Code Duello

Chapter One

Irene Kasansky said, “He’s expecting you. Watch out. The jetsam is flying today.” She did things to the bank of orderboxes she had on her desk, even as she clipped out her words. Her deft hands flew, pressing buttons, flicking switches.

Sid Jakes grinned at her. “I’ve never seen the day,” he said, “when you didn’t think the jetsam was flying. I hate to say this, Irene, but I think you’re a fake. I think you like it here at Section G.” She glared at him.

Lee Chang Chu, who stood next to the assistant Section G head, said, “Irene is the most efficient colleague we have.”

Irene snorted and snapped into an orderbox: “Well, find him, then!” She flicked it off and glared up at Lee Chang, standing there hardly five feet tall and very antique Oriental in her cheongsam dress. “Let me tell you, Goody Two Shoes, my resignation is in. This efficient colleague has had it. I’m transferring to Statistics.” Sid chuckled over his shoulder even as he led the way to the door to the sanctum sanctorum beyond. “That’ll be a neat trick to pull off,” he said. “The Old Man wouldn’t let you go if the Director of the Commissariat himself was silly enough to want you.”

The ultra-secretary glowered at him, but was forced to direct her attention to her chattering orderboxes.

Sid Jakes held open the door for Lee Chang, taking her slim figure in appreciatively, as she tripped through in the ages-old quick shuffle of the Chinese woman.

“Lee Chang,” he said, “why don’t you marry me? I’m handsome, reasonably young, of charming disposition, and an incredibly competent lover, and have excellent prospects, if our good commissioner will ever drop dead.” He hurried ahead of her to deal with the next door.

She cocked her head to one side slightly and thought about it. She said briskly, “Several reasons, Citizen Jakes.”

“I can’t imagine what they could be.”

“Well, though I’m highly flattered by the proposal, I suspect that you’re ulcer-prone, in spite of your surface clan. Besides, I doubt if Commissioner Metaxa plans on dropping dead in the immediate future. But, above all, you’re already married.”

“Um.” He made a wry face. “That’s true, that’s true, but we could always elope to the planet Saudi.” He had a finger on the door screen now, activating it, and standing so that the occupant of the office beyond could see him.

“Saudi?” Her voice, as always was a tinkle. It would be a perceptive observer who could suspect that Lee Chang Chu was one of the most efficient supervisors in the cloak and dagger Section G of the Bureau of Investigation, Department of Justice, Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs.

The door smoothed open and Sid Jakes grinned, even as he politely motioned her to precede him. “Saudi. The planet Saudi. Polygamy,” he said.

Ross Metaxa, rumpled of clothes as ever, sat behind his cluttered desk. He was slightly red of eye, sour of mien and gave a first impression of either too little sleep, or too much bottle belting the night previous.

Before Sid Jakes could get Lee Chang settled into a chair, the Commissioner of Section G growled, “What is a Special Talents class?” He reached into a desk drawer and came up with a squat bottle and three small glasses. “Denebian tequila?” he said, gesturing an invitation with the brown bottle.

Lee Chang Chu shuddered a polite negation.

Sid Jakes said, “I’m much too young, Chief.”

Lee Chang said, “It’s a project of mine, Commissioner. After all, you put me in charge of recruiting new agents.”

He glared at her. Ross Metaxa was the only person in Section G who would have dreamed of glaring at the tiny Chinese. He picked up a report from the mess on his desk, laid it down again and thumped it with the back of his hand.

“Agents, agents! Section G agents, the toughest operatives in United Planets. It takes years to locate a prospect, more years to train one. You’re an old hand, Chu; I thought I could trust you with this. In the field, you’re as good a supervisor as we have. And in the past you’ve field trained some of our best. Ronny Bronston, for example.” He looked at his assistant, perched on the side of his superior’s desk. “How is Bronston?”

“Oh, Ronny’ll be all right. You can’t crisp him.”

“You can evidently come mighty close. How is he?”

“Still unconscious.”

Metaxa made a face. He looked back at Lee Chang, who was demurely maintaining her peace. “What’s this about sending an eight-year-old girl to Falange?”

Sid Jakes laughed. “Chief, you misread that report. Helen just looks like an eight-year-old. She’s in her mid-twenties.”

“How can anybody who looks like an eight-year-old child be a Section G operative? What’s this other supposed agent? A Cordon Bleu chef. If this Tri-Di photo with his dossier means anything at all, he looks like a roly-poly middle-aged man. And this…”

Lee Chang said mildly, “The point is, Commissioner, they cleaned up the Falange mess. A mess that had cost us three men, experienced agents, before they took over.”

Metaxa looked at her blankly, looked back at the report. He poured himself another of the fiery Denebian tequilas and tossed it back. “How could they possibly have?”

Lee Chang came gracefully to her feet. “I suggest we go to the gym. At this time of the day, most of the class is exercising… or practicing their special talents.”

Ross Metaxa glared at her again, then growled into his orderbox, “Irene, can I be spared for fifteen minutes?”

Sid Jakes and Lee Chang failed to make out the reply, but Metaxa turned the glare from the Chinese girl to the box. “Oh, is that so?” he snapped. “Well, you’re fired.” He came to his feet and lumbered around the desk, heading for the door. “I don’t know why I put up with that woman.”

Sid Jakes came to his own feet, to follow. He chuckled. “You put up with her, Chief, because she knows more about the workings of Section G than the three of us, here, put together.”

Metaxa snorted.

The Commissioner of Section G stared about him in disbelief. The hall was a madhouse.

Up near the ceiling, a small child was doing things on a trapeze that should have been impossible. Over near one wall, a stocky, not to say plump, man was winging a shovel around and around his head. Suddenly, he let go and the shovel spun over and over, finally to smash, blade first, into the bull’s-eye of what Metaxa could now see was a target, some thirty feet away. Near another wall, a dark complected, serious looking worthy was snapping a bullwhip of the type that could sometimes be seen in Old West historical fiction Tri-Di shows.

Lee Chang, who was leading the way, came up to a dignified man whose huge size was mollified by the anachronistic pince-nez glasses he wore, and his air of the scholarly. He was watching the child trapeze artist. At his feet was the largest dumbbell the Commissioner had ever seen.

“Special talents?” Ross Metaxa blurted, in disgust. His eyes went around the room. “These are the agents you’ve been recruiting for my department?”

Sid Jakes chuckled.

“Shut up, you laughing hyena,” Metaxa snapped. “With this Dawnworlds crisis on our hands, we’re shorter of trained agents than Section G has ever been, and you come up with this gang of freaks.” He glanced at a plain-looking middle-aged woman who looked back at him mildly.

Lee Chang said, “Martha Lorans. She has total recall. With Martha along, a troupe assigned to some emergency can set down on a planet without any records whatsoever on their persons. No matter what data they need for the job, they can carry it in her head.”

She indicated the large scholar. “That is Dr. Dorn M. Horsten, top-notch research algae specialist. He has a hobby that is a personal entertainment. Since boyhood he’s amused himself with weight lifting and pretzel-tying—using one-inch mild steel bars for pretzels. He is actually one of the strongest human beings in United Planets. His home world helps: it’s a one point four G planet A very nice, soft-spoken gentleman, conspicuous at every unicellular biology meeting for his brilliant mind. Naturally, nobody notices he has muscles, and can do things that any other human being finds impossible.”

Ross Metaxa grunted. He said, “What’s that fellow doing?”

“Zorro Juarez? He comes from Vacamundo, settled by Argentines. They specialize in raising the best cattle and horses in the confederation, breed them to order to meet the local conditions pertaining on the worlds that desire such animals. The national sport is the use of the bullwhip. Have you ever seen a twenty-foot bullwhip artist perform, Commissioner? Zorro can make old William Tell look very amateurish. He could quarter the apple on the boy’s head and peel one half of it in the bargain.”

Metaxa said, “Confound it, what good does a bull-whip artist do in this day and age, and among Section G operatives?”

Lee Chang’s voice was sweet. “Among other things, it is a most deadly weapon and involves no electronic gadgetry, metal parts, or anything else detectable by search devices.”

The head of her department grunted and marched across the room to a somewhat colorless looking young man who had been practicing, rather ineptly, at the quick draw.

“How about you?” Metaxa snapped.

The young man—he couldn’t have been more than in his mid-twenties—looked up with an air of apology. “I’m lucky,” he said.

Ross Metaxa was bleak. “And I’m Rossie, but just to keep things in perspective, I think you’d better call me Commissioner Metaxa, and the hell with the nicknames. I meant what’s your so-called special talent?”

“That’s what I meant. I’m lucky.”

Section G’s ultimate head looked at him for a long empty moment. Then he turned his eyes to Lee Chang Chu, in silence.

The diminutive Chinese girl tinkled laughter. “This is Jerry Rhodes, Commissioner. He is quite correct. His special talent is that he is lucky.”

Ross Metaxa closed his tired, moist eyes and muttered something inwardly. He opened them again to glare.

Jerry Rhodes cleared his throat, the apology still there. “I don’t pretend to explain it.”

“I’ll bet you don’t,” Metaxa said. “Show me.”

Rhodes thought for a moment. He said, “There is an element I should mention. My own fortunes have to be involved.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The colorless young man fished in a pocket. “Here is a coin. You know what a coin is?”

“Yes,” Metaxa said. “I know what a coin is. In fact, they still use them on various of the less progressive worlds. Listen, Rhodes, or whatever your name is, start off on the basis that I’m not stupid. I didn’t get to be Commissioner of Section G by being stupid.”

Rhodes said, “Yes, sir. This is an old coin going back to United States days.” He looked at it. “Sony, France.”

“All right, all right, a coin.”

“Very well. I will wager you a hundred interplanetary credits that if I flick this coin into the air it will come down with the head on top.”

Metaxa looked at him. “Very well, flick the coin. I suppose there’s some rhyme or reason to this.”

Rhodes flicked the coin high. When it bounced to the floor he didn’t bother to look. He held out his hand. “You owe me one hundred credits. Will you document it so that I may credit my account?”

Metaxa looked at Lee Chang in irritation. “Anybody could flip a coin and win. A fifty-fifty chance. What’s lucky about that?”

“That comes next,” Rhodes said gently. “This time I will wager you the same amount that I can flip it heads three times in a row.”

Metaxa blinked. “You’re on.”

Heads. Heads. Heads.

Rhodes said, “You owe me two hundred credits. The next bet is another hundred that I can flip it five times in a row heads—or tails for that matter. You call it.”

Metaxa was staring by now. “Let me see that damned coin! What bet comes after that?”

“That I can flip it ten times in a row,” Rhodes said. “I seldom manage to cozen anybody into that. Are you game?”

“Yes, but not everybody’s!” Metaxa spun back to Lee Chang and Sid Jakes. He pointed to another of the room’s occupants. “What does he do?”

