But despite his own conscious desire, Leoh found himself winning! The ships spiraled about an unnamed planet, their paths intersecting at least once in every orbit. The problem was to estimate your opponent’s orbital position, and then program your own ship so that you arrived at that position either behind or to one side of him. Then you could train your guns on him before he could turn on you.
The problem should have been an easy one for Hector, with his knack for intuitive mental calculation. But Leoh scored the first hit—Hector had piloted his ship into an excellent firing position, but his shot went wide; Leoh maneuvered around clumsily, but managed to register an inconsequential hit on the side of Hector’s ship.
In the next three passes, Leoh scored two more hits. Hector’s ship was badly damaged now. In return, the Star Watchman had landed one glancing shot on Leoh’s ship.
They came around again, and once more Leoh had outguessed his younger opponent. He trained his guns on Hector’s ship, then hesitated with his hand poised above the firing button.
Don’t kill him again, he warned himself. His mind can’t accept another defeat.
But Leoh’s hand, almost of its own will, reached the button and touched it lightly. Another gram of pressure and the guns would fire.
In that instant’s hesitation. Hector pulled his crippled ship around and aimed at Leoh. The Watchman fired a searing blast that jarred Leoh’s ship from end to end. Leoh’s hand slammed down on the firing button, whether he intended to do it or not, he did not know.
Leoh’s shot raked Hector’s ship but did not stop it. The two vehicles were hurtling directly at each other. Leoh tried desperately to avert a collision, but Hector bored in grimly, matching Leoh’s maneuvers with his own.
The two ships smashed together and exploded.
Abruptly, Leoh found himself in the cramped booth of the dueling machine, his body cold and damp with perspiration, his hands trembling.
He squeezed out of the booth and took a deep breath. Warm sunlight was streaming into the high-vaulted room. The white walls glared brilliantly. Through the tall windows he could see trees and people and clouds in the sky.
Hector walked up to him. For the first time in several days, the Watchman was smiling. Not much, but smiling. “Well, we broke even on that one.”
Leoh smiled back, somewhat shakily. “Yes. It was…quite an experience. I’ve never died before.”
Hector fidgeted, “It’s uh, not so bad, I guess—It does sort of, well, shatter you, you know.”
“Yes I can see that now.”
“Another duel?” Hector asked, nodding his head toward the machine.
“Let’s get out of this place for a few hours. Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
They fought seven more duels over the next day and a half. Hector won three of them. It was late afternoon when Leoh called a halt to the tests.
“We can still get in another one or two,” the Watchman pointed out.
“No need,” Leoh said. “I have all the data I require. Tomorrow Massan meets Odal, unless we can put a stop to it. We have much to do before tomorrow morning.”
Hector sagged into the couch. “Just as well. I think I’ve aged seven years in the past seven days.”
“No, my boy,” Leoh said gently. “You haven’t aged. You’ve matured.”
CHAPTER IX
It was deep twilight when the groundcar slid to a halt on its cushions of compressed air before the Kerak Embassy.
“I still think it’s a mistake to go in there.” Hector said. “I mean, you could’ve called him on the tri-di just as well, couldn’t you?”
Leoh shook his head. “Never give an agency of any government the opportunity to say ‘hold the line a moment’ and then huddle together to consider what to do with you. Nineteen times out of twenty, they’ll end by passing your request up to the next higher echelon, and you’ll be left waiting for weeks.”
“Still,” Hector insisted, “you’re simply stepping into enemy territory. It’s a chance you shouldn’t take.”
“They wouldn’t dare touch us.”
Hector did not reply, but he looked unconvinced.
“Look,” Leoh said, “there are only two men alive who can shed light on this matter. One of them is Dulaq, and his mind is closed to us for an indefinite time, Odal is the only other one who knows what happened.”
Hector shook his head skeptically. Leoh shrugged, and opened the door of the groundcar. Hector had no choice but to get out and follow him as he walked up the pathway to the main entrance of the Embassy. The building stood gaunt and gray in the dusk, surrounded by a precisely-clipped hedge. The entrance was flanked by a pair of tall evergreen trees.
