"Marty's parents have to go do something or other that he wants to avoid like the plague. Let me find him and see if he wants to use us as an excuse to beg off on whatever they've got plotted. I think Jeff's free, too." He looked around the quadrangle at his black-robed classmates, trying to spot either or both of his friends. A number of the graduating seniors had shucked their commencement robes and were sporting purple shirts emblazoned with the slogan 'Rite is Okay', to show that they weren't ashamed for graduating without writing an honors thesis.

"Well, you go carouse with your friends for a while and then give me a call at the hotel and tell me how many, so I can phone in the reservations." Henry smiled at his mother's turn of phrase. "If you're out, I'll leave word at the front desk," he promised.

"Oh, and I lugged this up here for you. It just came to the house, and I thought it might be important." Henry's mother opened her purse and withdrew a letter-sized envelope, and Henry smiled at the idea of her 'lugging' it up to Massachusetts for him. When he saw the return address and the absence of postage, his pulse quickened.

Department of the Treasury

Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms

NFA Branch

Washington, DC 20226

"My Class Three license!" he exclaimed as he tore open the envelope.

"Thought it might be important," Catherine Bowman commented, deadpan.

Henry scanned the enclosed sheet and saw that they had cashed his check and his status as a Special Occupational Taxpayer would be effective July 1, the first day of the fiscal year that had been created with the passage of the National Firearms Act in June of 1934.

"Yessss," he said under his breath as he reread the document.

"First time anyone in our family was excited about mail from the government," his mother said drily. "See you around seven," she said as she kissed him goodbye.

Henry Bowman had just graduated with a BA in both geology and economics, and he had three firm job offers. The one he expected to accept was with an independent firm outside St. Louis that did a lot of contract work for the oil companies and whose president had complained that his geologists "still didn't understand that they've been hired to help the firm make money, not to look for fossilized Indians or some damn thing."

At that moment, however, Henry Bowman was not thinking about geology or economics. He was contemplating the fact that he had just been licensed by the feds to deal in machine guns. Henry Bowman was not thinking about guns or shooting as he tossed the bulk rate envelopes in the trash and divided his first-class mail into 'bills' and 'everything else'. He was reviewing in his mind if there was anyone on his Christmas list he had neglected when his telephone rang.

"Hello."

"Henry! It's Ed. Glad I caught you. Have you seen the latest Shotgun News?"

Ed Barber was referring to a publication that came out twice a month. It was 96 pages of newsprint, published in Hastings, Nebraska, which was composed entirely of classified and display ads for firearms and firearms-related products.

"It's here, but I haven't looked at it yet."

"Well, you better go get it. Some guy's got a 4-bore for sale."

"What?" Henry almost screamed.

"I think he's a dealer. It's in the classified section, under 'Rifles For Sale'. I don't have my copy in front of me, but it's a Rodda. The ad said both barrels were fully rifled, and the gun weighed twenty-four pounds." "I'll call you back," Henry said quickly and hung up the phone.

It took him four minutes to find his the most recent copy of Shotgun News, turn to the Rifles For Sale section, and locate the one-inch ad.

R.B RODDA 4-Bore Double Rifle. 24-pound back-action underlever hammer gun built in 1880-1882. Brown Damascus barrels, fully rifled, mint bores. Beautiful engraving (elephants, rhinos, lion), original case. Some loading tools (not original) Serious inquiries only, no collect calls. Jim, (603) 217-5543 after 6:00 PM EST 1-75 Henry stared at the ad and looked at the date at the top of the page. Damn, I hope this issue hasn't been out long. He was kicking himself for not skimming through it as soon as it had arrived in his mailbox. The Rodda was the only 4-bore he had ever seen advertised in the Shotgun News.

"Hello?" the man answered on the fourth ring.

"Ah, yessir, I'm calling about the ad you ran in Shotgun News about a Rodda double rifle for sale? Do you still have it, or has it been sold?"

"Well, fellow said he wanted it for sure, but didn't have the money yet. Told him I'd give him 'til noon on Friday."

"I see," Henry said. The day after tomorrow. "What can you tell me about the gun?"