Sid answered him this times. “That’s George Killmer, Licensed Orbit Computer. A ballistics specialist. He does celestial mechanics problems like solving the equations of motion of planetary systems as an off-hand job when somebody brings in a set of observations on some new system. His main work is computing interstellar flight paths for commercial and military ships, and as such he can go just about anywhere among the settled worlds without anyone thinking of him as a possible agent.”

“What’s that got to do with Section G?” Metaxa asked. “What’s his so-called special talent?”

Sid said, grinning, “He’s the best pickpocket Lee Chang was able to locate by going through the files of every planet whose police cooperate with Inter-Planet-Pol. He’s probably the best pickpocket who ever lived. Imagine. Almost three thousand planets in U.P. with socioeconomic systems that have crime, and each with an average population of about two billion. And he’s the best pickpocket of all.”

Ross Metaxa closed his eyes in pain.

When he opened them again, it was to stare at Lee Chang. “Look,” he said. “I assume you’re not trying deliberately to sabotage Section G. You’ve been dedicated too long for that. But when I gave you the job of recruiting new agents, I didn’t expect you to wind up with a bevy of pickpockets, shovel throwers and… and lucky coin flippers. All this is out of the question, understand? We’ll go back to our old system.”

Lee Chang was shaking her head. “We haven’t the time, Commissioner Metaxa. And you know it. We need new agents, fast. We haven’t the time to seek out the young men from all over United Planets who are potential Section G operatives, and we haven’t got five years for training them. In the past year, this department has had more work than we had in the last ten.”

“Do you think I am unfamiliar with that!”

She said, persuasively, “The need to push, prod, pry the member worlds of United Planets into progress is more pressing than ever. And nine out of ten of them resent—or would if they knew what we were about—such pressures on our part Man will cling, suicidally, to such institutions as religion, political systems, socioeconomic systems, racial beliefs, no matter how much they may be standing in the way of progress. In trying to change such institutions, we’ve lost a score of experienced agents in the past few months.”

His eyes hadn’t lost their anger. “You think you know this any better than I do? But I need agents, not freaks.”

“You need people who will bring results, Commissioner. I am combing United Planets to locate them. People with special talents who also have man’s dream.” She pursed her small mouth in a moue of defiance.

Ross Metaxa pointed over at Jerry Rhodes, who had resumed his miserable attempts to jerk a heavy Model H gun from the holster he had under his left arm.

“What good would that clod do, if he came up against one of the strong-arm bully-boys on the planet Goshen? He’d be crisped before he could get his shooter out. And by the way he handles it, even if he did get it out, he’d probably shoot off his own foot.”

“Not with his luck,” Sid Jakes said.

Metaxa scoffed. “I suppose you think he could gamble a Goshen pistolero’s shooter away from him by matching coins.”

Lee Chang said, “We have already had one of our special talents troupes succeed on an assignment. I suggest you give another group a job and see how they work out. If they don’t, very well, Commissioner, then you’ve made your point. Meanwhile, of course, we are also recruiting in the old manner.”

The Section G head hesitated.

“How can you lose?” Sid Jakes said humorously. “Put up or shut up, Chief.”

Metaxa cast his eyes upward, in search of divine guidance. “Surrounded by stutes,” he muttered. Then, to Lee Chang, “You’re on. Anything to bring you to your senses.” He thought about it. “There’s a situation brewing on Firenze. The type of job any troupe of competent Section G operatives should be able to handle. Very well, round up four of these miracles of yours and send them to my office.”

He turned and marched off, still muttering.

Sid Jakes grinned down at Lee Chang Chu. “Okay, he’s tossed you the whistle; let’s see how you blow it.”

She bit her lower lip thoughtfully, and looked around the hall at her proteges.

They were seated before his desk in a row. Ross Metaxa couldn’t keep his eyes from the seeming eight-year-old girl in her pretty little pink party dress and with the pink hair ribbon in her pretty blonde hair which came down to her shoulders in a style of yesteryear.

He rapped, “Are you sure you’re twenty-five years old?”

Helen, who had a red ball in her right hand, jumped to the floor, and, bouncing the toy, skipped around the desk singing in a childish treble, “Three little girls in blue, tra la, three little girls in blue.” It couldn’t have been more charming.

The Commissioner of Section G was in no humor to be charmed. When she sidled up to him to whisper in his ear, he began to growl at her.

She whispered, a lisp in her voice, “You should never ask a lady her age, but it’s twenty-six, not twenty-five.” Even as she whispered, her tiny child hands twisted the red ball which fell away into halves revealing a hollow center. Quickly deft, she scooped the small hypo-gun from its concealment and ground it into his side.

“Three little girls in blue, tra la,” she sneered nastily.

The other three present were laughing.

Dr. Dorn Horsten said, “Thank the Holy Ultimate that she’s on our side.”

“All right, all right,” Mextaxa said. “The point’s made. I suppose your makeup is a natural for eavesdropping and such.” He shook his head as she returned to her chair. “It’s just that…” He let the sentence fade away and looked at the others thus far silent, two special talents operatives.

The one Lee Chang Chu had pointed out earlier as Zorro Juarez, the bullwhip artist from the planet Vacamundo, was a handsome man in the Latin tradition, evidently on the dour and quiet side by nature. He sat fiddling with an object that looked like a cross between a swagger stick and a foot and a half of sawed-off broom-handle. It seemed to be of highly decorated leather.

Metaxa said, “Lee Chang has evidently seen your whip demonstrations. It all sounds very well, but where’s the whip?”

Zorro Juarez said, “Wrapped around my waist.”

Metaxa snorted. “Not exactly a weapon you could get into action in a hurry.”

Zorro had been pounding his leather baton in the palm of his left hand. Suddenly—he must have touched a stud, or something—a section of plastic thong shot out from the end of that baton, which now proved to be the whip handle. He flicked it once and it snaked, to gently pluck out from the Commissioner’s breast pocket, the stylo he kept there. Another twist of wrist and the stylo was in the hand of Zorro Juarez. He tossed it on the desk.

“I say, that’s a new one,” Dorn Horsten said enthusiastically.

Zorro said, even as he touched the stud again, “We all carry them on Vacamundo.” The plastic thong disappeared back into the handle.

Metaxa snorted. His eyes went to the fourth member of the party. Jerry Rhodes was slumped in his chair, in an easy-going attitude. His face was pleasantly vacant, almost to the point of being inane.

“I suppose you’re going along to bring everybody luck,” Metaxa said.

Jerry shrugged amiably. “It doesn’t work that way, sir. My luck is only for me. I have to be involved.”

Metaxa stared at him. “Look, if you’re so lucky, why don’t you go to the planet Vegas, or one of the other worlds where they have free enterprise, and such things as gambling? You could clean up.”

Jerry nodded, agreeably. “Actually, I’m persona non grata on Vegas. But that’s not the only thing. You see, you don’t have any particular need for money when you’re completely lucky. You get everything you need-”

“How?”

“Well—” Rhodes hesitated. “Somehow. You never know.”

Ross Metaxa grunted, as though in despair. He fished absently in his desk and emerged with his squat brown bottle and several glasses. He said, as though not expecting an affirmative answer. “Would anybody like to try this Denebian tequila?”

“Bit early for me,” Horsten murmured politely. The others except Helen, had evidently heard of Metaxa’s tequila; they shook their heads, even as the Commissioner poured one of the glasses full.

Helen beat her superior to it. The drink went down as though it was fruit juice. “Um,” she said. “Smooth.” She put the glass back.

“Smooth?” Metaxa said blankly. He looked at the brown bottle. “That’s the first time anybody called it that.” He looked at the seeming child, in her party dress, and shaking his head, he evidently decided against his own drink, as though already his senses where betraying him.

He said, “Look, I’m feeling less optimistic about this assignment by the minute, but let’s go. Have any of you ever heard of a planet named Firenze?”

Dorn Horsten said slowly, “I attended a conference on the phylum Thallophyta there, some years ago. Although at the time I wasn’t particularly interested in her institutions, it seemed a moderately progressive world.”

“Not progressive enough. Firenze is a comparatively recently colonized planet. Most of the population came from Avalon, which in turn had been settled from Italy. Firenze, in a way, is still a frontier world and one would expect a wonderful atmosphere for the competent to develop. Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked out that way.”

“And,” Helen prompted, serious now, her voice adult, “our job will be to overthrow the politico-economic system and get things underway?”

But Ross Metaxa was scowling denial. “No. To the contrary. The First Signore and his government have been plagued by an underground for decades. An underground so insidious that the measures that have had to be taken to contain it are what are holding up proper development. The planet can’t get underway because of the necessity to fight these subversives.”

Horsten pushed his pince-nez glasses back onto the bridge of his nose in consideration. “We have a Section G representative there?”

“We did until recently. An old hand named Bulchand. He was challenged by a Florentine and shot.”

The four of them looked at him.

Ross Metaxa shifted in his chair. “I mentioned that it was a frontier world. They built up a system of self-defense—or perhaps I should say offense, unrivaled, so far as I can think, since the frontier days of the old United States. Do you remember the saying, All men are created equal, Samuel Colt made ’em that way ?”

Zorro Juarez said, “You mean they all go armed?”

“I suppose so. A Florentine gentleman is always ready to defend his honor. Evidently, always. It leads to some strange complications. In politics, for instance.”

Jerry Rhodes said, “How does that follow?”

His superior twisted his less than handsome face. “Ordinarily, the only citizens not eligible to be called out, under their Code Duello, are the First Signore and his Council of Nine. However, no one is exempt during elections. No full citizens, that is; evidently, criminals and lower elements in general are not considered honorable enough to come under the code.”

Jerry Rhodes said, “You mean that even during the heat of a political campaign these, uh, Florentines, challenge each other to duels, if they’re, uh, slighted?”

“Evidently. It’s one of the reasons we’ve had such a time keeping our agents on the planet. Anyone not up on the niceties of their Code Duello winds up getting challenged before the week is out. And, of course, even a Section G agent can’t win all the time.”

Zorro Juarez said slowly, “It seems to me that when election day rolled around, and the office of First Signore was up for grabs, it would be a matter of the quickest draw, or the best shot, winding up Chief of State.”

“You have said it,” Metaxa said dryly.

“And you mean we’re supporting such a system?” Helen demanded.

Metaxa looked at her. “Don’t read more into Section G than is to be found. We’re interested in pushing progress. What socioeconomic system, religion or any other institution a planet might have is not our business if it works. Firenze is doing fine except for these damn subversives who are continually keeping the place in an uproar.”

He looked from one to the other of the four. “For some reason, the Firenze authorities don’t seem to be able to crack the underground. Possibly their police methods are inadequate. Very well”—his voice turned insinuating—“you supposedly have special talents. Use them.”

Chapter Two

Irene Kasansky, as always, briskly efficient, had arranged their cover.

