Code Duello

Chapter Five

Dr. Dorn Horsten looked at the newcomers. “Matter of honor?” he repeated.

The committee bowed with fine formality.

He who had spoken first said, “The inspector is desolated, Signore. He realized, only after the departure of Signore Juarez that he had practically given the He to the Signore’s claim to gentle blood upon the planet of his origin, the status of, uh, Gentleman Gaucho.”

Helen caught on first “You mean,” she said, “that silly inspector wants to doodle my Zorro?”

The two stood stiffly, looking straight ahead.

Horsten muttered, “Zen!”

The second customs man said, “Perhaps the Code Duello differs somewhat on Vacamundo. Suffice to say that our custom has it that choice of weapons, place and time of meeting is to be set by the Signore challenged and to be arranged by the respective seconds of the Signori involved.”

The algae specialist said hurriedly. “Now, see here. Perhaps this can all be settled without further difficulty.”

The two eyed him coldly.

Helen said, “Why don’t you go home?”

The first said, “Perhaps the Signore Juarez should, at this point, name the seconds he wishes to represent him.”

Horsten thought about it quickly. “Look,” he said. “Wait here a minute.” He turned and strode back to the living room.

“What’s up?” Jerry said from where he slouched in a comfort chair.

Horsten looked at Zorro. “The inspector has been thinking it over. He’s decided he insulted you, by impugning your status as a Gentleman Gaucho, or whatever you are when you carry one of those hide-away whips.”

Zorro looked at him. “My tranca? They’re nothing. Everybody carries one. I made it up as I went along.”

“Great. Well, now you’re stuck with the story.”

Zorro grunted irritation. “Then just tell him I accept his apology.”

“He isn’t apologizing, exactly. He’s sent two of his men as seconds. Evidently, he figures that not to offer you a chance to clobber him is a reflection on the Firenze code of honor.”

Zorro was flabbergasted. “What do we do now?”

Jerry said, “Refuse him, and you lose face, or image, or whatever it is you lose when you back down before a challenge.”

Horsten said, “You’re supposed to be a rough and tough cattleman, here to do business. Your cover will be under suspicion if you try to wiggle out, particularly after that haughty Gentleman Gaucho show you put on.”

Zorro said disgustedly, “What do they want right now?”

“For you to name two seconds, to get together with them and arrange for the duel.”

“All right, so you’re my seconds. Go make a date to confer with them and we’ll figure out what to do later.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“What else can we do, damn it?”

Jerry got to his feet. “There ought to be some pun I could make on the fact that I’ve never been a second before, always first.”

“Very funny,” Zorro growled.

Horsten and Jerry Rhodes went back to the entry.

Helen was standing there, hands on hips, eyeing the two customs men dangerously. “I’m not going to let that silly inspector hurt my Uncle Zorro,” she was telling them.

Their faces were pained, but they did their best to maintain dignity.

Horsten said, “Helen, do be quiet This is adult business.”

“Hal” Helen snorted.

He said to the two, “Citizen Rhodes and I have been named seconds for Citizen Juarez. I suggest we meet tonight in the hotel bar. I assume there is a hotel bar?”

There was a hotel bar.

“At say, ten o’clock?”

Ten o’clock that night in the hotel bar was acceptable.

They bowed.

Dr. Horsten bowed.

Jerry Rhodes bowed.

Helen stuck out her tongue.

When the seconds of Chief Customs Inspector Grossi had gone, Horsten said, after a long thoughtful moment, “I hope this is what it looks to be on the surface,” he said.

“How’s that?” Jerry asked him.

“Is it simply the sort of nonsense that would prevail under any society that allowed an anachronism such as dueling? Or, is Zorro being deliberately eliminated by someone—perhaps the Engelists? Remember Bulchand?”

“Bulchand?” Helen said.

“The Section G agent formerly stationed here. He was challenged and killed.”

Jerry said, in unwonted seriousness, “You’re right. A customs inspector would be in a good position to eliminate an undesirable. He’s one of the first to see a newcomer to Firenze. And with an off-beat planet like this, how many newcomers are there that wouldn’t pull what amounted to some sort of local boner right off the bat? Enough of a boner so that he could be challenged.”

Horsten said, “You think it’s a put-up job?”

“It was your idea, and it could be.”

Helen said, “Let’s get back to Zorro. Mentioning Bulchand brings up the matter of our getting underway.”

They went back to the living room where Zorro was discovered mixing himself another drink.

“Everything settled?” he asked.

“We meet them in the bar at ten,” Jerry said. Then to Helen, “What do you mean, getting underway?”

Helen resumed her seat, crossed her plump legs and went businesslike. “Our only contact here, since Bulchand is dead, is the office of Section G in the U.P. Embassy, whoever’s holding it down. So, let’s get around to a visit.”

Horsten said, “You think it’s a put-up job?” report there and register as U.P. citizens from over-space, due to upset conditions prevailing on Firenze.”

“What upset conditions?” Helen said.

