moment have the
problem of reaching across my body. I took the same sidewise steps she
had and using just two fingers, very gingerly--_disarmingly_, I hoped--I
lifted my antique firearm from its holster and laid it on the concrete
and drew back my hand from it all the way. Now it was up to her again,
or should be. Her hook was going to be quite a problem, I realized, but
we needn't come to it right away.

She temporized by successively unsheathing the two knives at her left
side and laying them beside the dart gun. Then she stopped and her look
told me plainly that it was up to me.

* * * * *

Now I am a bugger who believes in carrying _one perfect
knife_--otherwise, I know for a fact, you'll go knife-happy and end up
by weighing yourself down with dozens, literally. So I am naturally very
reluctant to get out of touch in any way with Mother, who is a little
rusty along the sides but made of the toughest and most sharpenable
alloy steel I've ever run across.

Still, I was most curious to find out what she'd do about that hook, so
I finally laid Mother on the concrete beside the .38 and rested my
hands lightly on my hips, all ready to enjoy myself--at least I hoped I
gave that impression.

She smiled, it was almost a nice smile--by now we'd let our scarves drop
since we weren't raising any more dust--and then she took hold of the
hook with her left hand and started to unscrew it from the
leather-and-metal base fitting over her stump.

Of course, I told myself. And her second knife, the one without a grip,
must be that way so she could screw its tang into the base when she
wanted a knife on her right hand instead of a hook. I ought to have
guessed.

I grinned my admiration of her mechanical ingenuity and immediately
unhitched my knapsack and laid it beside my weapons. Then a thought
occurred to me. I opened the knapsack and moving my hand slowly and very
openly so she'd have no reason to suspect a ruse, I drew out a blanket
and, trying to show her both sides of it in the process, as if I were
performing some damned conjuring trick, dropped it gently on the ground
between us.

She unsnapped the straps on her satchel that fastened it to her belt and
laid it aside and then she took off her belt too, slowly drawing it
through the wide loops of weathered denim. Then she looked meaningfully
at my belt.

I had to agree with her. Belts, especially heavy-buckled ones like ours,
can be na