Helen and Dorn Horsten were easy enough. She was to be his daughter. He was the noted algae specialist, making a tour of the member planets of United Planets, coordinating the most recent developments in the field. While on Firenze he would visit the larger universities.

Helen had looked at him and snorted, “Daddy.”

Jerry Rhodes said, “If you were only six inches taller, we could do you up like a mopsy and you could go as my mistress.”

She glared at him. “If I was six inches taller, I’d clobber you. In fact, I’m thinking of doing it anyway.”

Dorn Horsten chuckled. “I’ll never get used to it,” he said.

She turned her glare on her pseudo-parent. “What’s so funny, you overgrown ox?”

“All right, all right,” Irene said. She looked at Zorro, twisted her mouth, looked down at the report on him once again. “You’ll go as a representative of the cattle industry of your home planet. You’ll attempt to sign up some of the Firenze entrepreneurs to import and breed cattle. On these free enterprise planets, especially, there’s always a luxury market for such things as real beef. It’s a status symbol.”

Zorro had nodded. “Should be easy enough.”

Irene Kasansky turned her eyes to Jerry Rhodes, who, after his little verbal bout with Helen, had lapsed back into easy-going bemusement. She said, “What excuse could you possibly have for going to a frontier world such as Firenze?”

He thought about that. Finally, “For fun?”

She didn’t bother to answer. She looked down at the dossier on him. “Where did Supervisor Chu ever locate you?” she muttered.

“At a race track.”

She looked up at him and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He said, as though in apology, “I had just bet on a horse.”

All had their eyes on him now.

He cleared his throat and said, as though this explained all, “It broke its leg.”

No one said anything.

He said, “However, it won.”

“It won?” Zorro blurted. “You just said it broke its leg.”

“Well, yes, but you see, well, worse things happened to the other horses and jockeys. It was, well, sort of a mess there at the end. But my horse, well, kind of limped over the finish line.”

“Don’t tell me any more,” Irene Kasansky said. “I don’t want to hear it. How is this? You’re a rich young nincompoop from the planet Catalina. They’re taxing your family too much in building that Welfare State of theirs. So you’re coming to Firenze to look into the possibilities of transferring your father’s variable capital to that frontier world. No, mother’s would be better; a father wouldn’t leave it in your hands.”

Jerry nodded, evidently not displeased by the implication. “Sort of a playboy, eh?”

Helen snorted contempt.

Irene thought about it. “I suppose you could handle that sort of cover. All right, a playboy, a kind of ne’er-do-well.” She became brisk again. “I’ll have Wardrobe and the others start working on it all. Be ready to be lobbed over to New Albuquerque Spaceport on the shuttle by Monday morning.”

Their information on the subversive organization which was keeping Firenze in a state of dither was minimal. In fact, the agent who had been killed there had been due to make a lengthy report immediately before his demise. The report hadn’t been forthcoming, and this was one of the first matters Sid Takes had suggested they check.

Not knowing what facilities the underground organization might have available, they had decided to take maximum security measures themselves, to the point of pretending on the space freighter Half Moon not to have known each other, previous to embarking.

They went through the motions of meeting, somewhat stiffly at first. Went through, the pretense of Jerry and Zorro reacting negatively to each other. Went to the pretense of Helen getting a childish crush on Zorro.

Only when there were none of the ship’s officers in the lounge did they relax to the point of discussing the ramifications of the assignment.

On the third day out, Earth time, Dr. Horsten sat characteristically in a comfort chair, scanning a tape, oblivious to all. Helen had wriggled herself up onto Zorro’s lap. Jerry Rhodes had taken on the Second Officer, a burly and surly spaceman, at battle chess. The Second, Helmut Drinker by name, had made the mistake of insisting on stiff wagers, and was finding satisfaction in the fact that obviously his opponent hadn’t the advantage of long years of time killing, whilst off watch, devoted to the game.

Jerry, dressed in his foppish Catalina playboy garb, couldn’t have cared less, on the face of it, but his men were in precipitate retreat before the onslaught of four of Blinker’s tanks.

At the crucial moment, the ship gave an unprecedented lurch and the pieces on the board scrambled. The Second goggled at the disaster. He looked up at the door, toward the ship’s bridge, shook his head unbelievingly, stared down at the mess again. He looked up at Jerry accusingly, but then shook his head again.

“It was a sure thing,” he said. “And that’s the second time.”

Jerry said mildly, “The first time, you knocked them over yourself with your sleeve. This time I was just about to counterattack.”

The Second goggled at the disaster. He looked up at Jerry.

“I could reconstruct the game.”

Jerry said sadly, “It’s not the bet, it’s the principle of the thing. I’m sure I couldn’t reconstruct it, and I doubt if you could.”

Helmut came to his feet, poorly suppressed rage obvious. Without another word, he stomped from the lounge.

Zorro said to Helen, “Look. You better get off my lap.”

“Why, Uncle Zorro, whyever for?” She looked into his face, in childish innocence.

“Get off my lap, you little witch. Maybe to that burro Brinker you look like a little girl, but I know better.”

Jerry said, “Hey, Helen, you can sit on my lap if you want.”

She snorted at him, even as she jumped to the floor. She went over to where Jerry was setting up the board again and stood there, her tiny fists on her hips.

“How’d you do that?” she demanded.

“Do what?”

“Twice, when he had you clobbered, right when you didn’t have a move to your name, all the pieces fell off.”

“Just luck, I guess.”

“Just luck my foot.” She hopped up on the chair the Second Officer had vacated. “Listen, how do you explain it?”

He put down the pawn he had in his hand and thought about that. “Well, I have one theory.”

Horsten looked up from his tape. “I’d like to hear it.”

Zorro said, “Me too.”

Jerry said, “Well, it’s just luck.”

The other three grunted in unison.

Helen sneered at him. “Oh, great. Now we understand the whole thing. However, when we sit down to eat, all the steaks are tough except yours. How come?”

“Luck,” Jerry said, his face serious.

Helen snorted disgust.

“No, I mean it,” he insisted. “There is luck, you know. Some people are luckier than others.”

Dorn Horsten pushed his pince-nez glasses back higher on the bridge of his nose and said, “As a scientist, I have never seen data on the hypothesis.”

Jerry Rhodes fished a coin from his pocket. “You’ve heard of the Laws of Chance?”

“So-called.” Horsten nodded.

“All right. Now suppose I flip this coin of mine a hundred men flipping coins. Out of them, some will—

Zorro, his dark, handsome face interested, supplied the answer. “It comes up fifty times heads and fifty times tails, by the Laws of Chance.”

“On an average,” Jerry said. “But suppose you have a hundred men flipping coins. Out of them, some will,, flip, say, forty-five heads and fifty-five tails. That doesn’t conflict with averages, since some of the others, say will come up with forty-five tails and fifty-five heads. The Laws of Chance are still working.”

“What are you getting at?” Helen demanded.

Jerry went on, a sort of dogged element in his argument. “Suppose, instead of a hundred men flipping coins, you have a billion men. Okay, now still not upsetting the Laws of Chance, you might well come up with a few of them flipping one hundred straight heads, and no tails at all. It would be balanced, of course, by others doing the exact opposite.”

He looked around at them. “You see what I’m driving at?”

“No,” Helen said flatly.

“Well,” Jerry said. “That’s how it is with luck. Most people average out. That is, good and bad luck balance for them. One day, they’re lucky and find a valuable ring, or win at the races, or whatever. The next day, they lose something or have a setback of some type. It all averages out. Good luck and bad.”

Dorn Horsten was scowling at him. “Go on.”

“Well, it’s like flipping the coins. The Laws of Chance aren’t disturbed by the fact that some people are luckier than others. You know very well, from your own experience, that some people go through life as though the road had been paved to their particular specifications. Another has such lousy luck that he’ll break his arm picking his nose.”

Zorro laughed sourly at that.

Helen said, “Okay, what’s all this got to do with you?”

Jerry held up his two hands as though all was explained. “There are more than a trillion persons now living on some three thousand United Planets worlds. It all averages out, but some have good luck, some have bad luck. In that whole number is the one person who has the best luck of all.”

They looked at him.

“Me.”

Dom Horsten slumped back into his chair, a wry expression on his face.

Helen snarled in disgust, “Yeah, but it could switch at any time, and you’d start flipping tails, you silly jerk.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m lucky.”

Zorro cleared his throat. “Look,” he said. “Not to change the subject, but now we’re alone I’d like to bring up something.”

“Please do,” Helen said, looking her disgust at Jerry Rhodes, who shrugged apologetically.

Zorro Juarez said, “This is my first assignment for Section G and Supervisor Lee Chang Chu has sent me out on it before I got a lot of the orientation agents usually have. I know our department is awfully hush-hush, but, purely in the name of effectiveness on my part, I think I ought to be checked out on a couple of points.”

“Such as what, Zorro?” Horsten said.

“Well, what’s all this about the Dawnworld planets? I know that the raison detre of Section G is to spur progress on all the member worlds of United Planets, so that when the human race finally confronts intelligent alien life—if ever—it will be as strong as possible.”

“Well, that’s it, friend,” Helen told him, her voice dead serious. “The time has come. We’re confronting it And, frankly, the race isn’t ready.”

Zorro scowled at her. “You mean these Dawnworld planets I’ve heard rumors about support an intelligent alien life form?”

“Not exactly,” Horsten said. “You’re wrong on two counts, or, at least, Helen is. One, we’re not confronting them. We’re desperately avoiding them. We’re not ready even to attempt communication. They’re so pathetically in advance of our technology that our scientists boggle. For instance, they have fusion reactors, in short, unlimited power. They also have matter converters. They can, literally, convert any form of matter into any other form they wish.” He dropped the bombshell. “However, the term intelligent-alien-life-form does not apply. Evidently they aren’t intelligent.”

Zorro bug-eyed him.

The doctor shook his head. “I reacted the same way, when Sid Jakes revealed the existence of the Dawn-worlds to me. However, given enough time even a very low level mentality could develop an advanced technology. For that matter, some life forms do fantastically well with no intelligence at all—as we know it. Take the Earth insect, the ant. They accomplish wonderful engineering feats, they milk their own type cattle, they store up provisions for the future, they conduct military actions; I could go on. But is the individual ant intelligent?”

The younger man was shaking his head. “But matter converters…”

Dorn Horsten shrugged. “There’s another possible explanation. On his way toward Utopia, man needed intelligence. He needed it in the caves to survive, he needed it in the days of early breakthroughs such as fire, agriculture, the domestication of animals. He needed it all through such socioeconomic systems as primitive communism, chattel slavery, feudalism, capitalism. The race was escaping from the bonds of nature, trying to achieve food, clothing, shelter and the other necessities, and finally the luxuries, for all. But when Utopia is achieved? When we have matter converters and unlimited power? Ah, then possibly the need changes. Intelligence might even become a disadvantage. The gifted are inclined to rock the boat, and, given Utopia, the average man, the ungifted, doesn’t want the boat rocked.”