“The unsettled political situation occasioned by the underground,” Horsten said reasonably.

“That makes sense,” Zorro said. “If anybody’s got any tails following us, we’ve got a perfect alibi for going to the U.P. offices. I’ll phone down to the desk and find out where the embassy is.” He put his glass on the bar and went out to the entry hall where there was a phone screen.

Helen tossed back the rest of her drink, with a practiced stiff-wristed motion that made Dorn Horsten grimace. “I wish there was some way you could wear adult clothing when we were alone,” he complained. “Perhaps you’d look like a midget, but at least…”

“Knock it, you overgrown lummox. It’d look fine, wouldn’t it, if I had a lot of adult clothing tucked away in my luggage for the first snoop to find?”

“Well, at least look as though you’re sipping lemonade or something. You give me an ulcer tossing down that hard stuff as though you were practicing for your Interplanetary Alcoholics Anonymous lack-of-merit badge.”

Helen snorted contempt of his opinion.

Zorro came back, his face even darker than nature had tinted it.

“What’s the matter?” Jerry said, yawning. ” I say, let’s call off everything and go out on the town. Stretch our legs after that Half Moon kettle.”

“We might as well,” Zorro said. “If the U.P. Embassy was our one contact, then we’re contactless.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Helen said.

“The representatives of U.P. on the member planet Firenze have just been sent a-packing,” Zorro told her.

“Why?” Jerry and Horsten blurted in unison. “For being, and I quote, a hotbed of subversive activity.”

The other three stared at him.

Zorro said, “Whoever it was I was talking to, at the desk, was on the suspicious side that I should even ask about the U.P. Embassy.”

Horsten said, “How long’s this applied?”

“Evidently, it just happened today. If I got the right impression, the local police caught some of the personnel messing around in internal politics and the whole kit and kaboodle were kicked off the planet.”

Helen said, “I told you. These subversives have infiltrated everywhere. They’ve got to the point where they’re about to make their grand play. This planet is going to explode any time. It’ll be a madhouse.”

“And if it does,” Horsten muttered, “our assignment has failed. And Firenze will be one planet that can be written off for a few years at least, so far as a plus sign is concerned on the balance sheet of the human race’s potential.”

“It’s not necessarily that bad,” Jerry said. “Maybe a new government would be better than this present one. The First Signore and his administration seem to spend all their time worrying about the bad guys.”

Helen said, contemptuous of that opinion, “That’s not the way the Octagon sees it. This planet believes in a liberal progressive policy. It’s its tradition, its desire. These damned Engelists are trying to upset the applecart and take over.”

Horsten looked at her. “How do you know?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she demanded. “They’re trying to undermine a politico-economic system that’s trying to be progressive. The only thing that’s fouling up Firenze is this underground.”

Zorro Juarez had wandered off to a window and was. staring out glumly. “You’d think we were in one of those penitentiaries they have in the historical Tri-Di shows,” he growled.

Horsten looked over at him. “How do you mean?”

Zorro motioned. “Look at these iron bars at the windows. Strong enough for an elephant’s cage. They sure don’t want anybody getting in at this First Signore of theirs.”

The scientist came over. “Hmm,” he hmmed. He looked down. The Albergo Palazzo was some ten stories high. “Huh,” he grunted.

“Oh, oh,” Helen said.

Zorro looked at Helen, and then at Dorn Horsten. “What’s the matter?”

Horsten said, “See here, how long is that bullwhip of yours?”

“A little over twenty feet. Why?”

The algae specialist peered down some more. “Because somebody’s got to go over to the U.P. Embassy and get into the Section G files on Firenze and the Engelists. I never met Bulchand, but I’ve heard about him. He was a good man. He must have made some progress.”

Jerry Rhodes said, “I seem to be missing something. What goes on?”

Helen was far ahead of him. “Possibly the Engelists are keeping an eye on us. For all we know, they’re aware of the fact that we’re from Section G. If they’ve infiltrated the local United Planets Embassy, they might even have agents back on Earth, right in the Octagon.” She looked at Dorn Horsten. “Which brings up a matter we can dwell on later. How do we know this subversive underground applies only here on Firenze?”

Jerry said plaintively, “You’re getting more complicated by the minute. What are you two talking about?”

Helen said, “One of us, at least, has got to get over to that U.P. Embassy and get Bulchand’s files. But we’ve got to do it in such a way that we’re not suspected, by either the Engelists, on the off chance they’re watching us, or by Maggiore Verona and his Anti-Subversion department.”

Zorro said, “Why do we have to worry about the maggiore?”

Horsten said, “Isn’t it obvious? These people see an Engelist behind every tree. If-friend Verona suspects us of hanky-panky the least he’d do would be to expel us from Firenze.”

Helen said, “So what it sums up to is that somebody’s got to leave this hotel without being spotted, get to the U.P. Embassy without being spotted, search the Section G office, and get back here—without being spotted.”

