The lock clicked and the door swung open. The young woman stepped inside and suddenly the booth felt very crowded to Halpern. He smelled the delicate scent of her perfume.

She was carrying a plastic helmet under one arm. It looked like a biker’s helmet to Halpern. Resting the helmet on the chair, she pulled a white oblong object from her tunic pocket, about the size and shape of a TV remote controller, and ran it up and down Halpern’s fuzzy-suited body.

Nodding, she said, “Your suit is activated. Good.”

“No wires?” he asked.

Her smile returning, she replied, “Everything is wireless, sir.”

Halpern wished she wouldn’t call him sir. It made him feel a hundred years old.

She picked the helmet off the chair and handed it to him. “Put it on and pull down the visor. When the duel begins the visor will go totally black for a moment. Don’t panic. It’s only for a moment or two while we program the duel for you. When it clears you’ll see the place where your duel is set.”

Halpern wordlessly put on the helmet. It felt heavy, cumbersome.

“Now pull down the visor, please.”

He did. It was tinted, but he could see her clearly enough.

She looked him up and down one final time, then said, “Okay, you’re ready for your duel. You can sit down.” She turned to the door, stepped through, gave him a final gleaming smile, and closed the booth’s door.

Halpern sat down.

“Halpern-Gorton duel commencing in ten seconds,” came a man’s voice in his helmet earphones.

Then everything went black.

Before he could do anything more than gulp with fright, the darkness vanished in a swirl of colors and then the rolling hills of a green countryside appeared.

A trace of a cold smile curled Randolph Halpern’s thin lips. He was sitting astride his favorite mount, the chestnut mare that the Iron Duke himself had given him.

Gorton and the rest of them think they’re going to make a fool of me, Halpern said to himself as he patted the mare’s neck, gentling her. They don’t know that I’ve studied every aspect of the Battle of Waterloo since I was in prelaw.

Behind him, screened by the thick forest, the entire brigade was lined up and waiting eagerly for Halpern’s order to charge. It all seemed so very real! The smell of the grass, the distant rumble of artillery, even the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, now that the morning rain had drifted away. The simulation is well-nigh perfect, Halpern had to admit. Virtual reality, as seemingly real as the genuine thing.

He could hear his men’s horses snuffling impatiently, sense their eagerness to come to grips with their wily foe. Up on the sparsely wooded ridge ahead Halpern could see Bonaparte’s Frenchies, pennants flying from their lances, as they trotted toward the distant town of Waterloo.

He pulled his saber from its scabbard with the clean whisper of deadly steel, and a hundred other sabers slid from their scabbards behind him.

“England expects every man to do his best!” Halpern shouted. Then he pointed his saber at the enemy and spurred his mount into a charge.

The French lancers were caught completely by surprise, as Halpern had planned. His brigade charged into their flank in a wild screaming melee of flashing steel and dust and blood. Within moments it was over. The French had been routed.

All except their leader, who sat panting and sweating on his devil’s black stallion, gripping his bloodied lance in one big-knuckled hand and staring at Halpern, his chest heaving beneath his gaudy uniform.

It was Gorton, of course, big easy-going Rick Gorton, looking more like a frightened oversized child than one of Napoleon’s brave lancers.

“He’s mine, lads,” Halpern cried, and he charged straight at his opponent.

Who stood his ground and casually skewered the incautious Halpern on his lance. The pain was monumental. Halpern fought to remain conscious, to raise his saber, to strike the detested enemy in the name of God, Harry, and Saint George. Instead, he slipped into darkness.

And opened his eyes in the booth of the dueling machine. The same young technician had opened the booth’s door and was lifting the virtual reality helmet off Halpern’s bald head, which was glistening with perspiration.

“I’m afraid you lost, sir,” said the young woman, her earlier smile replaced by a sorrowful countenance. “Better luck next time.”

“You weren’t supposed to beat him,” Herb Franklin growled.

Rick Gorton looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to, by golly. He just ran onto my lance.”

The two lawyers were sitting in a corner of the Men’s Bar. Franklin was scowling like a Santa Claus confronting a naughty boy.

“Now he’ll never vote in favor of making duels legally binding. Never.”

Gorton shrugged helplessly and ordered another scotch.

As the waiter brought his drink, John Nottingham entered the bar, scanned the mostly empty tables, and made straight for them.

“How’s the Sword of Justice this morning?” Franklin asked dismally.

“He’s busy persuading the other members of the board to turn down the women’s petition,” Nottingham said as he slid into the chair between the two men.

“What about the dueling machine?”

Nottingham shrugged elaborately. “I think that’s a hopeless cause. He fought a duel and lost. Got himself killed.”

Franklin shot a scowl toward Gorton.

“He’s certainly not going to decide in favor of allowing duels to be legally valid,” Nottingham concluded.

“Well, don’t blame me,” Gorton said. “I didn’t expect him to charge right into my lance.”

Franklin sank back in his chair, his normally jolly face clouded with thought. Nottingham ordered his usual rye and ginger ale while Gorton sat staring into his scotch like a little boy who’d been caught poaching cookies.

At last Franklin straightened up and asked, “When does the board vote on the women’s petition?”

“First of the month,” said Nottingham. “Monday.”

“And when does the supreme court hand down its decision about the dueling machine?”

“The fifteenth.”

Franklin nodded. His old smile returned to his bearded face, but this time there was something just the slightest bit crafty about it.