Jerry Rhodes said, “I see what you mean. They could attempt to breed the gifted out of the race.”

“That’s one possible explanation.” Horsten shrugged. “However, whatever the explanation, there the Dawn-men are. And far, far in advance of the human race.”

Zorro puzzled along with it. “If they’re not intelligent, a really sharp human should be able to take them.”

“How do you mean?” Jerry said.

Zorro looked over at him. “Well, for instance, if we could get hold of that method of constructing fusion reactors, or a sample of one of those matter converters, they wouldn’t be so far ahead.”

Helen snorted. “It was tried by some smarties from the planet Phrygia.”

“And?”

Dorn Horsten took over again. “These Dawnworld inhabitants don’t take kindly to being intruded upon. They have no need for trade, no desire for intercourse with other-worldlings. So when somebody comes along and stirs up their… anthill, if you will, they take measures.”

“Such as what?”

“They evidently have a little trick of tracing the’ intruders back to the world, or worlds, of their origin and making a slight switch in the atmosphere. Phrygia, which once had a human population of a couple of billion, now has a methane-hydrogen-ammonia atmosphere which proves difficult to breathe. In short, there are no more Phrygians.”

Zorro shifted in his chair unhappily. “Still, there should be some way. Evidently, these burros from Phrygia antagonized the, uh, Dawnworlders, or showed their hand in some manner or other.”

“Evidently,” Helen said, complete with sarcasm, “but I wouldn’t want to be the next to try. I wouldn’t even want to be a citizen of the planet from which the next who tries hails. And according to Ronny Bronston and Phil Birdman, the two Section G agents who handled the case, it was nip and tuck whether or not the Dawn-men finished off the whole three thousand planets we humans have colonized so far. Happily, for some reason, they seemed to think Phrygia would be enough. But next time?”

“It’d have to be done right,” Zorro argued stubbornly.

“It sure as hell would,” Helen said. “So forget about it.” She shivered. “Just thinking about messing around with those zombies gives me the willies.”

Zorro said, “Where are the so-called Dawnworlds located, anyway?”

“They aren’t on the starcharts,” Horsten told him. “That’s certain. The big wigs at the Octagon are scared silly that some scatterbrains will hear about such items as the matter converters and get all steamed up with man’s oldest dream.”

“Oldest dream?” Jerry said.

“The philosopher’s stone. The old alchemy bit. Changing base metals to gold. Evidently, the Dawnmen go them one further, they can change anything to gold, or anything else. I suppose you could put a Rembrandt in one end of it and bring out a perfect twin from the other, or any number of them.”

“What’s a Rembrandt?” Zorro Juarez scowled.

“An old, old Earth painter. I believe some works still to be found in museums are attributed to him. At any rate, Ross Metaxa and the other powers that be are afraid that with a trillion or so people in our confederation of planets, there’ll be some avaricious enough to pull down the roof on all of us, in their greed to sneak a matter converter from under the noses of the Dawn-men.”

“Well… if they’re not intelligent…” Zorro muttered.

Helen snarled at him, “Don’t be dense, lover. They don’t have to be intelligent to push a button or throw a switch. They’ve got defenses we’ve never even dreamed of.” Her voice took on a childish treble.” I don’t want to marry anybody else, Uncle Zorro. I wanta marry you.”

Zorro Juarez did a double take.

From the doorway, Helmut Brinker said, “Citizen Rhodes, you wanted to be shown around the hydroponics compartments. I didn’t have time, yesterday.”

“Oh, sure.” Jerry Rhodes came to his feet.

With a skip and a jump, Helen had bounced onto Zorro’s lap and threw her arms around his neck. He rolled his eyes up in resignation.

Dorn Horsten said, “Now, Helen, you’re pestering Citizen Juarez.”

“No I’m not, Daddy. Am I, Uncle Zorro? Uncle Zorro is going to marry me. Everybody has to marry somebody, don’t they, Uncle Zorro?” Without waiting for an answer to that, she added definitely, “Uncle Zorro is gonna marry me. He likes girls. Don’t you, Uncle Zorro?”

“Stop squirming, you little witch,” he growled under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Sometimes.”

She said, her eyes wide, “You like boys better than girls, Uncle Zorro? I like boys better than girls, but I thought maybe you liked girls.”

Not even his darkish complexion completely hid the red creeping up the unfortunate’s neck.

Jerry Rhodes was chuckling as he joined the second officer of the Half Moon. He said, “I thought possibly you came back to try another round of battle chess.”

The ship’s officer didn’t answer that but rather turned abruptly and led the way from the ship’s lounge.

When the door closed behind them, Helen vaulted down from Zorro’s lap and, hands on hips, looked after the two.

Zorro snapped, “Look, fun is fun, but I’m getting tired of this running gag. And just for the record, damn it, sooner or later that double innuendo of yours is going to get through to even somebody as dense as Helmut Brinker, and people are going to start wondering how a knee-high eight-year-old gets off cracks you usually hear in a burlesque revival.”

Helen ignored him. “I don’t like that.”

“You don’t like what?” Zorro growled.”

Dorn looked at her too.

“I don’t like that sorehead Brinker going off with Jerry. Jerry’s too easy-going. He doesn’t know a wrong guy when he sees one.”

Jerry Rhodes, hands in pockets, strolled easily after the ship’s officer, down the companionway. Keeping in mind his role as playboy and the need for practicing it, he kept going a running patter.

“Fascinatin’, you know,” he said. “Demmed fascinatin’. Never traveled on a passenger freighter before. Roughing it, eh? If Mother could see me now. Horrified, eh? Associating with characters such as this Zorro Juarez, eh? In trade, mind you. Peddles cattle, or some such. Beef cattle, he says. Always wondered, vaguely, where beef steaks came from. Evidently, they cut them off of animals. Fascinatin’.”

The second officer growled something coldly, not turning his head. He was in a fury but Jerry Rhodes chose to ignore it. There was a something in the heavy-set Brinker that egged you on, that made you want to needle him. Jerry Rhodes felt an edge of shame at himself, but there was a boring element in travel on the Half Moon and he couldn’t keep from provoking the other.

He pattered, “And associating with the crew, mind you. Ha, Mother! You can’t imagine, Mother!”

“That’s what you think,” Helmut Brinker muttered beneath his breath. “Here. Here’s the key hydroponics compartment. Nothing much to see, really.” He activated a metal door, and stepped forward.

Jerry Rhodes entered, too, and stepped past the other to stare at the level upon level of plants which filled the extensive room from bulkhead to bulkhead and from deck to overhead. “Fascinatin’,” he said.

“You know what they eat?” Brinker demanded. And then, without waiting for an answer, “Anything; Garbage, human excreta, wastepaper—anything. You know what’d happen if you fell into one of those tanks?”

“Holy Ultimate!” Jerry Rhodes grunted in amused protest.

Brinker grabbed him roughly by an arm and hauled him about.

“Listen,” he growled, “I’m short of credits, understand? I figure you owe me for those two games. I had them won.”

Jerry pulled away and took half a dozen steps to the rear. “Now look here!”

“I am looking at you. Right at you, you fancy molly. And I want those credits!”

Jerry Rhodes was not above indignation, even when confronted by these odds. He took another couple of steps backward, but put up his hands in an ineffectual display of defense.

“Not with these tactics,” he got out.

“All right,” the other said, rage growing. “You asked for this, smart pockets. That wrist chronometer you’re wearing alone…” He let the sentence dribble off as he shuffled forward.

Jerry Rhodes’ eyes widened.

Behind them, the compartment door swung open and Helen peered in, unseen by the enraged ship’s officer. She made a face at Jerry and turned her head, then disappeared.

“Now…” Brinker began, his hands reaching.

But Zorro Juarez was at the door, his expression amused. In his hand was his bullwhip. He flicked it, almost lazily. The leather snaked out in a blur, wound about the heel of the second officer’s right shoe. There was a quick upward tug, an unbalancing, a cry of utter surprise, a forward collapse, an unhappy crunch of chin hitting metal deck.

Jerry Rhodes looked down at the unconscious sorehead.

“Wow,” he said in awed wonder. “That sure was luck.”

“Luck!” Helen snarled at him, as she reappeared in the doorway. “Why, you stupid jerk! If we hadn’t followed, this overgrown pig would have clobbered you.”

“Um,” he told her, in heartfelt earnestness. “That’s what I meant. I sure am lucky you two showed up.”

Chapter Three

They had little to go on, when the Half Moon set down on Firenze. In fact, had decided, in conference, that there was surprisingly little known about the workings of the subversive wracked world. After all, it had been a member of United Planets for the better part of a century. During that time, a considerable dossier should have accumulated, based on the reports of Section G and other U.P. personnel assigned there. However, after assimilating what reports Irene Kasansky had given them, immediately before departure, they realized how preciously scant the supposed inside information was.

“These people are really security conscious,” Dorn Horsten had muttered, frowning down at the thin sheaf of study material.

“We’ll have to play it by ear,” Helen said, as unhappy as her oversized partner.

Jerry said, “Well, it’s all rather simple. They’re plagued by an underground. Our job is to locate these subversives and do them in. With a little luck…”

They bent on him a simultaneous glower.

Jerry swallowed apologetically and shut up.

Zorro said, “We’d better destroy these papers. It wouldn’t do to try to land with anything connecting us to Section G.”

It turned out that their destination had exactly one spaceport. It was indicative of the restrictions Firenze’s situation had imposed. There were, throughout the United Planets Confederation, various worlds that minimized the amount of intercourse with fellow planets. But, invariably, these were the most reactionary, backward members of man’s far-flung league, worlds whose ruling classes could not afford to allow their populations to come in contact with peoples who had solved man’s immediate socioeconomic problems and had achieved to a high degree of freedom.

There were quite a number of such planets thrown up in the race’s chaotic populating of this sector of the galaxy. Usually, worlds based on one type of dictatorship or another, ranging from theocracies to technocracies, in few of which the ruling elite were actually elite—although when the politico-economic system had been originated, perhaps they had been.

Possibly, the least valid method of choosing a ruling class has been the most widely utilized by the human race: nepotism. In primitive society, it must have been unknown, or practically so. When representation was based on the sib, clan, or gens and chiefs were elected on their merit, there was little reason for such a tribal official to wish to hand down his office to his son. There was no profit motive, since the job was not remunerative, a chief being not better off materially than any other member of the tribe. However, as society evolved and the powers of the chiefs—and priests—of necessity expanded, they had little time to hunt their own game, or till their own fields, as Odysseus was found doing when Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Palamedes came to recruit him for the police action against Illium. It became necessary for society as a whole to provide for their elected rulers and in time the jobs became worth having, leisure being the ultimate luxury in a society where abundance is but a dream. And, shortly, such offices became no longer elective, as strongman and holyman subverted primitive institutions.

