Montrose nodded. “I’ll agree to that also.”

“Del Azarchel has choice of field of honor.”

Montrose said, “We are on a ship! Where else can he pick?”

“He says that you both start from here, back to back, and walk without turning. The ship is three and one-tenth miles in circumference. The duelists walk the whole length with their countermeasures on and ignite chaff and open fire as each man sees fit, at whatever range he sees fit.”

“Seems a mite roundabout way of doing it,” said Montrose, wondering again at the intuition of uneasiness that was bothering him. Something was off-kilter, but he could not see what. “Ask him why. Does he think I would not trust Twinklewink to drop a scarf?”

“He says to give both of you time to think about your sins. There is no priest at hand to shrive.”

“Fine. Whatever. I agree.”

“He says that you may have your choice of direction, clockwise or counterclockwise.”

Montrose pondered. Whichever man was to the counterclockwise of the other would be shooting clockwise, with the spin, and have his bullets pull high due to Coriolis effects; and to the clockwise, against the spin, would pull low. Pulling low was an easier shot, because a hit to the legs or abdomen would still be deadly. “I’ll go clockwise.”

Twinklewink’s voice now came from the fairy. “Rania, many times during the long voyage back, confessed to me that, should she discover upon her return that one of you was responsible for the death of the other, she would join a holy order of sisters, take a vow of silence, and enter a nunnery. Knowing this, do you wish to reconsider your bloody and unlawful intent toward your opponent?”

Montrose thought once more about Captain Grimaldi. Del Azarchel often talked as if he were Rania’s father, but biologically and legally, Grimaldi was her real father, and for Del Azarchel to steal the name of an innocent man he’d murdered, a man to whom he’d sworn an oath of obedience and fealty … it was too much for Montrose to stand.

“I am not in the mood to reconsider jack naught. Rania knows she ain’t got no right to meddle in with men’s matters. And the real Rania never said that, because the real one never stepped aboard this ship.”

“Step into the gazebo. The valet will act as squire and assist you to don the armor.”

The men packed their pistols in silence and in silence donned their armor.

6. Walking into Summer

The two men took their positions in their heavy armor. They were back-to-back. The ribbon of garden stretched ahead of Montrose, curving up into the brown of summer. Ahead of Del Azarchel, it curved up into winter. The two squires, their missions done, shed their clothing and returned to their shapes as stags and bounded off into the thicket.

Twinklewink said, “Even now, if an accommodation can be reached, both may withdraw in honor.”

Glitterdink said, “My client says that never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.”

But Dwinkeltink said, “My client says that you can blow any accommodation out of your bunghole. He’s waited long enough.”

“Have all measures to avoid this conflict been exhausted?”

Montrose could not turn his head in the heavy helmet, which was bolted directly to the neckpiece, but he hit the chin switch to turn on his external speakers. “Blackie, we could call it off? We were friends once. Just let Rania decide things?”

Twinklewink said, “The parties are not to address each other, except through their Seconds.”

Glitterdink said, “My client says he is not the type of man to defer to a woman deciding matters as grave as this. The matter has been delayed longer than any other matter in human history: it is time for the final stroke.”

Montrose said, “I didn’t think so. Just wanted it to be on record that I offered. Let’s get to business.”

Twinklewink said, “Gentlemen, activate your countermeasures. Walk without turning the whole circle of the ship. You may fire at your will.”

If she said anything beyond that, it was lost in the hash of noise. His electronic countermeasures, designed to prevent the homing bullets from finding any targeting solutions on him, effectively cut him off from radio or microwave messages from outside his helmet.

He walked. Step after step, the pretty little garden went by to his left hand and his right, and beyond the rails of the garden were the turning stars. The stars were rushing toward him, and the garden looked like a narrow boat with a very high prow cresting an ocean of darkness on which diamonds of endless beauty floated.

His heart was pounding, and his breathing was harsh in his earphones. He was fascinated by every detail of the leaves and buds he saw, the shapes of the twigs, the pattern of cherry blossoms dancing in the air. His heavy boots clanged and clattered on the marble pavement and made the delicate glassy bridges shake when he stepped across the endless brook. For the first time, he noticed golden fish in the water, glittering and beautiful. Had Del Azarchel opened up every biological nook in the storehouse?

He also noticed every fine detail of his discomfort. Damn this cramped helmet. He was too old for this. Montrose had gotten too used to the conveniences of the modern age, where a word, or even a thought, could make anything made of matter bend and flex and change shape. Now the hot leather padding saving his neck and crown from chafing was clinging to him, sticky. Hadn’t he remembered the last duel, when a drop of sweat got in his eye? Why hadn’t he kept Dwinkeltink inside the helmet with him, to wipe his brow?

He wished he could crane back his head and watch the progress of Del Azarchel, marching through the winter. Damn him. Because Del Azarchel was marching against the spin of the ship, his footsteps would be slightly lighter with each step, as if he were walking the whole way downhill, whereas Montrose was walking the whole way uphill. And since downhill was winter and the miniature sun blocked by the black sphere of the ship’s heart, Del Azarchel would not be coated with sweat as they walked the last mile.

The grass was long and brown in the garden now, as brown as the hares, for he was walking through midsummer, the hottest part of the ship. Looking through the prism periscope of his narrow eyeslit, Montrose saw with longing where the otter played and beaver splashed in a cool ceremonial pond. It was one of two deep pools, reaching all the way to the hull, and the stars were visible beneath its glass bottom. Its mate was opposite this, in the midwinter spot, iced over for skating, a sport Rania adored even though she was terrible at it, having never found the time to practice. He recalled holding her, pink cheeked with cold and joy, giggling and sliding as they stumbled across a rink in the French Alps back in the Third Millennium, during the brief season of their joy together, before their marriage. She said she liked the momentum calculations, the nicety of the figures, and how it reminded her of zero gee.

It occurred to him that he could not have seen Blackie even if his helmet were off, because the black sphere was in the way. In this wide ship with glass walls, that spot was really the only place one could walk unseen, and, at that, one would be only unseen by a man walking in the midsummer.

That made another tickle of uneasiness go through him. What was he overlooking? There was something wrong with his whole picture. What was it? He would have liked to ask Twinklewink a question or two, but the countermeasures cut off all outside signals.

Montrose gritted his teeth. Any distraction might prove deadly. This was the only time in his life when puzzling over mysteries was not allowed. He began, one by one, to remind himself of the lessons Barton Throwster had taught him about gun fighting, and what he had learned over the graves and hospital beds of men he had sent to the clinic or the morgue. Mark your target at his main mass. Don’t take the feint, but don’t be fooled by double feints.