High above the floor of the antiseptic-white chamber that housed the dueling machine was a narrow gallery.
Before the machine had been installed, the chamber had been a lecture hall in the university. Now the rows of students’ seats, the lecturer’s dais and rostrum were gone. The room held only the machine, a grotesque collection of consoles, control desks, power units, association circuits, and the two booths where the duelists sat.
In the gallery—empty during ordinary duels—sat a privileged handful of newsmen.
‘Time limit’s up,” one of them said. “Dulaq didn’t get him.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t get Dulaq either.”
The first one shrugged. “Now he’ll have to fight Odal on His terms.”
“Wait, they’re coming out.”
Down on the floor below, Dulaq and his opponent emerged from their enclosed booths.
One of the newsmen whistled softly. “Look at Dulaq’s face … it’s positively gray.”
“I’ve never seen the Prime Minister so shaken.”
“And take a look at Kanus’ hired assassin.” The newsmen turned toward Odal, who ‘stood before his booth, quietly chatting with his seconds.
“Hmp. There’s a bucket of frozen ammonia for you.”
“He’s enjoying this.”
One of the newsmen stood up. “I’ve got a deadline to meet. Save my seat.”
He made his way past the guarded door, down the rampway circBng the outer wau of the building, to the portable tri-di camera unit that the Acquatainian government had permitted for the newsmen to make their reports.
The newsman huddled with his technicians for a few minutes, then stepped before the camera.