Be all this as it may, it was distressing for the operatives of Section G to see such indications of the police state as but one port of entry to a whole planet as advanced as Firenze. Among other things, it meant restrictions on commerce and exchange of technological knowledge, and this, above all, was what their department was interested in fostering.

Their small group were the only ones disembarking on Firenze. For that matter, they had been the only passengers aboard the Half Moon, which, although licensed to carry travelers, was so haphazardly scheduled that it was seldom practical. While the robos unloaded their luggage, and such freight as had been designated for this set down, the four of them, still pretending to be comparative strangers, took a spaceport ground vehicle to the administration building, the surly second officer accompanying them, to handle any red tape that might evolve.

By the half-puzzled looks he sometimes shot from the corner of his eyes at Jerry Rhodes, it could be seen that Helmut Drinker was still not quite clear on what had happened. In his memory, evidently, one moment he had been heading for the foppish Jerry, to wring from him either the credits Brinker considered he had coming to him, or his pound of flesh, from the other’s none too brawny frame. The next moment, black had become the color of the day, and when he had awakened, it was with an egg-sized bump on his chin and utter disbelief in his mind.

Helen, her small, chubby hands folded demurely in her lap, had been gazing at him in the unblinking quizzicalness of pre-adolescence, since they had first mounted the air-cushion cart.

Finally she blurted, “Mr. Second Officer Blinker, you got two chins.”

“Helen!” Dorn Horsten said.

She looked at her supposed father. “Well, he has, Daddy. Hasn’t he, Uncle Zorro? One of ’em’s blue. You got two chins, Mr. Blinker, and one of ’em’s blue.” She added, from accumulated wisdom, “Most people only got one chin.”

Helmut Brinker scowled at her. “Brinker,” he said.

“Brinker what?”

“My name’s Brinker, not Blinker,” he growled in disgust.

“That’s what I said,” she said with satisfaction. “And two chins.”

“Helen,” Dorn Horsten said in mild reproof, “Citizen Brinker is the same as everyone else. He has only one chin. Now, that will be all. Please be on your best behavior at the administration building.”

Helen looked skeptically at the second officer’s lower face. She turned her eyes to Zorro and then Jerry Rhodes, as though seeking corroboration. However, those two worthies looked away. Helen returned to observing the chin—or chins—in question and muttering to herself under her breath.

“That will be all, Helen,” her father said, and, evidently to take the conversation out of the hands of his disconcerting daughter, added to Helmut Brinker, “Are none of the crew to take, ah, port-leave here? I would think they would welcome the opportunity.” The second officer snorted. “On this planet? If the skipper let ten men off on an overnight pass, three’d get themselves shot in duels, as easy’s they’d get a black eye and a hangover on some good shore-leave world like, say, Shangri-La. And four of the others’d be in the brig for something subversive, like preferring vanilla to chocolate ice cream.” He snorted sourly again.

The driver of the spaceport runabout swiveled in his seat and looked at Helmut Brinker. He said evenly, “You an Engelist, or something?”

“Holy Jumpin’ Zen, no,” the Half Moon’s second officer blurted. “I was just kidding.”

The driver continued to look at him for a long moment, finally, after darting a glance back at the tarmac to check his course, he said, “Maybe you don’t like Firenze? Maybe you think you can toss insults around about the planet of my birth, right in front of me. I’m just a nobody, without enough guts to call you out.”

“Holy Ultimate,” the second muttered. “If I get myself skewered in some silly duel, the skipper’ll crucify me.” He looked earnestly at the Florentine. “Look, fella, I’m sorry. I apologize. I love this planet, uh, Firenze. I was just joking.”

The driver began to turn back to his task of piloting, when Jerry Rhodes began to laugh.

The Florentine’s face became a mask. “What’s funny Signore?”

But Helen was in there. She shook her finger at the transportation cart’s chauffeur. “Now, you stop turning around all the time and talking and all. You scare me. I never rode in one of these things afore, and you turn around all the time and get mad, and you scare me. And I don’t like it here. And”—she topped it—“I’ll tell my daddy!”

“Now, Helen,” her father said.

“I wanna go home!” Helen shrilled.

The driver turned back to his duties and hunched his shoulders.

Zorro Juarez cleared his throat and said to the Florentine, as though seeking a subject with which to clear the air, “What is an Engelist?”

It was evidently the wrong subject to have chosen.

The other said, “You don’t know what an Engelist is? What kind of world you come from?” And then in confused contradiction of himself, “You live on some sort of Engelist government world?”

Zorro said, in unwonted mildness, “I’m from Vacamundo. We don’t have any Engelists, or whatever you call them, there. What’s an Engelist?”

They were almost to the entry of the official building. However, the driver took Zorro in with a slow calculation. “How do I know you’re not some undercover police, trying to egg me into indicating I got unusual interest in the Engelists?”

Zorro shook his head at him in true puzzlement. “Come again on that?”

The driver turned his back abruptly, and did things with his cart controls.

They pulled up before the short flight of stairs which mounted to the building’s portals, and the driver dropped the lift lever and disembarked to open doors for them. His face was darkly suspicious and he spoke no further. Helen, when her father wasn’t looking, stuck her tongue out at him before tripping after the rest.

At the top of the stone stairway were three guards, two of them bearing muffle rifles. They came to the salute, eyes straight ahead. A trim sub-officer, a quick-draw holster at his hip, came forward, his face expressionless.

The second officer of the Half Moon had evidently been through Firenze routine before. He stepped out and presented a clipboard of papers.

“Four passengers from the Half Moon. Origin, Earth. Visas for Firenze entry in order.”

The sub-officer looked at Blinker carefully. He took the clipboard. Before looking at it, he weighed the four in question, one by one, with care. Finally, he looked down at the papers. He took his time perusing them.

He said at last, “Very well, follow me.” He turned and led the way to the entry. The party from the Half Moon trailed behind.

Zorro growled under his breath, “Some welcome for a bunch of newcomers.”

Dorn Horsten said, an edge of irritation in his voice, “See here, I expected someone from the University…”

The Florentine said, “After clearance.”

The big scientist pushed his pince-nez glasses back onto his nose. “Stuff and nonsense,” he muttered.

The sub-officer paused. “Are you criticizing the institutions of the Free Democracy of the Commonwealth of Firenze, or me, personally?”

But Helen was in there again. She pointed a finger at the Firenze official, her other small fist on her hip. “You leave my daddy alone,” she said in warning.

The sub-officer looked at her. He frowned puzzlement. He looked back at her father. Dorn Horsten stood there scowling, but evidently unrepentant.

The Florentine started over again. “I will brook no criticism of the institutions…”

Helen took a half skip forward and let him have it on the shins. “I told you to leave my daddy alone, you nasty thing. My daddy didn’t bother you.”

“Helen!” Horsten blurted.

Zorro Juarez scooped her up and held her under his left arm. He tapped his tranca against his trouser leg. “Let’s get on with it,” he said.

“Lemme go!” Helen shrilled.

The Florentine sub-officer stood there, either counting to himself or communicating with whatever gods he followed. He had closed his eyes in mental, rather than physical, anguish.

Finally, he opened them and said emotionlessly, “Follow me.”

Zorro kept his grip on the kicking Helen.

“I don’t like this place. I wanna go home,” she howled.

The sub-officer held the door open for them. Zorro, laden down with Helen, passed through last. The sub-officer closed his eyes again, when she went by. It was just as well; she was sticking her tongue out in impotent rage.

Immediately inside the door was a large desk, behind it an older and more elaborately uniformed Florentine. He took them all in, including the sub-officer, without speaking. When the sub-officer put the clipboard of entry papers before him, he scanned it very slowly. The four passengers from space lined up before the desk, the second officer of the Half Moon slightly ahead of them.

The official looked up finally and stared at Jerry Rhodes, who was at the far right of the lineup. Jerry, hands nonchalantly in his pockets, was looking about the large entry hall.

The Florentine rapped, “Are you, or have you ever been, an Engelist?”

Jerry Rhodes brought his eyes to him, in unfeigned lack of comprehension.

“Me? What’s an Engelist? Listen, how do I go about finding a deluxe hotel? The very best. Some place with decent food and some action.” He winked at the other, dropped his voice slightly and spoke from the side of his mouth. “You know, nice nightspot, vintage guzzle, pick up a good looking…”

The sub-officer clipped, “Answer the Tenente’s question!”

Jerry blinked. “Me? No. I don’t even know what a… whatever you said… is.”

The tenente went on down the line. And got the same response from Dorn Horsten and Zorro Juarez. That is, a denial that they were or had ever been, Engelists.

The tenente brought out papers and got their signatures to that effect. The papers were added to the clip-board. He handed the clipboard to the sub-officer, who saluted. The tenente returned the salute. He had one last word to say to the newcomers to Firenze.

“In landing upon this planet you foreswear recourse to your own world, or to the United Planets, insofar as political activities are concerned. That is, if it is found that you participate in Firenze internal affairs, such as Engelist subversion, you are subject to our laws and to the government of the First Signore. Is that understood and accepted? If not, you must return to the”—he looked down at the paper before him—“the Half Moon, and depart Firenze.”

Zorro Juarez said, “You mean, if we get in trouble, we can’t appeal to the United Planets Embassy?”

The tenente said, “Why should you get in trouble? You have declared that you are not an Engelist, haven’t you?”

Jerry Rhodes said, “Is that the only kind of trouble you can get into on this world?”

“Are you attempting to be amusing, Signore, uh… Rhodes?”

Jerry said plaintively, “So far, I haven’t found anything to be amusing about on this planet. All I want to know is where I can find some decent food and a little action. After a week of Tuesdays on that so-called passenger freighter, what I need is…”

Helen, who at long last had been set back on her own feet again, whined, “I don’t like this place, Daddy. I wanna go home.”

“Now, Helen, be a good girl.”

The sub-officer had closed his eyes again, when Helen opened her trap. The tenente said, “That will be all. Take them to customs.”

At this point Helmut Brinker called it quits. His duties, evidently, took him no further. He shook hands, even with Jerry Rhodes, patted Helen carefully on the head, as though half suspicious that she might bite him, and set off for the spaceport cart.

Helen held on to Zorro’s hand on the way to the next stop. He growled at her from the side of his mouth, “Aren’t you overdoing this?”

She looked up at him balefully and snarled in a low voice, “The way I look at it, so far I’ve stopped two duels. And if you three overgrown clods don’t keep your traps shut, I doubt if we’ll ever get to the hotel without one of you getting ventilated, or whatever they do in the way of dueling here.”

He snorted, but let it go.

The natty sub-officer pushed through another door and led the way to customs inspection where the robos had obviously piled their luggage. On their appearance, three inspectors, under what was obviously a customs official, began opening bags and trunks.

