Franklin nodded knowingly, remembering that several key members of the club’s board had cases pending before Justice Halpern.

“That’s good news,” Franklin murmured.

“Indeed it is,” said Halpern, with a self-satisfied smile. He signaled the barkeep for his usual brandy and soda.

Franklin glanced at Gorton, who glanced in turn at Nottingham.

When neither of them said a word, Franklin spoke up. “When will the supreme court decide on the dueling-machine proposal?”

Halpern gave him a sharp look. “In two weeks, when we open the year’s hearings.”

Very gently, Franklin stepped on the toe of Gorton’s nearer shoe.

The patent attorney took the hint. “Y’know, your honor, it doesn’t seem right to make a decision on the case without trying a duel yourself.”

“Me?” The judge looked alarmed. “Fight a duel?”

“In virtual reality,” Gorton said. “Nobody gets hurt.”

“It’s all nonsense,” the judge grumbled.

Franklin nudged Gorton under the table again, harder, and the patent attorney said, “I could be your challenger. You could pick any setting you like. Choose your weapons.”

Halpern gave Gorton one of his well-known icy stares.

Nottingham came in with the line they had rehearsed earlier in the day. “You would be the only member of the court who has experienced the dueling machine. The other justices would have to look up to you, follow your example.”

“It’s all nonsense,” Halpern repeated.

Franklin nodded sagely. “I understand. It’s a little scary, fighting a duel—even in virtual reality.”

“You told me no one gets hurt,” the judge said.

“Nobody does,” Gorton said. “I’ve fought three duels so far. They’re fun!”

“Three duels?” Halpern asked.

With a pleasant grin, Gorton said, “Once I was a fighter pilot in a World War I biplane. And I was a knight fighting in a tournament, armor and lances and all that.” He added sheepishly, “I lost that one.”

“Your opponent unhorsed you?” Nottingham asked, on cue.

“He killed me,” Gorton said, still grinning. “Skewered me with his lance, right through my shield and armor and all.”

Halpern looked aghast. “You died?”

“In the VR simulation. Opened my eyes and I was back in the dueling machine booth, safe and sound. No blood.”

“That . . . that’s interesting,” said the judge.

“If you fought a duel,” Franklin asked, his bearded face all innocent curiosity, “what setting would you choose? What weapons?”

Trained psychologist that he was, Franklin had assessed Halpern wisely. It took only a few days of sophisticated arm-twisting to get the judge to agree to face Rick Gorton in a duel—under the conditions that Justice Halpern picked.

The only sign of apprehension that Halpern showed as the four men entered the VR Duels, Inc. facility was a barely discernable throbbing of the blue vein in his forehead, just above his left eye.

Gorton seemed perfectly at ease, his round face displaying his usual easygoing, lopsided smile. Franklin was quiet and very serious; Nottingham stiffly formal.

The dueling-machine office was located in a busy, noisy shopping mall, set between a music store thronged with teenagers and a pharmacy that catered to Medicare patients. Once the four men had pushed through the facility’s front doors, the place looked more like a medical clinic than the kind of gaming arcade that Halpern had expected. There was a small anteroom, its walls all hospital white and bare. Through an open doorway he could see a larger room that was filled with a row of booths, also in sterile white décor.

A pleasant-faced young man was sitting at the desk in the anteroom. He wore a white tunic and slacks, with a stylized pair of crossed sky-blue scimitars on the breast of the tunic.

“Justice Halpern?” said the young man, his smile showing perfect gleaming teeth. “Precisely on time.”

As the young man gestured them to the curved plastic chairs in front of his desk, a pair of slim young women stepped into the anteroom and stood on either side of the open doorway. They also wore white tunics with the blue crossed scimitars, and slacks. They too were smiling professionally.

“And you must be Mr. Richard Gorton, Esquire,” said the young man. Looking at Franklin and Nottingham, his expression grew a bit more serious. “And you gentlemen?”

“We are friends of the combatants,” said Nottingham.

“Seconds,” Franklin said.

“I see,” said the young man. “Well, we really have no need of seconds, but if you’d like to remain during the duel we have a seating area inside the main room.”

The man identified himself as the duel coordinator and briefly outlined the procedure: each of the duelists would be placed in a soundproofed, windowless booth, where the young women—who were simulations technicians—would help them into their sensor suits and helmets.

With a glance at the computer screen on his desk, the coordinator said, “I see that you have chosen the Battle of Waterloo as the setting for your duel. Your weapons are sabers and lances.”

“Correct,” Halpern said, his voice brittle with tension. Gorton merely rubbed his nose and nodded.

“Very well, gentlemen,” said the coordinator, rising from his desk. “If you will simply follow the technicians, they will prepare you for your duel. Good luck to each of you.”

Halpern waited for him to say May the better man win, but the coordinator refrained from that cliché.

He followed the slim young woman on his right into the inner room; she stopped at the first booth in the row that lined its wall. Gorton was led into the next booth, beside it.

“You’ll have to take off your outer clothing, sir,” said the technician, still smiling, “and put on the sensor suit that’s hanging inside the booth. You can call me when you’re ready.”

Halpern felt some alarm. No one had told him he’d have to strip. He glared at the young woman, who remained smilingly unperturbed as she held open the door to the booth.

Reluctantly, grumbling to himself, Justice Halpern stepped into the booth. Once the woman closed its door and he himself clicked its lock, he saw that the booth’s curving walls were bare. The only furniture inside was a stiff-backed chair. A set of what looked like old-fashioned long johns was hanging against the wall.

Justice Halpern scanned the claustrophobic little booth for a sign of hidden cameras. With some trepidation, he peeled down to his underwear as quickly as he could and pulled on the gray, nubby outfit. It felt fuzzy against his bare arms and legs, almost as if it were infested with vermin.

“Are you ready, sir?” came the technician’s voice through a speaker grill set into the ceiling of the booth.

Halpern nodded, then, realizing that she couldn’t see him (hoping that she couldn’t, actually), he said crisply, “I’m ready.”