“Sorry I’m late,” she said, avoiding Halpern’s stern gaze.

Halpern felt growing impatience as the same bright-smiling technician carefully went over each and every detail of the duel, the sensor suit, and the helmet he would have to wear. Get on with it! he railed at her silently. But he kept his face and demeanor perfectly polite, absolutely correct. He allowed himself to show no hint of impatience.

“You’ll have to stand on your feet for this duel,” said the technician just before she closed the door of the booth, leaving Halpern clothed in the nubby sensor suit and unwieldy biker’s helmet. The helmet felt heavy, and he couldn’t get over the feeling that some kind of loathsome bugs were worming their way under his skin.

The technician shut the door at last. Halpern stood alone for a long moment that seemed to stretch indefinitely. The booth was narrow, confining, its walls smooth and bare.

“Okay,” he heard a man’s voice in his helmet earphones. “Activating Halpern-Harte duel.”

The world went completely dark for an instant, then a brief flare of colors swirled before his eyes and he heard a muted rumbling noise.

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.”