond Johnson made an immediate decision. In later years he would wonder if his decision had been brought about by simple compassion, or by some kind of sixth sense or premonition. "What time are you done working here today, Mr. Gutierrez?"

Pedro shook his head. "Today I am off, sir. I came to pick up some things I left in my locker in the basement. Then I am going to go look for part-time work." He looked very ashamed. "We have no money for rent or food, Mister Johnson."

Raymond looked at his watch. "It's well past lunchtime and I haven't eaten. I was going around the corner to get a sandwich. Why don't you join me, and you can tell me more about it. Sometimes it can help just to talk. You'll be better able to look for more work on a full stomach." Raymond held the door for the older man, who looked startled and embarrassed, but then walked outside.

As they sat across from each other in the booth at the cafeteria, Pedro Gutierrez ate like he hadn't had a decent meal in a long time, which he hadn't. He explained to Raymond how his young daughter had been born without eyes or most of her brain. It was the first time he had talked to any Caucasian about his daughter, other than the intern who had delivered her almost four years before.

"My wife Rosa, she had a very bad time when she was carrying Rosita. Not like that with any of the other three that came before. She had bad headaches, and became very dizzy. After the baby was born, Rosa did not get better. Finally, she could not work. The company she worked for, they finally had to tell her she had to go. She is still very sick, even three years later, and the doctor cannot say why. The priest says it is God's will."

It sounds like there's something seriously wrong with the mother Raymond thought. Who do I know that might have a more accurate diagnosis than the tired intern fresh out of med school they've no doubt been using? Ray took a bite of his sandwich and thought about what the older man had said. "Where was she working?" Raymond asked, now just making conversation while he searched his memory for a doctor that might help out the indigent family.

"Allied Chemical. She worked there for three years."

"Allied Chemical?" Raymond was no longer thinking of doctors. He was somewhat familiar with the firm that Pedro Gutierrez had named. The German multinational firm of Becker AG was currently negotiating to acquire Allied. Lambert, Burns, where Raymond was an associate, had hoped to get the Allied account, but had been aced out by their main competitor for the business. "What did she do there?" Raymond asked.

"At first she cleaned offices in the administration building. Then, right after we learned she was going to have another child, the company found out they were going to have to raise the wages of the cleaning staff. They decided they didn't want to have full-time employees doing cleaning work. It would be cheaper for them to hire an outside cleaning company." He stared at the lawyer. "An outside company that is not nearly so concerned as Allied Chemical about whether its workers are legally in the country." He took a deep breath and went on.

"My Rosa and many of the other cleaning women offered to work for the same wages as they had been getting, for they needed the jobs, and Allied had been a good company to work for. The company said that was illegal. It would violate the government's minimum wage law." Gutierrez gave a snort of disgust. "The government promises it is going to get higher pay for workers like Rosa, but instead it makes them lose their jobs.

"They said there were two openings for work in the plant. The personnel director said they normally didn't hire women because of the lifting involved, but one of the two jobs didn't require any strength, and he said they could take one of the cleaning women for that job. Everyone who had been on the cleaning staff more than two years put her name on a piece of paper and the plant manager drew one slip out of a hat." He knotted his hands together as he continued. "With the fourth one on the way, and Christmas coming, we couldn't afford to have her lose the job. God listened to her prayers. Rosa's name was the one that the man picked."

"How many months pregnant was she when she switched to working in the plant?"

"A little more than a month, I think."

"Did Allied Chemical know she was pregnant when they accepted her for the new job?"

"Yes," Gutierrez said, nodding. "I know they did because she told them about it and asked about maternity leave in the future, and that was when they told her the whole cleaning staff was going to be laid off." "Mr. Gutierrez, do you think it's possible your wife was exposed to something in the chemical plant that made her sick and caused the birth defects in your daughter?" Raymond asked.

Pedro Gutierrez's eyes widened. "But she never handled any chemicals! She only did inventory work. And no one else there got sick. No, it is not possible," he said with finality.

"Did her clothes ever smell of chemicals when she came home from work?"

"Yes, always."

"Did the company issue her a respirator-a mask to filter the air she breathed when she worked in the plant?"

"She never mentioned one, no."

"Did your wife ever mention whether or not there were any other pregnant women working in the plant, or women who had been pregnant at any time when they worked there?"