As they walked, Falcon toyed with the Fichetti pistol. It felt solid, slightly heavier than he’d expected, a well-machined chunk of metal and ceramic composite. Its lines were smooth, business-like, with no odd protrusions to catch on a holster or the inside of a pocket. Even the bulge of the laser sight, mounted under the barrel, was rounded, streamlined. The weapon felt somehow reassuring in his grip, much different from his jury-rigged zip gun. The zip gun should have been more lethal because the round it fired was much bigger than the Fichetti’s, but Falcon had always suspected that the jury-rigging would make using the zip gun even more dangerous to him than to his target. Not so the Fichetti.