New Frontiers (28 page)

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.

*   *   *

A CHILLY WIND
was driving brittle leaves down the street as Justice Halpern left the Carleton Club. He bundled his topcoat around his body and peered down toward the taxi stand on the corner. No cabs, of course: during the rush hour they were all busy.

Standing at the top of the club's entryway steps, wishing he hadn't given his chauffeur the afternoon off, Halpern thought he might as well go back inside and have the doorman phone for a taxi. It would take at least a half hour, he knew. I'll wait in the Men's Bar, he thought.

But as he stepped through the glass front door and into the club's foyer a tiny slip of a woman accosted him.

“Justice Halpern,” she said, as if she was pronouncing sentence over him.

Suppressing a frown, Halpern said frostily, “You have the advantage over me, miss.”

“Roxanne Harte, Esquire,” she said. “
Ms.
Roxanne Harte.” She pronounced the
Ms.
like a colony of bees swarming.

“How do you do?” Halpern noticed that Ms. Harte couldn't have been out of law school for very long. She was a petite redhead, rather pretty, although her china-blue eyes seemed to be blazing with some inner fury.

“You are a member here?” he asked, feeling nettled.

“As much a member as you are, sir. And I'm very unhappy with you, your honor.”

“With me?”

“With you, sir.”

Halpern looked around the foyer. The uniformed doorman was standing by the cloakroom, chatting quietly with the attendant there. No one else in sight. Or earshot.

“I don't understand,” he said to Ms. Harte. “Why should you be unhappy with me? What have I done—”

“You're trying to convince the board to reject our petition.”

Halpern's eyes went wide. “You're one of—of those?”

“One of the women who want to end the chauvinistic monopoly you maintain over the Men's Bar, yes, that's me.”

Feeling almost embarrassed at this little snip of a woman's arrogance, Halpern said, “This isn't the place to discuss club matters, young lady.”

“I agree,” she snapped. “I know a much better way to settle this issue, once and for all.”

“How do you propose—”

She never let him finish his question. “I challenge you to a duel, sir.”

“A duel?”

“Choose your weapons!”

“This is nonsense,” Halpern said. He began to turn away from her.

But Roxanne Harte grabbed him by the sleeve and with her other hand delivered a resounding slap to Halpern's face.

“Choose your weapons,” she repeated.

Halpern stood there, his cheek burning. The doorman and cloakroom attendant were staring at him. John Nottingham came through the door from the club's interior and stopped, sensing instinctively that something was wrong.

“Well?” Ms. Harte demanded.

“I can't fight a duel with you,” Halpern said. “You're only a woman.”

“That's the attitude that makes this duel necessary, isn't it?” she said, practically snarling.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Halpern said, “I have every advantage over you. I am taller, heavier, stronger. You couldn't stand up to me in a duel.”

“What about pistols?” Ms. Harte replied immediately. “Back in the Old West they called the Colt six-gun the Equalizer. How about a duel with pistols?”

Halpern was about to point out to her that he was the club's champion pistol shot for the past three years running. But he stopped himself. Why should I tell her? She wants to fight a duel against me. She's the one who suggested pistols.

Nodding, Justice Halpern said through clenched teeth, “Very well, then. Pistols it will be.” And he added silently,
You little fool.

*   *   *

NEWS OF THE
duel spread through the club almost instantly, of course. By the following afternoon, as Justice Halpern stepped into the Men's Bar for his customary libation, every man there got to his feet and applauded.

Halpern tried to hide the pleasure he felt as he made his way across the room to the table where Franklin, Gorton, and Nottingham were sitting.

“The defender of our rights and privileges,” Franklin said, beaming, as the judge sat down.

“By golly,” said Gorton, “I've got to hand it to you, your honor. It's high time somebody stood up for what's right.”

Nottingham was a bit more subdued. “From what I understand, you have agreed that the outcome of this duel will decide whether or not the women's petition will be accepted.”

“That's right,” Halpern said, as the Hispanic waiter placed his brandy and soda in front of him. “If she wins, the Men's Bar will be opened to women.”

“But she won't win,” Gorton said. Then he added, “Will she?”

“How could she,” Franklin said, “against the club's best shot?”

“You've agreed on the setting?” Nottingham asked.

“A frontier saloon in the Old West,” said Halpern as he reached for his drink. With a smile that was almost a smirk he added, “She'll have to come in through the ladies' entrance, I expect.”

*   *   *

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Halpern had his chauffeur drive him back to the shopping mall where the VR Duels, Inc. facility was. Franklin, Gorton, and Nottingham were already there, even though he arrived scrupulously on time. Ms. Harte was nowhere to be found.

Typical woman, Halpern said to himself. Late for the appointment. Then he thought, Maybe she won't show up at all. The idea pleased him immensely.

Franklin and the others looked very serious as they stood in the anteroom waiting for his opponent.

“Relax,” Halpern told them. “The purity of the Men's Bar will not be defiled.”

At that moment Ms. Harte burst into the room, looking rather like a worried high school student who'd been sent down to the principal's office for discipline.

“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.”