"Well, it's a full-weight four. Back-action underlever hammer gun, dual triggers of course. Twenty-four pounds empty, with twenty-four-inch barrels. Bores are mint. Extractor gun, no ejectors of course. Outside of the barrels, there's a few pits, but the gun's ninety-plus percent original finish. Action's tight-you can't pull the barrels off the face. Splinter forend, but on a four it's a pretty big splinter," the man said with a laugh. "Dark wood, nice straight grain, no figure to speak of. Got a small repair in the grip just back of the tang, but you have to look real close-it was done right, and looks as if it's been that way for a long while. Cheekpiece for a right-handed shooter. Pad's been replaced, but I don't know how long ago. Case is original, and has a bunch of real old steamship stickers on it, so the gun's been used in either Africa or India, or both. Leather straps are missing. Got one lathe-turned brass case, some fiber wads, and a bullet mold somebody made up for it a few years ago. Big 2000-grain conical job."

"What's the length of pull?"

"I'd have to measure, and it's down in the safe, but the stock hasn't been shortened or lengthened or anything, if that's what you mean."

"Have you shot it?" Henry asked.

"Not with full loads," the man admitted. "I fired a few rounds with a hundred grains of double-F. Didn't kick as bad as I thought."

No shit Henry said to himself. The correct load's between 380 and 440 grains of powder, depending on what the gun was regulated for. He took a breath and asked the question.

"What's the price?"

"It's the best gun I've ever owned," the man on the other end of the line said with a sigh. It was a comment that sellers used as a matter of course, but in this case Henry knew the man was speaking the truth. Henry Bowman felt that the only finer weapon in existence would have to be another 4-bore. "I wanted eight thousand five hundred for it," the seller continued. "This one fellow made me a firm offer of eight thousand, and I'm giving him until noon on Friday to get me the money. If he doesn't, and you want it for eight, it's yours."

Henry swallowed. "Okay," he said, after just a moment's hesitation. "But I have to have a one-day inspection. I don't doubt your description-it sounds as if you're very thorough. But I intend to shoot this gun, and if the stock doesn't fit me, I can't take it. I'll call you within an hour after I get the gun to tell you if I'm keeping it, and I'll pay shipping both ways if I send it back."

"Sounds fair to me. Three-day inspection's normal."

"I won't need near that long. What's your full name and mailing address, and are there any other phone numbers I should have to reach you at noon on Friday?" The man on the other end of the line gave him the information. "I'll call you at exactly noon," Henry promised, and hung up.

Now I've got to wait until Friday he thought.

"Bureau of Standards."

"Yes sir. I know you're not the bank, but I've got to set a clock to the exact time, within a second or two is good enough, and I can't get your radio signal here," Henry said into the phone. "Can you help me out?"

"What time zone?"

"Central."

"It's seventeen after ten, and about forty seconds. Hang with me, and I'll give you when it hits eighteen after."

"Thanks. I'll wait." Henry had stopped his watch with the second hand on the twelve before he made the call. Now he adjusted the minute hand to show eighteen after ten, and prepared to push in the stem to restart the timepiece.

"Riiiight- now."

"Got it. Thanks a lot." Henry broke the connection.

"Shut that fuckin' kid up!" Boone Caswell commanded. He liked to stay in bed on Sundays after a night of heavy drinking. Boone looked at the clock beside the bed.

"Six-thirty! Christ! It's too goddamn early in the morning for this shit!" He turned over in the bed but it was no use-the crying bored into his brain, making his hangover even worse. "Myra! Can't you shut her up?"

Caswell climbed out of bed naked and marched into the living room. His four-year-old daughter Cindy sat on the couch, trembling as she cried. She wanted to tell her parents that she'd just had a terrible nightmare. When she saw she had succeeded in summoning her father, she increased the volume. To Boone Caswell, it seemed as if a hot steel needle were being thrust into his brain.

"Shut the fuck up!" he bellowed, and delivered a vicious slap across Cindy's face. The blow knocked her sideways on the couch. It was the first time Boone Caswell had ever struck his daughter, and his action had the opposite of the intended result: Cindy screamed even more loudly.

Nonetheless, Boone Caswell was smiling when he returned to his bedroom.

At five seconds past eleven local time Henry Bowman made the call.

"Hello."

"Good afternoon. Henry Bowman in St. Louis calling again, about the Rodda." Please tell me it hasn't been sold.

"Yeah...hey, I got your cashier's check this morning. Didn't know you were going to overnight it to me. Nice of you to put in an extra forty for shipping, too. Lots of folks always want the seller to pay for it."

"Did the other guy come through?" Henry asked quickly.