Leoh and Hector were met just inside the entrance by a female receptionist. She looked just a trifle disheveled—as though she had been rushed to the desk at a moment’s notice. They asked for Odal, were ushered into a sitting room, and within a few minutes—to Hector’s surprise—were informed by the girl that Major Odal would be with them shortly.
“You see,” Leoh pointed out jovially, “when you come in person they haven’t as much of a chance to consider how to get rid of you.”
Hector glanced around the windowless room and contemplated the thick, solidly closed door. “There’s a lot of scurrying going on on the other side of that door, I’ll bet. I mean…they may be considering how to, uh, get rid of us…permanently.”
Leoh shook his head, smiling wryly. “Undoubtedly the approach closest to their hearts—but highly improbable in the present situation. They have been making most efficient and effective use of the dueling machine to gain their ends.”
Odal picked this moment to open the door.
“Dr. Leoh…Lt. Hector…you asked to see me?”
“Thank you, Major Odal; I hope you will be able to help me,” Leoh said. “You are the only man living who may be able to give us some clues to the failure of the Dueling Machine.”
Odal’s answering smile reminded Leoh of the best efforts of the robot-puppet designers to make a machine that smiled like a man. “I am afraid I can be of no assistance, Dr. Leoh. My experiences in the machine are…private.”
“Perhaps you don’t fully understand the situation,” Leoh said. “In the past week, we have tested the dueling machine here on Acquatainia exhaustively. We have learned that its performance can be greatly influenced by a man’s personality, and by training. You have fought many duels in the machines. Your background of experience, both as a professional soldier and in the machines, gives you a decided advantage over your opponents.
“However, even with all this considered, I am convinced that you cannot kill a man in the machine—under normal circumstances. We have demonstrated that fact in our tests. An unsabotaged machine cannot cause actual physical harm.
“Yet you have already killed one man and incapacitated another. Where will it stop?”
Odal’s face remained calm, except for the faintest glitter of fire deep in his eyes. His voice was quiet, but had the edge of a well-honed blade to it: “I cannot be blamed for my background and experience. And I have not tampered with your machines.”
The door to the room opened, and a short, thick-set, bullet-headed man entered. He was dressed in a dark street suit, so that it was impossible to guess his station at the Embassy.
“Would the gentlemen care for refreshments?” he asked in a low-pitched voice.
“No, thank you,” Leoh said.
“Some Kerak wine, perhaps?”
“Well—”
“I don’t, uh, think we’d better, sir,” Hector said. “Thanks all the same.”
The man shrugged and sat at a chair next to the door.
Odal turned back to Leoh. “Sir, I have my duty. Massan and I duel tomorrow. There is no possibility of postponing it.”
“Very well,” Leoh said. “Will you at least allow us to place some special instrumentation into the booth with you, so that we can monitor the duel more fully? We can do the
same with Massan. I know the duels are normally private and you would be within your legal rights to refuse the request. But, morally—”
The smile returned to Odal’s face. “You wish to monitor my thoughts. To record them and see how I perform during the duel. Interesting. Very interesting—”
The man at the door rose and said, “If you have no desire for refreshments, gentlemen—”
Odal turned to him. “Thank you for your attention.”
Their eyes met and locked for an instant. The man give a barely perceptible shake of his head, then left.
Odal returned his attention to Leoh, “I am sorry, professor, but I cannot allow you to monitor my thoughts during the duel.”
“But—”
“I regret having to refuse you. But, as you yourself pointed out, there is no legal requirement for such a course of action. I must refuse. I hope you understand.”
Leoh rose from the couch, and Hector popped up beside him. “I’m afraid I do understand. And I, too, regret your decision.”
Odal escorted them out to their car. They drove away, and the Kerak major walked slowly back into the Embassy building. He was met in the hallway by the dark-suited man who had sat in on the conversation.