“Hey,” Jerry said in mild protest at their indifferent handling of his luxurious trappings.

The sub-officer handed the clipboard to the customs man, who looked at Jerry Rhodes in speculation. “You have something to hide?”

“Who me?”

“Do you swear that you have no Engelist propaganda either in your luggage or on your person?”

“Propaganda?” Jerry said blankly.

Dorn Horsten said to him, “An old Amer-English word derived from ‘to propagate.’ It merely meant the particular doctrines or principles promulgated by an organization, with no suggestion of whether or not the teachings were correct or false. Later, however, the word gained an unsavory connotation and grew synonymous with political lies.”

The customs official looked coldly at the scientist. “All Engelist propaganda is composed of lies. Are you suggesting otherwise?”

“But I’ve never even read or heard any,” Horsten protested.

“You haven’t answered my question!” the other snapped. “Do you deny all Engelist propaganda is composed of subversive lies?”

“Well, now…”

Helen began to cry. “I gotta go to the baaathroom.”

Dorn Horsten looked at the customs inspector plaintively.

The sub-officer sighed in resignation and said, “This way, Dr. Horsten.”

Horsten took Helen’s hand and they followed the Florentine to a side door and out. The inspector looked after them for a moment, then turned back to his duties.

He had gotten to a rather outsized hatbox a few minutes later and had begun to activate its opening mechanisms, when a voice squealed from behind him, “Don’t you bother my dolly!” He winced and his shoulders hunched up under the attack of the eight-year-old.

Helen stomped up indignantly and snatched the hatbox from the other’s hands.

The chief inspector looked at the harassed Horsten.

Dr. Horsten said, “She’s tired.”

The inspector said, “All baggage must be thoroughly examined.”

Helen had turned her back defiantly and sat down on the floor, the hatbox between her chubby legs.

Zorro said, “I’ll help.”

He hunkered down on his heels before her and said, “Let’s see your dolly.”

The inspector and the sub-officer who had been accompanying the travelers since first they had entered the administration building, stood looking down in frustration.

Helen looked suspiciously at Zorro Juarez, as though wondering if she was being betrayed to the enemy by, this former ally. However, she touched the box’s stud and the top slid open.

“This is Gertrude,” she said. And then, proudly, “Gertrude’s a boy.”

The sub-officer muttered something and the inspector looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m getting back to my post before…”

“Before what?” the chief inspector said accusingly.

“Nothing.” The sub-officer left as though in a hurry.

Helen was saying, “And this is his potty.”

Zorro, still squatted on his heels, began to say, “How does it work?” But then, quickly, “Never mind. What is this?” He reached the potty up in the direction of the inspector for examination, but that official winced and put his hands slightly behind his back.

A quiet technician on the far side of the room, stationed behind a battery of switches and dials, said, “I get an electronic buzz.”

The three customs men, who had been bent over the various bags, straightened and looked at him. The inspection chief spun, his eyebrows high.

“Get a level on it!”

Helen was saying, “And this is the washin’ machine. You wanna see me wash his jerkin?”

“No,” Zorro said.

“You put it in here,” she said.

The technician, registering disbelief, had come to his feet and approached Helen. Zorro stood up.

The technician pointed at the hatbox. “It comes from there.”

The inspector’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Horsten.

“Oh, good heavens,” Dr. Horsten said. He pushed his pince-nez glasses back, as though preparatory to a lengthy discussion.

The technician stooped and came up with a gadget that neatly fit into his hand. He stared at it.

“Hey,” Helen said in indignation. “That’s my Gertrude’s stove.”

The technician flicked a stud with the nail of his little finger, then shifted his grip on the toy hurriedly as he obviously burned himself. He looked at the inspector in awe. “See that little thing, there?” He indicated. “That must be the smallest powerpack I’ve ever seen.”

The inspector glared at him. “Put it back,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The technician put it back and returned to his post.

Dr. Horsten said to Helen, “Put your toys away, dear. You can play when we get to the hotel.”

“I don’t wanna go to the hotel. I wanna go home. I hate this place. This place is…” She thought about it, then finished definitely, “… a dump.”

The inspector gave up on this front. He turned on Zorro. “What’s that you have in your hand, a weapon? Let me see it.”

“Weapon?” Zorro said. “This is my tranca.” He held up the leather swagger stick.

“What is a tranca?” the inspector said in suspicion.

“Why…” Zorro looked down at it, as though that was the last question he had ever expected to hear. “How could one tell a gentleman gaucho from a vaquero unless he carried a tranca?”

The inspector looked at him sarcastically and took the leather object in question. He stared down at it, hefted it. Finally, he took it over to the technician and held it before a screen.

“Take a reading on this.”

“It reads clean. Some very hard leather, maybe some rubber. Not enough metal to make any difference.”

The inspector took it back to Zorro, puzzled. “What do you do with it?”

Zorro returned the puzzlement. “Do with it? I carry it. I’m a gaucho.” His voice went stiff. “Do you doubt my word that I am a gaucho?”

The inspector straightened and his face went expressionless. “It was not my desire to question your veracity, Signore. However, if honor is involved…”

Two of his men stepped forward and stood at his side at attention. One of them said, “If the Inspector requires seconds…”

Dr. Horsten said hurriedly, “Gentlemen, gentlemen. You are of different worlds and do not understand each other’s institutions. Certainly, you are both men of honor. All a misunderstanding…”

Jerry Rhodes suddenly broke into laughter.

All eyes went to him. All coldly, save those of Dr. Horsten, who expressed anguish.

The inspector said, “Yes, Signore, uh, Rhodes?”

Helen said shrilly, “Uncle Jerry, you stop laughing at the way I change Gertrude’s diddies.”

Jerry was looking at the other men, his eyes slightly wide. He looked down at Helen quickly. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “You change them very nicely.”

The inspector turned back to Zorro Juarez. “I am at your service, if you feel need of satisfaction. Undoubtedly, these gentlemen, your fellow travelers, will act for you.”

“Now…” Dorn Horsten began hurriedly.

There was a small clatter.

All eyes went to the floor.

There was a badge laying there.

It was a simple bronze badge, and the standing men could read of its inscription only, SECTION G, and less clearly, part of the smaller lettering, Interplanetary Department of Justice .

The chief inspector was bug-eyed.

“What’s that ?” he snapped.

Helen reached. “You can’t have my Junior Section G badge,” she howled, grabbing for it.

But one of the customs men was staring at Jerry Rhodes. “That badge dropped from…” he began.

From the open doorway, through which they had entered the room, Dorn Horsten roared, ” Earthquake! Everybody get under something! Helen, quick!”

Zorro Juarez was not slow on the uptake. He waved his arms frantically. “Under the doorway, or a desk. If the roof falls in, you’re safer!”

Dr. Horsten was swaying desperately, his arms holding onto the doorjamb, one on each side. “Earthquake!” he roared again. “Helen!”

The room was shaking. A picture on the wall of a stern faced, uniformed personage of obviously high rank was swaying pendulum-like back and forth.

The faces of the Florentines registered shock. They froze momentarily.

“Under something!” Zorro yelled. “If the roof gives way…”

Helen had darted a look of comprehension at her supposed father, then, screaming, flew to the customs officer who had, a moment earlier, begun to accuse Jerry Rhodes of something. She jumped up against him, throwing her chubby legs around his waist, holding onto him for dear life. “Save me! Save me!” And even as she screamed at that confused worthy, one of her deft tiny hands was extracting what seemed a safety pin from her little girl playsuit.

Chapter Four

Moments later, Dr. Horsten, the celebrated algae specialist, let go of the doorjamb onto which he had been hanging for dear life, and took a white handkerchief from a jerkin pocket to wipe his forehead. He then took the pince-nez glasses from his nose and wiped them.

He sighed relief. “I’m terrified of earthquakes,” he announced.

The balance of the room’s occupants were disposed here and there. Zorro and the chief customs inspector were cowering under the doorway through which Helen and her father had departed for the ladies’ room earlier, and to which Zorro had dragged the other. Jerry was under the inspector’s desk, evidently on the verge of hysteria, since he was laughing madly. The other two customs men were below the long table upon which sat the baggage, Helen beside them and childishly giggling at the fun.

They began to crawl, or stagger, to the room’s center again.

“I once lived in Japan,” Horsten explained to all. “Only thing to do in an earthquake. Get below the overhead of a door. When the roof caves in, you’re comparatively safe.”

“That’s the way we do it on Vacamundo,” Zorro Juarez confirmed.

The inspector, his face slightly dazed, said, “Thank you, thank you, Signore. I’ve… I’ve never been in an earthquake before. It’s the first one I’ve ever even heard of on Firenze.” He shook his head. “What’s the matter with Rudolf?”

Rudolf was the examiner who had been chosen by Helen to save her, in the excitement of the quake. There was a glazed something in his face.

Dorn Horsten stepped nearer and looked into the man’s eyes. He reached out and pulled down one of the other’s eyelids.

“Shock,” he announced.

The inspector looked at him. “Are you an M.D.? I thought your doctorate…”

Dom Horsten puffed out his cheeks. “I have eight doctorates, my good man. My M.D. was taken in Vienna when I was but a lad. This man should be put to bed at once and covered warmly. Give him a double shot of, uh, the best of guzzle, whatever it is alcoholic you drink on this planet. He’ll be all right tomorrow.”

A new voice from the doorway that Horsten had just abandoned said, “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate is going on?”

The inspector turned, came to rigid attention, as did his men—save for Rudolf.

“Yes, Your Eccellenza. The earthquake. Was the damage bad?”

The newcomer was a man in his early middle years. He was physically fit, keen of expression and wore his clothes as though he had never known a suit out of press, a shirt with the slightest wilt, in all his days.

He looked about the room, then at each of its occupants, in turn. He eventually got back to the chief inspector. “What are you talking about, Grossi?”

Inspector Grossi said, “The earthquake, Eccellenza.”

“Are you mad?” But then his expression altered infinitesimally. “You know, I did feel, as I approached this room, a slight shaking.”

Horsten said, mopping his brow again, “That’s the way it is. Some people go right through a quake and don’t even recognize it.”

The newcomer considered him, then turned and stared at the wooden faced Rudolf. “What wrong with him?”

Zorro Juarez spoke up smoothly. “He was terrified. I was watching him. He must have some sort of phobia about earthquakes. He froze with fear.”

“That seems hard to believe. Earthquakes are all but unknown on Firenze. The only acquaintance I, myself, have had with them is through reading.”

Zorro shrugged. “Scared to death,” he said. He shook his head. “You Florentines seem to frighten easily.”

A chill went through the room.

The inspector and one of his men spoke simultaneously. “I demand satisfaction!”