“Makes sense,” Jerry wailed. “We don’t even know where the U.P. Embassy is. And so far as getting out of this hotel without being spotted is concerned, the only way out is the elevator and through the front lobby. This damn hotel was obviously designed so that the guests were as conspicuous as a walrus in a goldfish bowl.”

Horsten had turned back to the iron barred windows. Thoughtfully, he reached out, grasped two of the bars and flexed his arms. The bars bent, bow-shaped, until there was sufficient room between them for…

“Oh no,” Jerry complained. “I’m lucky, maybe, but not that lucky.”

Zorro said suspiciously, “Why’d you want to know how far my bullwhip’d reach?”

Helen chuckled and went over to her hatbox of toys. She began to stir around in it. “Where’s my brass knucks?” she muttered.

Dorn Horsten said to Jerry Rhodes, “You go down to the lobby-and get a map of this town from the concierge. They must have some facilities for tourists. You might prattle with him for awhile on a sightseeing tour of the city. At any rate, locate some sort of map of Firenze. The only requirement is that it shows where the U.P. building is located.”

Zorro said, “Hold on a minute. You and Helen seem to have some sort of telepathic rapport, but I’d like to know what’s developing.”

Helen had come to her feet and was deftly twisting one of her toys about. Part of it fell away, and she tossed that portion back into the hatbox, humming, “Two little girls in blue, tra la .” She fitted the remaining part to the knuckles of her right hand and tested the device by banging it into the palm of her left hand with an air of fine competence. She looked at the Vacamundo cattleman.

“Smarten up, lover. Dorn and Jerry are due to go down to the bar at ten o’clock to arrange for you being skewered by the inspector. They’ll distract any attention that might be focused on our party. Any tails, either Engelist or government, will stick to them. We’ll be left up here. Me to go to bed with my dolly, you to be sitting around in a tizzy, wondering about your duel.”

“I don’t think I tike this,” Zorro began.

“What in the name of the Holy Ultimate is that?” Zorro growled at his pint-sized companion.

“A slingshot,” Helen said. She stuck her pink tongue out the right side of her mouth, closed one eye and drew a bead. She let loose and something went ping and the light immediately below them went out.

“Suppose somebody comes to repair that?”

“By then, we’ll be gone. Come on, lover.”

Muttering, Zorro Juarez twisted the tip of his whip about the leg of a stone gargoyle, which overlooked the ledge upon which they stood, and gave it a double tug. Helen grabbed him by the belt, gave herself a swing, and landed up on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said.

She ignored him.

He gave the leather thong another tug and then swung himself over the side and began the way down, hand over hand, his feet braced against the wall.

“How the devil did Horsten know I’d done any mountain climbing?” he growled, as though not expecting an answer.

Helen was hanging onto his neck. She said sweetly, “Oh, the doctor is less absentminded than he projects, and not nearly so nice. Neither am I, for that matter.”

He grunted at that.

“We both went over your dossier very thoroughly before we started on this assignment.” She giggled. ” We know why you had to leave Vacamundo. Aren’t you ashamed?”

Even as they descended, his body stiffened. “What!”

They had reached the next terrace level. The last couple of feet, Zorro Juarez had to drop.

“Sh,” Helen said. She looked at him from the side of her eyes. “That was a shot in the dark,” she murmured. “Kind of a gag. Why did you have to leave Vacamundo?”

Zorro snorted, even as he flicked his whip in such wise that the. tip, up above, disengaged itself from the gargoyle’s leg. “None of your business,” he growled. “Besides, I didn’t have to leave.”

“Ha,” Helen sneered.

He peered over the balustrade of the terrace. “From now on down, it’s straight wall,” he said.

“Only three floors. A cinch.”

“A cinch! And how in hell do we get back up, even if we ever get down without breaking our fool necks?”

She was looking down as well. “No problem. We lower ourselves to the next window. We hang on there until you can attach that fancy whip of yours to the bars. Then down to the next window. Only three floors.” She looked at him mockingly. “Not afraid, are you, big boy?”

He shot a dark look at her, and began to arrange the whip they were using as a rope, once again. “How I ever got myself talked into taking this job…” he muttered.

This time, she swung up onto his back and held her chubby arms and legs around neck and waist. “Let’s get going,” she said. “Dom and Jerry will stretch it out, but we should be back by the time they’ve finished arranging for your demise at the hands of the inspector. Everything will look very authentic if we’re there to welcome them at the door when they return, or at least if you are. Properly, eight-year-old Helen would be in bed.”

He stared down the next twenty feet of wall. “If somebody sees us at one of these windows,” he growled, “they’ll figure we’re vampires trying to get in.”

At the ground floor, they were in an alley behind the Albergo Palazzo. They stood for a moment, after Zorro had disengaged his whip, gathering themselves.

He looked up from whence they had come and shuddered.

Helen said cheerfully, “What an alibi. There’s not a judge in the Confederation who could be talked into believing that anybody’d gotten out of the hotel that way.”

A voice rumbled, “Who’s there! Stand quietly! I’ve been watching. You’re covered with a scrambler. Don’t move!”

Zorro muttered a curse of despair.

