They exchanged formalities and entered the booths. Hector sat at one end of the long, curving, padded bench that ran along the wall across the floor from the machine’s control desk. The editor and V.P. sat at the other end. Except for the meditechs, who took their stations at the control consoles, there was no one else in he room. The press gallery was empty. The lights on the panels winked on. The silent room vibrated with the barely audible hum of electrical power.
In ten minutes, all the lights on the control panels flicked from green to amber. The duel was finished.
Hector shot up and started for Leoh’s booth. The Professor came out, smiling slightly.
“Are you … did it go … all right?” Hector asked.
The newsman was getting out of the other booth. His editor put out a hand to steady him. The V.P. remained on the bench, looking half-disappointed, half-amused, The newsman seemed like a lumpy wad of dough, whitefaced, shaken.
“He has terrible reflexes,” Leoh said, “and no concept at all of the most elementary rules of physics.”
The V.P got up from his seat and walked over toward Leoh, his hand extended and a toothy smile on his smooth face. “Let me congratulate you. Professor,” he said in a hearty baritone.
Leoh took his hand, but replied, “This has been nothing but a waste of time. I’m surprised that a man in your position indulges in such foolishness.”
The V.P. bent his head slightly and answered softly, “I’m afraid I’m to blame. My staff convinced me that it would be a good idea to test the dueling machine and then make the results of the test public. You have no objection if we run the tape of your duel on our tri-di broadcasts?”