But the newcomer held up a hand. “Please, Signori. These visitors from overspace are our honored guests. Besides, you are all obviously upset. See that this man”—he stared again, unbelievingly, at Rudolf—“is taken care of.”

He turned to the travelers, and to Dorn Horsten in particular. “Undoubtedly, Signore, you are the celebrated Dr. Horsten. May I introduce myself?” He clicked his heels, bowed ever so slightly from the waist. “Maggiore Roberto Verona, of the staff of His Eccellenza, the Third Signore.”

Dr. Horsten was not to be outdone in the amenities, his own bow was even slighter than the other, albeit, if anything, more formal. “Pleasure, Maggiore. And may I present my daughter, Helen…”

Helen, her eyes bright, took the hem of her very short skirt in her hands and dropped a perfect curtsy, ignoring the sigh that indicated relief from her father.

The maggiore, obviously to the manor born, bowed again more deeply. “Signorina.” He smiled. “I am ravished.”

Customs Inspector Grossi cleared his throat at that.

Dorn Horsten was saying, “And these gentlemen are fellow passengers from the Half Moon. Citizens, uh, Zorro Juarez, from the planet, uh…”

“Vacamundo,” Zorro supplied.

“Yes, of course. And, uh, Gerald Rhodes from, uh, now don’t tell me,” Horsten dithered.

Jerry said, “If you’re from the tourist bureau, or whatever, what I want is some hotel, the best, of course, where…”

Chief Inspector Grossi, in horror, said, “Signore Rhodes His Eccellenza…”

But Roberto Verona was amused. “Citizen Rhodes, we shall do what we can. Am I to understand you have made no reservations for your stay on Firenze?”

“I never bother with reservations,” Jerry told him. “I always figure, let the other man make the reservations, then I cross the clerk’s palm with a bit of hard credit and—like magic—I’ve got the best suite in the house.”

The maggiore made an amused moue. “My dear Signore Rhodes, believe me, I have been overspace on a few occasions myself and hence am somewhat familiar with usage on other worlds. However, forgive me, I would not suggest you offer the mancia to a male citizen of Firenze. He would most certainly call you out.”

“Mancia? Call me out?” Jerry said blankly.

Zorro growled, “Evidently, try to tip a man here and he wants to duel you.”

The newcomer looked at Dr. Horsten. “You, of course, have reservations at the Albergo Palazzo. If I may say so, Doctor, Academician Udine is most excited at your arrival. It is not every day that a scientist of your attainments honors Firenze.”

“You are too kind.”

Zorro said, “The Palazzo. That’s the hotel I sent a subspace cable to for a room.”

The maggiore said politely, “Most interplanetary visitors at least begin their sojourn on Firenze at the Palazzo, Signore Juarez.”

Jerry said, “Well, I might as well check in there too. I hope they’ve got accommodations suitable to my standing.”

The other was frowning. “Unfortunately, Signore, there is a shortage. You see, His Zelenza and his Cabinet are due for a convention preceding the pseudo-election here in Firenze, beginning tomorrow.” He looked back at Dr. Horsten. “One of the reasons I met you was because the Third Signore suggested I see that you find some sort of quarters, no matter what.”

“The Third Signore?” Dorn Horsten frowned.

“There are nine Signori in the Cabinet of the First Signore, our executive head,” the maggiore explained smoothly.

“Ah, I see. And what portfolio does the Third Signore carry?”

“Anti-Subversion,” the maggiore said pleasantly.

Helen said, “I’m tired. I want my nap. Gertrude wants his nap. I’m awful tired.” She added, to clinch it, “I hate this dump.”

The maggiore looked at Inspector Grossi, who said, “The baggage of the outworlders has been inspected, Eccellenza.”

“Very well, Inspector.” Roberto Verona made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. “This way, Signorina, Signori…”

Helen took his hand and looked up at him. “Gee, you do that pretty.”

He smiled winningly down at her. “Do what, little Signorina?” They passed through the door into the corridor beyond.

“Make that sissy motion with your hand,” she said flatly.

His smile faded.

He said to Dr. Horsten, as the others fell in behind, “You know, an earthquake is quite unique here.”

“This must have been the very center.” Horsten nodded. “It doesn’t seem to have affected the vicinity.”

“Ah, you need not have worried. This building is well constructed. It would have been really difficult for even an earthquake to shake it.”

“You’re telling me,” Horsten muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, it seems to be,” the scientist told him in agreement.

Outside the administration building a suitably impressive hover-limousine was pulled up at the curb.

Even as he bowed them into the chauffeur driven vehicle the maggiore was saying, ” I am sure that there will be ample room for all, since our destination is the same.”

“You’re sure you’re not from the tourist…” Jerry began again, even as he ducked his head to take the front seat next to the driver.

The maggiore had visibly flinched, and his smile had sagged, but Zorro covered.

“The major is a high government official, Jerry. He’s come to welcome the doctor. All we’re doing is hitching a ride.”

“Ha!” Jerry said. “Fascinating. If Mother could only hear that. Surprised the old girl didn’t send ahead. Some sort of boring reception committee. Interplanetary WCTU or SPCA, or DRR, or something. Mother belongs to everything.” He added absently, “Everything she doesn’t own.”

Dorn Horsten, if only to keep the conversation going, said, “I’ve heard of the Interplanetary WCTU and of the SPCA, but the DRR eludes me.”

“Daughters of the Russian Revolution,” Jerry said. “One of my great-great grandmothers was from Leningrad. Very conservative outfit. Bunch of old hens. Flag wavers. You know the type. Origins of the outfit lost way back in the mists of antiquity.”

“Revolution?” Maggiore Verona said, his voice slightly less suave. “Upon Firenze, we frown upon that term, Signore.”

Horsten said, in quick cover, “If my studies of boyhood serve me, Citizen Rhodes refers to a revolution that took place a long time ago, Maggiore. I have found that revolutions become acceptable in proportion to the time that has elapsed since their inception. Lucius Brutus and Collatinus were on the wild-eyed fanatic side when they overthrew the Tarquins, however, as the centuries passed, these founders of the Republic gained acceptability, and later comers, such as the first Caesars, were happy to be able to trace themselves back to the Julian and Claudian gentes which were instrumental in expelling the Etruscans. Later, in history, the better elements in the British American colonies fled to Canada or back to the motherland before the fury of the mob, which, fanned to a white heat by Sam Adams and Tom Paine, and led by malcontents such as Washington, dubbed themselves Sons of Liberty and stole, burned and destroyed the property of the Tories. But in a century or so the posterity of those mobs became the most conservative members of a now conservative nation and proudly claimed the descent.”

Jerry Rhodes yawned. Helen was rocking her doll in her arms and crooning something about three little girls in blue, tra la.

“Sons of Liberty?” the maggiore said. “It has been my experience that organizations with such titles are inclined to be subversive.” He hastened to add: “Of course, Firenze follows the democratic ethic, however, there is a limit to liberty. For instance, you wouldn’t allow someone to stand up in a crowded theater and shout Fire! in the name of freedom of speech.”

“Why not?” Jerry said innocently. “Certainly, freedom of speech is more important than a few theaters full of people. Besides, somebody else has the right to stand up and yell, He’s a liar, there is no fire!

Zorro shook his head at him unobtrusively.

The maggiore looked at Jerry in growing suspicion.

But Jerry Rhodes was happily underway.

“It reminds me of a historical period on Mother Earth I had studied when I was attending the university. All the major nations of the time were continually sounding off about liberty and freedom and democracy. They’d send off expeditionary forces of hundreds of thousands of men, all equipped with the latest military devices, to preserve the liberties of some people halfway around the world from them; people who often didn’t have the vaguest idea of what the word meant. Then a Negro—or a Jew or Hindu—would get up in the square of his town and try to sound off about local injustices. Sixteen cops would jump him and run him in, on the grounds that by his exercising these liberties he supposedly had, he was threatening to upset the peace. He might irritate some uneducated slobs, by saying something they didn’t like to hear.”

Jerry chuckled amusement. “It was a great situation. The powers that be were willing to kill off hundreds of thousands of gooks, abroad, to preserve their liberties such as freedom of speech, but they allowed that liberty in their own country just so long as people said what they liked to hear. You could write anything you wanted, but so far as getting into print in the mass media was concerned, it had a dim chance if you weren’t writing what they wanted to read. You could vote for anybody you wanted to, just so long as it was one of their candidates—election laws made it practically impossible for anybody else to get on the ballot You could demonstrate in the streets until…”

Dr. Horsten put in hurriedly, his voice rising above his young colleague’s, “Ah, Maggiore Verona, although this is not my first visit to your estimable world, I must confess a considerable ignorance of your institutions. I note that you use a certain amount of terminology foreign to Earth Basic.”

The Florentine had been staring at Jerry, but now he shook his head slightly and turned to the scientist. “You are probably referring, my dear Doctor, to an admitted bit of affectation. The first colonizing ships to land on Firenze, though immediately from the planet Avalon, originally came from the most elite section of Mother Earth—Italy.”

“Wops,” Helen muttered, rocking the doll vigorously.

The maggiore did a double take. ” What?” he said, his voice unbelieving.

Helen tossed Gertrude up high. “Whoops!” she said. “Whoops we go.”

The maggiore, his expression slightly shaken, looked back at the bland faced scientist. “At any rate, a few words of the mother tongue are still retained.”

“I see.” Horsten nodded.

The chauffeur said something over his shoulder and the maggiore announced, “Here we are, the Albergo Palazzo.” He opened his own door before the driver could get around to it, and helped the others from their places. Half a dozen hotel employees darted forward to assist.

On the way to the reception desk, the self-named assistant to the Third Signore was in apology.

“You have no idea, Signore Horsten, how short hotel accommodations are. Firenze—the capital city, you know, has the same name as the planet—is packed. But packed, Doctor. We are desolated, but we have had to reserve for you and Signorina Helen what was formerly a single room, on the ground floor, behind the main dining hall.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage,” the doctor murmured, somewhat taken aback.

“And you, Signore,” Roberto Verona said to Zorro. “This is most regrettable. The room of an assistant janitor, down in the basement, has been requisitioned as an emergency measure.”

Zorro Juarez winced. “Oh, great,” he growled.

Jerry said, “How about me?”

The Florentine rubbed his hand over his mouth. He said, finally, “Well… we’ll have to see, Signore Rhodes.”

Helen looked up at Jerry from the side of her eyes, and snorted amusement. She had her doll under one arm, her hatbox of toys held in her other hand.

At the reception desk, the Horstens and Zorro were taken care of quickly and with the ambiance of another era. The Section G operatives had already noticed, in mild surprise, the presence of bellhops. Evidently the carry-over of Latin temperament had led to various anachronisms so far as hotels were concerned on Firenze.

But then the morning-suited dignitary officiating as reservation clerk looked at Jerry Rhodes. “Yes, sir?” he said.