Helen squealed, “Save me! Save me! I’m being kidnapped!” and with her arms spread wide, scooted in the direction of the voice, in the shadows of the narrow way.

She was within a few feet of the unknown before she made out his figure.

“Look out!” the other yelped, even as she flung herself into his arms. He was uniformed, brawny, and right now, completely dismayed. He tried to extricate his gun hand from the crying, obviously terrified child.

“Let go!” he demanded desperately.

“I want my daddy!” she shrilled. “I’m being kidnapped!”

The officer tried to get his gun hand again.

A thong reached out and plucked the weapon, all but gently, from his hand. There was a sigh of leather again hissing through the air.

“Save me, save me!” Helen was squealing.

But now there was no answer, the other’s breath being cut off very effectively indeed by the thong around his neck. He could feel the black ebbing in, and his last thoughts were of absolute disbelief.

Helen and Zorro stood above him, moments later, staring down in consideration.

Zorro muttered, “I’d better finish him.”

Helen looked up, startled. “What!”

He glared at her. “Well, what else? You want to leave him here? He’ll walk in a few minutes. He’s only passed out from lack of oxygen.”

“You can’t kill him!”

He looked at her, half belligerently, half in surprise. “Why not? He’s expendable, isn’t he? If there was anything Sid Jakes and Lee Chang Chu drilled into us, it was how big the issues are. How many Section G operatives cash in each year?”

“You’ve got your values a little twisted, lover,” Helen told him. “This Section G operative, at least, doesn’t slit the throat of the first half-baked cop that gets in her way, just to keep the trail neat. Among other things, he’s on our side, he’s no Engelist. Besides, we’ve got other resources.”

She unsnapped a pin from her bib-like apron, twisted the end neatly and, with the point, scratched the back of the hand of the fallen man. He was already beginning to groan, his air coming back to him.

“Lucky I brought along this memory-wash hypo,” she muttered. “We’re really using it.”

Zorro stared down at the fallen guard. “And what happens when his relief, or his superior, or whoever, finds him with three hours of memory gone?”

Helen shrugged, replacing the disguised hypodermic needle. “Who knows?” she said. “Possibly we’ll come to that bridge.”

“Probably, you mean,” he said sourly. “Let’s get out of here.”

They had memorized the map which Jerry Rhodes had gotten at the hotel desk. It had been one of those as near foolproof as possible, charts of a city which are handed out to travelers of any age, in any nation, on any planet where the genus tourist may be anticipated. And the U.P. building had, happily, been located but a few blocks from the city’s most deluxe hotel, the Albergo Palazzo. All of which wasn’t too surprising, both edifices being located in the most swank area of the city.

There were at least fifteen men stationed outside the former headquarters of the United Planets. Some ten of them were in uniform, at least six carrying muffle rifles; the other four, evidently officers, were armed with hand-weapons in quick-draw holsters. The rest of the Florentines were plainclothesmen.

Zorro and Helen passed on the opposite side of the street, she holding his hand and skipping along. Zorro hissed, “How in the name of Holy Jumping Zen are we supposed to get past that army?”

“Three little girls in blue, tra la.”

“Shut up,” he growled.

When they were well past the building in question, they stopped in a shadow and looked back. “Out of the question,” he said.

“You know,” Helen said slowly. “The way they look, I get the feeling the building hasn’t been searched yet. They must have gone through all the gobbledygook of ordering the U.P. personnel off the planet, and such, late enough in the day that they’ve postponed until tomorrow getting into the archives.”

“Maybe, but so what? A mouse couldn’t get through that guard.”

“We’re not mice,” Helen muttered. “Haven’t you noticed? Both sides and the back are surrounded by park. Very formal, very natty, very swank. The United Planets have an impressive building as an Embassy.”

He was contemptuous. “You think there wouldn’t be an equivalent guard at the back door?”

“I don’t believe in doors,” Helen told him. “Come on, let’s check out that park. There’ll probably be lovers in there, and an occasional drunk sprawled on a bench. A man taking his daughter for a walk won’t look offbeat.”

Zorro said nothing. He grabbed up her hand and started for the parkgrounds, grumbling under his breath.

“Easy lover, easy,” Helen said in her childish treble. “Us eight-year-olds aren’t up to your pace.”

They circled the building without being intercepted. They spotted at least two or three plainclothesmen wandering the park paths, but none looked at the pair twice. There were also half a dozen armed men at the rear entry.

“Well,” Zorro said, complete with sarcasm. “Satisfied?”

“Sure,” she said. “Did you notice that open window on the second floor, back in that nice shady corner?”

“No.”

“Well, come on.”

They found the corner in question and stationed themselves beneath the shelter of a tree.

Zorro looked up and shook his head in negation. “I couldn’t get through there, even if we could get up.”

“Nobody asked you to,” Helen said tartly. “Can yon latch onto something up there, with that whip of yours?”

He looked down at her. “I can try. What do you have in mind?” He looked around, unbuttoned his jerkin and unwound his whip from about his waist.

