Abruptly he was standing at the bar of an Old West frontier saloon, crowded with rough-looking men, bearded and unwashed, smelly. Over in one corner a man who looked suspiciously like Rick Gorton was banging away at a tinny-sounding piano. It can’t be Gorton, Halpern said to himself. Looking at the piano player more closely, Halpern saw that he had a bushy red beard and his fingernails were cracked and dirty.
«What’re you having, Judge?»
Halpern turned and saw the bartender smiling at him. The man looked a little like Herb Franklin, but much younger, more rugged, his beard darker and rather bedraggled. A badly stained apron was tied around his ample middle.
«Judge?» the bartender prompted.
«Brandy and soda,» said Halpern.
The bartender’s bushy brows hiked up. «You want to put sarsaparilla in your brandy, Judge?»
Halpern thought a moment, then shook his head. «No. Water. Brandy and a glass of water. No ice.»
The bartender gave him a puzzled look, then reached for a bottle, muttering to himself, «Ice?»
Halpern looked up at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He saw that he was wearing a long black frock coat and a black, wide-brimmed hat. On his right hip he felt the weight of a heavy pistol. A Colt six-shooter, he surmised. Not the sleek, well-balanced Glock automatic he used at the target range in the club’s basement. This thing felt like a cannon.
«Brandy and water,» the bartender said, slapping two glasses onto the surface of the bar. Some of the water splashed onto the polished wood.
Halpern took a cautious sip. It was awful. Like vinegar mixed with battery acid, he thought.
Turning, he surveyed the crowded barroom. Lots of dusty, unshaven, grubby men in boots and grimy clothes lining the bar. Others sitting at tables. Looked like an intense game of poker was going on in the farthest corner. Everybody carried a gun; some of the men had two. He almost expected to see John Wayne come sauntering through the swinging doors. Or Clint Eastwood, at least.
The swinging doors did indeed bang open, and a tiny, almost elfin figure stepped in. Wearing scuffed cowboy boots, faded Levis, an unbuttoned leather vest over a checkered shirt, and a beat-up brown Stetson pulled low. Gritty with trail dust. She had a Colt revolver strapped to her hip.
Halpern recognized Ms. Harte, just barely. He saw the blazing anger in those china-blue eyes.
She took five steps into the barroom and stopped, facing Halpern.
«Judge,» she called across the crowded saloon, «you hanged my kid brother for cattle rustlin’ that he didn’t do.»
The barroom went totally silent. Instinctively Halpern pushed the edge of his frock coat away from the butt of the pistol holstered at his hip.
«The jury found him guilty,» he said, surprised at the quaver in his voice.
«’Cause you threw out the evidence that would’ve cleared him, you sneaky polecat.»
«That’s not true!»
«You callin’ me a liar? Go for that hawgleg, Judge.»
With that Ms. Harte started to draw the six-shooter from her holster. Halpern fumbled for his gun. It was huge and heavy, felt as if it weighed ten pounds.
To his credit, he got off the first shot. The plate glass window behind Ms. Harte shattered. She fired once, twice. He heard glassware smashing on the bar behind him. Men were diving everywhere to get out of the line of fire. Halpern saw the piano player spin around on his little stool, eyes wide, a lopsided grin on his thickly bearded face.
He fired again and a chair two feet to Ms. Harte’s left went clattering across the floor. This isn’t like target shooting! Halpern realized. Not at all.
A bullet tore at his frock coat, and Halpern felt a sudden need to urinate. He fired at his unmoving opponent and her hat flew off her head. She didn’t even wince. She shot again and more glassware exploded behind him.
Gripping his cumbersome long-barreled pistol in both hands, Halpern fired once again.
Ms. Harte toppled over backward, her smoking pistol flying from her hand. Her bright blue eyes closed forever.
For a moment Halpern was plunged into utter darkness. Then he felt the VR helmet being lifted off his head. The young woman smiled at him warmly.
«You won, Justice Halpern. You won the duel.»
Halpern licked his lips and then smiled back at the technician. «Yes, I did, didn’t I? I shot her dead.»
On shaky legs he stepped out of the virtual reality booth. Ms. Harte was coming out of the booth on the other side of the room. She smiled weakly at him.
«Touché,» she called across the chamber.
Halpern bowed graciously. Perhaps there is something to this dueling-machine business, after all, he thought.
It was a seafood restaurant: small, slightly tatty, and completely on the other side of the city from the supreme court’s building and the Carleton Club.
Herb Franklin smiled as he got to his feet to welcome his luncheon guest. He had barely had a chance to sit at the table; she was right on time.
«Congratulations,» he said to Roxanne Harte, Esq.
Ms. Harte smiled prettily as she took the chair that Franklin held for her.
«It did come out pretty well, didn’t it?» she said.
Franklin took his own chair as he said, «The supreme court handed down its decision this morning. Duels in properly registered dueling-machine facilities are now recognized as legally binding. First state in the union to go for it.»
«A precedent,» said Ms. Harte, as she picked up the menu that lay atop her plate.
«This state is a trendsetter.» Franklin was beaming.
«Justice Halpern voted with the majority?» she asked.
Nodding vigorously, Franklin told her, «He wrote the majority opinion, no less.»
Ms. Harte smiled prettily. «I’ll bet VR Duels, Inc. will declare a dividend.»
«Very likely,» Franklin agreed happily. «Very likely.»
They both ordered trout, and Franklin picked a dry white wine to go with the fish.
«I really want to thank you,» Franklin said, once they had sipped at the wine. «I know it was quite a sacrifice for you.»
«Sacrifice?»
«The club’s board turned down your petition about the Men’s Bar.»
Ms. Harte shrugged prettily. «It wasn’t my petition. I don’t care about your old Men’s Bar.»
«Oh,» said Franklin. «When I first talked to you about it, I thought—»
«I’m not a radical feminist. The petition was just the bait for your trap. And it worked.»
Franklin nodded, a little warily, and turned his attention to the trout.
She said, «So now the good citizens of this state can settle their differences with a duel in virtual reality.»
«Under the specified conditions. Both parties have to sign a formal agreement to make the results of the duel binding on them.»
She took another sip of wine, then said. «It’s funny. You told me that Justice Halpern was a champion pistol shot, but he was worse than I am.»
«There’s a big difference between shooting at a target and firing at someone who’s shooting back at you,» Franklin said. «And that Dragoon’s revolver we gave him is a lot different from the Glock he’s accustomed to.»
«I suppose,» Ms. Harte agreed faintly. «But boy, he was a really rotten shot, you know. I deliberately missed him four times and I still had to pretend to be hit; he never came close to me.»
Franklin hissed, «For God’s sake don’t let anyone else know that! If it ever gets back to him…»
«Don’t worry, my lips are sealed,» she replied. «After all, an assistant district attorney has got to have some discretion.»
With a relieved chuckle, Franklin said, «You’ll get the next opening in the DA’s office. It’s all set. We just have to wait a few months so Halpern doesn’t start putting two and two together.»