“I could have let them monitor my thoughts and still crush Massan,” Odal said. “It would have been a good joke on them.”
The man grunted. “I have just spoken to the Chancellor on the tri-di, and obtained permission to make a slight adjustment in our plans.”
“An adjustment, Minister Kor?”
“After your duel tomorrow, your next opponent will be the eminent Dr. Leoh,” Kor said.
CHAPTER X
The mists swirled deep and impenetrable about Fernd Massan. He stared blindly through the useless viewplate in his helmet, then reached up slowly and carefully to place the infrared detector before his eyes.
I never realized an hallucination could seem so real, Massan thought.
Since the challenge by Odal, he realized, the actual world had seemed quite unreal. For a week, he had gone through the motions of life, but felt as though he were standing aside, a spectator mind watching its own body from a distance. The gathering of his friends and associates last night, the night before the duel—that silent, funereal group of people—it had seemed completely unreal to him.
But now, in this manufactured dream, he seemed vibrantly alive. Every sensation was solid, stimulating. He could feel his pulse throbbing through him. Somewhere out in those mists, he knew, was Odal. And the thought of coming to grips with the assassin filled him with a strange satisfaction.
Massan had spent a good many years serving his government on the rich but inhospitable high-gravity planets of the Acquataine Cluster. This was the environment he had chosen: crushing gravity; killing pressures; atmosphere of ammonia and hydrogen, laced with free radicals of sulphur and other valuable but deadly chemicals; oceans of liquid methane and ammonia; “solid ground” consisting of quickly crumbling, eroding ice; howling superpowerful winds that could pick up a mountain of ice and hurl it halfway around the planet; darkness; danger; death.
He was encased in a one-man protective outfit that was half armored suit, half vehicle. There was an internal grav field to keep him comfortable in 3.7 gees, but still the suit was cumbersome, and a man could move only very slowly in it, even with the aid of servomotors.
The weapon he had chosen was simplicity itself—a hand-sized capsule of oxygen. But in a hydrogen/ammonia atmosphere, oxygen could be a deadly explosive. Massan carried several of these “bombs”; so did Odal. But the trick, Massan thought to himself, is to know how to throw them under these conditions; the proper range, the proper trajectory. Not an easy thing to learn, without years of experience.
The terms of the duel were simple: Massan and Odal were situated on a rough-topped iceberg that was being swirled along one of the methane/ammonia ocean’s vicious currents. The ice was rapidly crumbling; the duel would end when the iceberg was completely broken up.
Massan edged along the ragged terrain. His suit’s grippers and rollers automatically adjusted to the roughness of the topography. He concentrated his attention on the infrared detector that hung before his viewplate.
A chunk of ice the size of a man’s head sailed through the murky atmosphere in a steep glide peculiar to heavy gravity and banged into the shoulder of Massan’s suit. The force was enough to rock him slightly off-balance before the servos readjusted. Massan withdrew his arm from the sleeve and felt the inside of the shoulder seam. Dented, but not penetrated. A leak would have been disastrous, possibly fatal. Then he remembered: Of course—I cannot be killed except by direct action of my antagonist. That is one of the rules of the game.
Still, he carefully fingered the dented shoulder to make certain it was not leaking. The dueling machine and its rules seemed so very remote and unsubstantial, compared to this freezing, howling inferno.
He diligently set about combing the iceberg, determined to find Odal and kill him before their floating island disintegrated. He thoroughly explored every projection, every crevice, every slope, working his way slowly from one end of the ’berg toward the other. Back and forth, cross and re-cross, with the infrared sensors scanning three hundreds sixty-degrees around him.
It was time-consuming. Even with the suit’s servomotors and propulsion units, motion across the ice, against the buffeting wind, was a cumbersome business. But Massan continued to work his way across the iceberg, fighting down a gnawing, growing fear that Odal was not there at all.
And then he caught just the barest flicker of a shadow on his detector. Something, or someone, had darted behind a jutting rise of the ice, off by the edge of the iceberg.