“Going in, of course.”

He flicked the whip and the end reached up, sought, fell back again. She stood there, hands on hips, impatiently—for all the world, a precocious eight-year-old.

“Alone?” he said, unbelievingly. The thong reached up again, fell back.

She snorted; not bothering to answer.

He tried for a full five minutes. “No go,” he said finally, an element of relief in his voice. “There’s nothing to hook onto.”

“All right,” she said. “Can you toss me up?”

He stared at her. “What?”

She said impatiently, “You’ve seen me work out with Dorn in the gym. I said, can you toss me up?”

He turned his stare to the small window in question. “I could try, but suppose I missed and you fell?”

Then catch me, you zany!”

He reached down doubtfully, to take her by the waist.

“Not that way, stupid. Here.” She showed him how to grasp her.

A moment later, she was hanging onto the window ledge. Without looking back, she gracefully pulled herself up and disappeared within. Zorro stared for a moment, muttered something, then sank back further into ;the shadow of the tree.

He agonized there for a full fifteen minutes. By that time, he was nervously shooting glances up and down the park walk. It was becoming obvious to him that something had happened to her. What? What could he do? He swore impotently under his breath. And if a guard came along, what could he do? It was one thing, strolling along through the park with a child by the hand. It was another, sulking beneath this tree.

He heard a hiss and looked up.

“Catch me!” she called, and, without further ado, launched herself into space.

He got his arms up, just in time. She landed in them lightly; more lightly than even the cubic content of her tiny body seemed to call for.

“What happened?” he growled. “Where in the hell were you so long? I thought you were simply getting the layout, trying to figure out some way of getting in.”

“I was in,” she said, disengaging herself from him and straightening her short skirt, in a prissy, childlike gesture. “I had to locate the Section G offices.”

“How did you possibly do that, in a building that size?”

“Oh, I found a nightguard.”

He stared down at her, even as he grabbed one of her hands and began hustling her toward the nearest walk. Just as he was about to blurt another query, two figures loomed before them. One of the newcomers had his hand on his holstered handweapon.

“What were you doing back in those shadows!” one demanded.

Helen looked up demurely. “I had to do wee wee,” she said. She continued on, not looking back, hauling Zorro by the hand. He thanked whatever gods might be around that he had rewrapped the whip about his waist.

They could hear the Florentines continuing on their way. Zorro breathed deeply.

He said, finally, “What’d you mean, you found a guard? What’d he do to you? How’d you get away?”

“Oh, I didn’t get away. But he tried to,” she said with an air of deprecation. She cleared her throat slightly. “I had to, uh, coax him a little, but he told me where the Section G office was.”

Zorro Juarez rolled his eyes upward in agony. They’ll be on us like a ton of beef! Verona’s security cops will…”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You think that bully-boy, when he regains consciousness…”

“Consciousness,” he repeated weakly.

“… is going to repeat a story like that to his superior officer? That a child came up and tortured him into giving some answers?”

“I give up,” he said. “Don’t tell me any more. No wait. What did you find in Bulchand’s files, in the Section G office?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing!”

“Nothing at all. The files had been ransacked.”

Chapter Six

“Ransacked?” Dorn Horsten said. “You mean, Maggiore Verona’s anti-subversive men had already been there?”

They were back in the penthouse suite of the Albergo Palazzo, the three men standing around Helen, an enormous highball glass in her right hand.

“Ransacked,” she repeated. “And by the looks of the place, not necessarily by the authorities. It had a look of too much confusion. Whoever went through that office was in a hurry.”

“You found nothing at all?” Jerry Rhodes said. “Golly, that’s awful luck.”

“Yeah,” she snarled. “It’s too bad you weren’t there.”

“Um,” he said absently.

“You would have found the minutes of the last meeting of the executive committee of the Engelists, or something.”

“Possibly not that,” he admitted, the sarcasm passing him by.

“I oughta slug you,” she snarled.

“Easy, easy,” Horsten muttered. “That leaves us absolutely nowhere, and with nowhere to go. Obviously…”

“Obviously, somebody else got to the Section G files first, and now we’re completely on our own,” Zorro growled. “Well, I’m off to bed. Can any of you imagine what’s involved in climbing up this hotel wall? All the way to the penthouse, floor by floor, half the time hooking onto something above with my whip, half the time heaving this little brat up ahead to attach the whip. I’ll tell you…”

“Knock it,” Helen said. “It was fun.”

He rolled his eyes upward and left for his room.

“That reminds me,” Horsten said. He went over to the window the two had used for exit and reentry and bent the heavy iron bars back into their original position.

Jerry shook his head. “I wish I could do that,” he marveled.

Helen said, “Why don’t you just bet somebody a stick of gum that you could? Then this fabulous luck of yours would come to the rescue, and you’d do it.”

He looked at her. “You’re beginning to get the idea.”

Helen snorted.

Zorro stuck his head back through the door of his bedroom and called to Horsten, “By the way, how did you manage to squash that duel thing?”