Maggiore Verona spoke up, an element of despair in his voice. “Ah, the Signore Rhodes is an honored guest from the planet Catalina. If it is at all possible…” He let his sentence sink away, knowing full well the Palazzo was packed to the rafters.

But the clerk broke into a beam. He evidently had misinterpreted the government official’s concern about Jerry. He gushed, “But how fortunate, sir!”

Jerry said, his voice off-hand, “I’d like the largest suite you have available. Something in tune with my standing.”

Helen snickered.

The reception clerk gushed, “By the most fortunate of circumstances, Signore, we have just received a message from the First Signore’s secretary, informing us he will not attend the convention. Hence, his suite will be available.”

“Gurg,” the maggiore said.

“That should do it.” Jerry nodded.

“Oh no,” Helen muttered.

Jerry turned to Dr. Horsten, grinning hospitably. “I say, Doc. It occurs to me…” He turned back to the clerk. “How many rooms in this suite? Bedrooms?”

“Why, Signore, there are six, not including the master bedroom of the First Signore, when he is in residence. Six and six baths, and…”

Jerry turned again and spread his hands. “Fine. Doc, you and little Helen. Move in with me. You won’t bother me at all.” He hesitated slightly, but then turned on his hospitality once again. “You too, Juarez. That janitor’s room of yours wouldn’t be any too comfortable.”

Zorro hesitated, his dark face unhappy. “Well… thanks,” he said. “A janitor’s room isn’t exactly the place I’d like to take business contacts.”

Jerry waved a hand nonchalantly. “Then it’s all settled.” He turned to the maggiore. “See that they send up all the bags, eh, like a good chap.”

The assistant of the Third Signore flinched.

On the way up to the penthouse, where the suite of the First Signore was located, Helen kept her eyes on Jerry accusingly. She said, a nasty element in her voice, “I’m not even going to ask how you ever pulled that off. I know the answer.”

Jerry grinned condescendingly at her.

Helen snorted disgust.

The maggiore had bid them temporary addio, promising to look in to ascertain their needs, after they had become established. So it was that an assistant manager with a host of subservient bellhops saw them to their quarters.

Jerry said airily to that worthy, “See that these lads are suitably recompensed and the item added to my bill. Be generous, of course. I’m notorious for overtipping.”

The hotel official bowed gently, his face expressionless. “I have been informed of otherworld usage, Signore, however, on Firenze, the gratuity is not accepted.”

“You can’t be serious!”

The other flushed. “But I am, Signore.”

“You mean these… boys… aren’t interested in, say, an interplanetary credit, split up between them?”

“That is what I mean.”

Jerry scoffed overbearingly. “Oh, you’re crazy.”

One of the bellhops stepped up to the assistant manager. “If the Signore direttore requires a second…”

Another of the bellhops stepped up.

Dom Horsten hurriedly lumbered forward and took the hotel junior official by an arm. He beamed in all friendliness. “Ah, thank you ever so much. Wonderful hotel, you have here, Signore. Wonderful hospitality.” He was propelling the other toward the door. “How well staffed! How immaculately clean!”

Zorro held the door open.

When the Florentine and his bevy of bellhops were gone, Zorro leaned back against the door and ran a hand over his forehead. “Whew,” he whewed. Then he allowed himself a glare at Jerry.

Jerry said, “When I’m told to play a playboy, I play a playboy.”

Horsten and Helen were both making faces at him. Helen held a tiny finger to her lips, then showed her teeth at him.

Jerry Rhodes blinked.

Helen tossed her hatbox to a chair, turned Gertrude bottoms-up pulled up the doll’s skirt, and twisted something on the toy’s back. Helen then handed the doll to her large partner.

Horsten, in turn, took it about the room, holding it toward the light fixtures, the decorations, the furniture, here, there, everywhere, and when one room was done, the next.

The other three followed him, the why-of-it-all becoming obvious even to Jerry Rhodes.

At long last the scientist halted, his face puzzled. “No signs of the place being bugged whatsoever,” he rumbled.

Helen, frowning, deactivated the doll, then snapped her fingers. “You know what?”

They all looked at her.

“It’s the suite used by the First Signore, when he’s in town. Don’t you see? The last place on Firenze that would be bugged.” She snorted. “What luck.” Then she glared at Jerry. “I take that word back.”

Jerry chortled. “Why?” he said. “Here we all are, in the most comfortable quarters in the city. All together, which makes our work that much the easier. And with the perfect excuse for being all together. Where’s the bar? There must be a bar in a layout like this. I wonder what kind of guzzle they have on Firenze.”

“I noticed one in the main living room,” Zorro said. He led the way.

No one was opposed to settling down in a comfort chair or couch. Jerry played host, taking their orders and making up their drinks. As was to be expected, the bar, though not large, was supplied with the most exquisite potables to be found on all the most hedonistically inclined worlds of United Planets.

“This is the life!” Jerry announced, his glass up in a gesture of toast.

Horsten was looking at Helen who had chosen a chair so large that her chubby little legs failed to reach the edge of the seat. She was sitting there with a monstrously big champagne glass and gulping it with considerable satisfaction.

The outsized scientist shook his head. “I’ll never get used to it,” he said.

Helen finished off about half her drink and then turned to Jerry, her eyes fishy. “Well,” she snarled. “What was the stupid idea of dropping that Section G badge right in front of those damned customs men? You trying to get us all shot?”

Jerry was taken aback. His mouth took on an expression that was just short of a pout “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said plaintively.

“I thought we’d agreed to leave everything that might possibly connect us with the Department of Interplanetary Justice back at the Octagon. Suppose they’d searched us.”

Jerry looked like an adolescent who’d just been scolded. “Aw,” he said. I’m pretty proud of being a Section G agent. I wanted to carry my badge.”

Helen rolled her eyes upward.

Jerry said brightly, “Wasn’t it just my luck that earthquake came along? And the customs man, Rudolf, forgetting that the badge dropped out of my jerkin?”

“Earthquake!” Horsten muttered. “I damn near broke my back, shaking that room.”

“Forgot!” Helen snarled. “You think it was a cinch, my scratching that Florentine with a memory-wash hypo? He’s had three hours cleaned out of his memory. Just keep your fingers crossed some suspicious medico doesn’t give him a thorough checking out. That Maggiore Verona can’t be as foolish as he looks. If he knew somebody’d gone to the trouble of memory-washing friend Rudolf, he’d want to know why. And they’d go through our luggage like mineral oil.”

Horsten winced at her language.

Zorro worked away at his drink and said thoughtfully, “I wonder what would happen if we just came right out and let this Roberto Verona know why we were really here. After all, we’re on his side. We’re present to help get rid of these Engelists that are evidently bedeviling the planet to the point where nothing can be accomplished.”

Dom Horsten said, “How do you know he’s not an Engelist himself?”

Zorro looked at him.

The doctor said impatiently, “Holy Ultimate, man, it’s not unprecedented, you know. Evidently, Firenze’s underground has infiltrated everywhere. Who is to say they aren’t even represented among the First Signore’s cabinet, the Second Signore, right on down to the Tenth? For all we know, any or all of them might be Engelists, not to speak of their staffs, such as this Maggiore Verona.”

Helen said, “It’s no mistake that former Section G operatives have pulled a zero here. This underground is efficient. And you know at what point an underground really gets efficient?”

“When?” Jerry said.

“Just before it takes over,” Helen said. “This assignment of ours is going to be accomplished but fast, or we’ll wind up with chaos on this planet.”

Horsten said unhappily, “Just about anything can happen when a revolution breaks out. The whole planet could be devastated, set back a century or more, so far as progress is concerned.”

Zorro finished his drink and chuckled. “I just thought of a wonderful idea for Section G to wrangle its way on just about every planet in the U.P. confederation.” He got up from his chair and went to the bar for a refill.

They looked after him, waiting.

He gestured with his glass. “We latch onto one of those matter converters the Dawnworlders have. And we take it to any planet where they still utilize money. Suppose platinum is the means of exchange. Fine, we take one ingot along and duplicate it, over and over again. With it, we bribe every official on the planet, from king, president, holy theocrat, or whatever, down to dog catcher, into the form of socioeconomic system we want.”

The other three laughed dutifully.

“Sounds great,” Jerry said.

Zorro said, “Just where are these Dawnworlds located, anyway? I was kidding, but you know, it’s an idea. If Section G had one of those things at its disposal, what a secret weapon it would be.”

“Forget about it,” Helen muttered. “In that direction is disaster—for the whole race.”

Horsten said, “Where the Dawnworlds are is a top secret, even in Section G. Somewhere beyond the planet Phrygia, of course, but that’s almost meaningless, so far as directions are concerned. Phrygia is—or was—the farthest in toward the center of the galaxy that man has thus far settled. But with no more navigating direction than that, you could seek the Dawnworlds forever.”

Zorro grunted, only half interested. “Well, somebody must know where they are. After all, a spaceforces ship or so has been out there. What was his name, who handled it?”

“Ronny Bronston,” Helen supplied. “Bronston and Agent Birdman.”

“Where’s Birdman and Bronston now?”

“Birdman’s dead, and Ronny’s in the hospital,” Helen said sourly. “I understand he used to be an easy-going, nice boy type. Now he’s Sid Jake’s favorite triggerman, one of the best. Don’t let that exterior of Sid Jakes fool you. You have to watch these dedicated people. They’ll wind up getting you clobbered. There was a guy named Joshua who came from an obscure town called Nazareth. Very dedicated. He had eleven particularly keen followers, but history doesn’t record that any of them did so well.”

“Very funny,” the dark complected agent said.

Horsten finished his drink and set his glass down on a cocktail table. “So much for jabber,” he said. “Let’s get down to our program of action. What’s first on the agenda?”

“We’ve got to locate this subversive underground,” Jerry said. “And with my luck…”

“Bounce it.” Helen sneered.

The door hummed and they looked up, frowning.

Zorro said, “I wouldn’t think Verona would be bothering us this soon.

Horsten lumbered to his feet and walked in the direction of the entry. Helen skipped along beside him, holding a hand. It made a charming scene.

The door was old-fashioned and without visor, in keeping with the decor of the Albergo Palazzo . Horsten opened it and looked out, politely inquisitive.

Two stood there. It took a moment for Helen and her supposed father to recognize them. They had changed from their uniforms into very formal looking clothing. They were two of Chief Customs Inspector Grossi’s men.

Horsten frowned. “Yes?”

They bowed formally. “The Signore Juarez is without doubt here?”

Helen stuck a thumb in her mouth. “You mean my boyfriend Zorro?” she said around it.

“That will be all, dear,” Horsten said. Then to the newcomers, “Why, yes. Citizen Juarez is here.”

The other one spoke, his voice as formal as his partner’s. “We call on a matter of honor,” he announced. “Undoubtedly, the Signore Juarez will have someone to act for him.”