* * * *
Slowly and carefully, Massan made his way toward the base of the rise. He picked one of the oxy-bombs from his belt and held it in his right-hand claw.
Massan edged around the base of the ice cliff, and stood on a narrow ledge between the cliff and the churning sea. He saw no one. He extended the detector’s range to maximum, and worked the scanners up the sheer face of the cliff toward the top.
There he was! The shadowy outline of a man etched itself on the detector screen. And at the same time, Massan heard a muffled roar, then a rumbling, crashing noise, growing quickly louder and more menacing.
He looked up the face of the ice cliff and saw a small avalanche of ice tumbling, sliding, growling toward him. That devil set off a bomb at the top of the cliff!
Massan tried to back out of the way, but it was too late. The first chunk of ice bounced harmlessly off his helmet, but the others knocked him off-balance so repeatedly that the servos had no chance to recover. He staggered blindly for a few moments, as more and more ice cascaded down on him, and then toppled off the ledge into the boiling sea.
Relax! he ordered himself. Do not panic! The suit will float you. The servos will keep you right-side-up. You cannot be killed accidentally; Odal must perform the coup-de-grace himself.
Then he remembered the emergency rocket units in the back of his suit. If he could orient himself properly, a touch of a control stud on his belt would set them off, and he would be boosted back onto the iceberg. He turned slightly inside the suit and tried to judge the iceberg’s distance through the infrared detector. It was difficult, especially since he was bobbing madly in the churning currents.
Finally he decided to fire the rocket and make final adjustments of distance and landing site after he was safely out of the sea.
But he could not move his hand.
He tried, but his entire right arm was locked fast. He could not budge it an inch. And the same for the left. Something, or someone, was clamping his arms tight. He could not even pull them out of their sleeves.
Massan thrashed about, trying to shake off whatever it was. No use.
Then his detector screen was lifted slowly from the viewplate. He felt something vibrating on his helmet. The oxygen tubes! They were being disconnected.
He sc
reamed and tried to fight free. No use. With a hiss, the oxygen tubes pulled free of his helmet. Massan could feel the blood pounding through his veins as he fought desperately to free himself.
Now he was being pushed down into the sea. He screamed again and tried to wrench his body away. The frothing sea filled his viewplate. He was under. He was being held under. And now…now the viewplate itself was being loosened.
No! Don’t! The scalding cold methane ammonia sea seeped in through the opening viewplate.
“It’s only a dream!” Massan shouted to himself. “Only a dream. A dream. A—”
CHAPTER XI
Dr. Leoh stared at the dinner table without really seeing it. Coming to the restaurant had been Hector’s idea. Three hours earlier, Massan had been removed from the dueling machine—dead.
Leoh sat stolidly, hands in lap, his mind racing in many different directions at once. Hector was off at the phone, getting the latest information from the meditechs. Odal had expressed his regrets perfunctorily, and then left for the Kerak Embassy, under a heavy escort of his own plainclothes guards. The government of the Acquataine Cluster was quite literally falling apart, with no man willing to assume responsibility…and thereby expose himself. One hour after the duel, Kanus’ troops had landed on all the major planets of the Szarno Confederacy; the annexation was a fait accompli.
And what have I done since I arrived on Acquatainia? Leoh demanded of himself. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have sat back like a doddering old professor and played academic games with the machine, while younger, more vigorous men have USED the machine to suit their purposes.
Used the machine. There was a fragment of an idea in that phrase. Something nebulous, that must be approached carefully or it will fade away. Used the machine,…used it…Leoh toyed with the phrase for a few moments then gave it up with a sigh of resignation. Lord, I’m too tired even to think.
Leoh focused his attention on his surroundings and scanned the busy dining room. It was a beautiful place, really; decorated with crystal and genuine woods and fabric draperies. Not a synthetic in sight. The waiters and cooks and busboys were humans, not the autocookers and servers that most restaurants employed. Leoh suddenly felt touched at Hector’s attempt to restore his spirits—even if it was being done at Star Watch expense.
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