“We didn’t.”

“What!”

“You’re scheduled for the day after tomorrow—we couldn’t postpone it any longer—in the Parco Duello, at dawn.”

“Oh, fine. A great couple of seconds, you two are. Why didn’t you apologize?”

“How could we apologize?” Jerry said reasonably. “You hadn’t done anything.”

Horsten said, “We’ve got two days to figure something out. We’ll check with Maggiore Verona. There’s undoubtedly some manner in which to duck out of a duel.”

“Do you mind telling me what kind of weapon you decided to let me get killed with?”

Horsten said, “Well, we should have checked with you on that. We didn’t know what you were handy with—besides a bullwhip.”

“So…?

“So we chose swords.”

“Wonderful! I’ve never had a sword in my hand in my life.” Zorro slammed the door behind him.

They had a glum breakfast together.

Zorro, in a foul humor, complained, “Why’d they send us off from the Octagon with no more to work on than this? We should have been given some sort of lead, some sort of takeoff point.”

Helen said, “For one thing, Ross Metaxa doesn’t want us to succeed.”

Dorn Horsten looked at her, between bites of toast, his eyebrows high.

Helen said, “The Special Talents group is a pet of Lee Chang’s but Metaxa doesn’t like it. It louses up the atmosphere of dignity he’d like to associate with his beloved Section G.”

Jerry Rhodes said, “He’s the boss. Why not just eliminate us special talents agents?”

“Because Lee Chang’s one of his favorite supervisors and one of his best. He can’t just slap her down. Besides, Sid Jakes more or less backs her project.”

Horsten said, “Then you think if we flunk this assignment, Lee Chang’s whole idea will go by the board?”

Helen sipped her pseudo-coffee. “Of course. That was the arrangement.”

Zorro growled, “You wonder what side Ross Metaxa is on. But what gets me is we’re evidently expendable. It’s all fine for him, sitting there in the Octagon waiting for us to blow this job and get ourselves killed off in duels so he can prove a point to Lee Chang and Jakes. So to accomplish it, we get insufficient material with which to work.”

Horsten said uncomfortably, “We don’t know that’s true. The situation is unique. Bulchand was the sole Section G agent, and he was killed and his files taken. Ross Metaxa had nothing to do with all that. Don’t be bitter, Zorro.”

Helen smeared jam on her toast to a thickness that made her supposed father wince. “I hate a bitter man,” she said.

Jerry Rhodes said, “I bitter woman, once.”

Zorro, his mouth tightly shut, came to his feet and threw his napkin to the table. He glared around at them, then turned and left the room abruptly.

Jerry said to his remaining two companions, “Sorry. I guess I’m not as funny as I think I am.”

The scientist pushed his pince-nez back to a more comfortable spot on his nose and said, “He’s got that confounded duel on his mind. He doesn’t want to kill that inspector—he has no reason to—and, on the other hand, doesn’t want to get killed himself.”

Helen shrugged tiny shoulders. “Maybe. However, I’m beginning to get the impression that friend Zorro figures everybody is expendable but Zorro.”

Horsten looked at her. “You two have a run-in?”

“Not particularly. He’s just a bit on the cold-blooded side for little Helen.”

Dorn Horsten said, “Remember, he’s part of the team. His being around might mean the difference between your neck and its wringing, someday.” He looked at his watch and switched subjects. “We’re going to have to get some lead on this underground outfit. The desk phoned a little while ago and I have an appointment to meet Academician Udine from the university. He’s not a complete stranger; we met during my past brief visit here. It comes to mind that he will undoubtedly feel more at ease with me, than with a fellow citizen of Firenze. Perhaps I can draw him out.”

“On the Engelists, eh?” Helen said.

“Uh huh. If there’s this much underground activity on Firenze, then the universities should be hotbeds of subversion. It’s when man is young and idealistic that he rebels against the status quo.”

Jerry said, “If rebellion is called for or not?”

Helen finished off her pseudo-coffee. “Jerry, my lad, rebellion against the status quo is almost always called for. A culture shouldn’t be allowed to become static. Wasn’t it that old-timer Thomas Jefferson who thought they ought to have a new revolution about every twenty years?”

Jerry grunted. “Then why’re we here on Firenze trying to foul up these Engelists?”

Dom Horsten came to his feet. “Because they’re a little too previous. It’s not as though the present government is in decadence. It’s never been allowed to get underway. They want to be progressive, but this confounded underground won’t let them get started.”

He looked at his wrist chronometer again. “At any rate, I’ll see if I can get a line on the Engelists through my colleague Udine.”

“How about me?” Helen said.

He scowled at her. “I can’t take you along. He wouldn’t open up in front of a child. He’d think you couldn’t be trusted not to repeat something.”

Jerry said, “Helen and I can go out on the town and find what we can find. Possibly, we’ll be lucky and stumble on something. Suppose we meet back here for lunch.”

“What’s happened to Zorro?”

“Who knows?” Helen said. “I heard the door open and close a few minutes ago.”

“For lunch it is, then,” the massive scientist said, leaving them.

When he was gone, Jerry and Helen sat alone. Helen looked at him unblinkingly for a long moment.

Finally he began to get apprehensive. “You’re going to come up with something,” he accused.

She said, “I’ll bet you a hundred interplanetary credits.”

“On what?”

“What do you care? You said you always win a bet?”

“All right, all right. I always win a bet, but one of the reasons I do is that I don’t push it beyond reason. I wouldn’t bet, for instance, that I could be in two places at once.”

“Trying to crab out, eh?”

“What’s the bet?”

Helen said slowly, “I’ll bet you one hundred credits that Zorro gets killed in that duel.”

He said finally, “All right. I’ll bet you a hundred he doesn’t.”

At the desk, in the lobby of the Albergo Palazzo, Jerry Rhodes, the look of a martyr on his face, stopped long enough to say to the concierge, “Look, for this morning I’m saddled with a babysitting routine, understand? But I’d appreciate it if you’d make arrangements for me tonight. A limousine, some suggestions for nightspots. You know, where the action…”

“Nightspots?” the concierge said.

Jerry, who had Helen firmly by the hand as he talked, said, aggrieved, “Nightspots, nightspots, whatever you call them on Firenze. Cabaret, cafe dansant, music hall, nightclub.” As the other’s face remained blank, his voice went pleading. “… saloon, gin mill, pub, bistro, beer hall…” The other’s face was still blank. “… speakeasy! blind tiger!”

The clerk held up a hand to stem the tide. “I know what you mean. But the curfew.”

It was Jerry’s turn to be blank. “Curfew?”

“Let’s go, Uncle Jerry,” Helen whined, pulling at his hand. She had her doll under her left arm.

The concierge said, “At ten o’clock, all public establishments must be closed. At eleven o’clock, all citizens must be off the streets.”

Jerry said, ” Why?”

The clerk’s face and voice turned cool. “Signore, are you criticizing the measures taken by the First Signore and his Council of Signori?”

“No. Why?”

The concierge looked left and right, as though in subconscious check. He leaned a bit over the desk, and his tone was lower. “It seems that the Fifth Signore recommended to the First Signore, that the nightspots, as you call them, be temporarily closed. Evidently, they were being used as drops by the underground.”

Jerry groaned. “How long ago did that happen?” he said.

Helen whined, “Uncle Jerry, let’s go. You promised me and Gertrude a ice cream.”

The concierge said, “Why, actually, before my time. The curfew has been in effect for years.”

“Swell!” Jerry muttered. He gave Helen’s arm a tug as he started for the door, still muttering.

Out on the street, he said, in disgust, “No nightclubs, and me with an unlimited expense account and with the job of projecting myself as a playboy.”

Helen said sweetly, “You seem to have terrible luck, Uncle Jerry, old boy, old lad. Maybe that coin is beginning to flip tails.”

He snorted contempt of that opinion.

“Where’re we going?” he said.

“How would I know? To case this town.” They were walking down the avenue, obviously one of the city’s best, and heading toward the main shopping district. Helen stared at a window devoted to fashions.

Jerry jerked her arm. “Watch yourself,” he said from the side of his mouth. “You’re supposed to be interested in toy shops, ice cream parlors and such, not haute couture.”

Helen grunted sourly, but, to project her character, began to skip.

Her supposed guardian for the morning was taking in their fellow pedestrians and the passing traffic. He said softly, for her ears alone, “I thought Metaxa said this was potentially one of the more advanced worlds. It looks a few centuries behind the times to me. And nine people out of ten look on the raggedy side.”

She said, “I get the same impression. However, that’s the point. The underground’s got things so fouled up that the progressive elements can’t get underway.”

Jerry Rhodes spotted a sidewalk café.

He said, “What’d you say we sit down and let the town come to us? Have a mead, or something.”

She smiled up at him with the trustfulness of an eight-year-old in the hands of a mature adult, but her voice held a low snarl. “Mead, you rat. You know damn well I won’t be able to order anything stronger than lime squash.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He grinned down at her. “Sorry. You feel the need to kill the hangover? You were really knocking them back last night.”

“I’ll kill you, if you don’t knock that condescending tone in your silly voice.” She grunted satisfaction as they got nearer to the sidewalk cafe. The place was packed. Obviously, in view of the night curfew, the citizens of Firenze were forced to do their imbibing early in the day.

“No tables,” she said. “So you’ll do without, too.”

“Oh, we ought to be lucky enough to find something,” Jerry murmured, heading for the more preferable locations.

“With all these people standing around waiting for a table?” she said nastily.

However, at that split second, three Florentines came to their feet, one looking at his wrist chronometer apprehensively. They hurried off.

“Here we are,” Jerry beamed, pulling back a chair and then taking her up from behind by the elbows and sitting her down.

“Talk about luck …” she began, and then shut her mouth to glare at him.

He turned to take a chair of his own, only to find it occupied.

The stranger looked up. “I got here first,” he said.

Jerry took him in for a long moment, finally saying bitterly, “You want us to leave?”

The other waved a nonchalant hand. “Not at all, not at all. Strangers to Firenze?” He indicated the table’s third chair. “Be my guest.”

Jerry Rhodes sat down. “You have to be speedy in this town, don’t you?”

“Well, Signore, I’ll tell you…” But then the other, as though suddenly remembering the amenities, came to his feet, brought his heels together and bowed stiffly. “May I introduce myself? The Great Marconi.”

Helen had leaned her elbows on the tabletop, her chin in her cupped hands. She stared at him unblinkingly. “You don’t look so great,” she told him. “You oughta see my daddy.”

The Great Marconi put his right hand to his heart and bowed again, more sweepingly. “Signorina, you convince me. I am most certain your parent is even greater than the Great Marconi.”

“Betcha boots,” Helen informed him ungraciously.

Jerry Rhodes came to his feet in turn, clicked his heels and bowed. “The pleasure is ours,” he said. “And I am the Great Rhodes, and this is the Great Helen.”

The other sank back into his chair and looked at Jerry speculatively. “You condescend with me?” he said. “You jest?”

“Who me?” Jerry said in disgust. “Be condescending?

I wouldn’t dare. Although all sorts of puns and such come to mind. I could’ve introduced myself as Cross Rhodes, the guy who becomes slightly sore when somebody slips into his chair, right under him. And I could have pointed out Miss Horsten here”—he indicated Helen—“and said, ‘She looks like Helen Brown, but her real name is Horsten, and she looks cute in blue.’ ”

Helen’s face was pained. “I betcha I could think of a funnier one than that.”

The Great Marconi evidently couldn’t decide whether to laugh or mount higher into the saddle of dignity. He said evenly, “You are undoubtedly unacquainted with Firenze usage, Signore.”

“Undoubtedly,” Jerry said, looking about for a waiter, half a dozen of whom were scooting around amidst the tables.

Their unwelcome Florentine companion evidently couldn’t help putting in a dig. He said, “To get a waiter’s attention here at the Florida Cafe, you’d have to have, the luck of…”

He broke it off.

A waiter had magically materialized at the elbow of Jerry Rhodes.

“Hal” Helen said under her breath.

Jerry said, “One ice cream and—you do have ice cream on this planet? Nobody’s decided it’s subversive, or something?”

The waiter looked at him. “Are you criticizing the…”

But Jerry had held up a hand in horror. “Certainly not!” He looked at the self-named Great Marconi. “What’s a good morning pick-me-up on this planet?”

“Try a Grappa Sour,” the other said, and then to the waiter, “Two Grappa Sours.”

“Three,” Helen said.

Jerry and the Great Marconi looked at her. Jerry shook his head. “Ice cream,” he said.

The waiter left.

Helen and Jerry turned their eyes to their uninvited companion. He was possibly in his early thirties, lithe of build, quick of movement. His eyes were, if anything, overly bright in a face that fell into a drawn seriousness when relaxed, which was seldom. The Great Marconi was great for moues, smiles, animated grimaces; it was as though he wore a mask over a mask. His clothing, while not as seedy as that of many of his fellow Florentines, could have used a bit of spotting up. He hadn’t exactly slept in them, but…

He bore their scrutiny.

Helen said finally, “What makes you great, Mr. the Great Marconi?”

“Yeah,” Jerry said ungraciously. “You an unemployed magician, or something?” Then, without waiting for an answer, “What’re they doing with live waiters on Firenze? I thought the only place you ever saw waiters anymore were in the historical Tri-Di shows, or backward planets such as Goshen, where they’ve got a feudalistic socioeconomic system.”

“You seem to be somewhat critical of our institutions, Signore Rhodes. You’re fortunate someone hasn’t called you out, as a result. Florentines are touchy in matters of honor.”

“Jerry’s lucky,” Helen said flatly. “Anybody who called him out would probably wind up with laryngitis.”

The Great Marconi blinked at her. “What?” he said. It hadn’t been exactly the sort of crack that usually comes from a child.

Helen brought the eight-year-old back into play. “Why’re you so great?” she said. “My daddy’s bigger’n you.”

The waiter brought their order. Helen looked in disgust at the ice cream. “A lot of guano for the condors,” she muttered.

The Florentine blinked again. “What did you say?”

Jerry covered quickly. “You and Gertrude eat your ice cream, Helen. I’ll hear you recite your lessons later.”

He took a swallow of his drink, put the glass down and stared into it accusingly. He looked at the Great Marconi. “You people drink this for a pick-me-up? Where I come from, we’d call it a lay-me-down-flat.”

The other sipped his own in satisfaction. “Ah. Wonderful,” he sighed. Then to Jerry, “Thank you.”

“Thank you? For what?” Jerry said. He pushed the glass to one side in rejection.

“For the drink.” The Great Marconi beamed at him.

“A free loader,” Helen muttered, reaching surreptitiously for Jerry’s glass.

Jerry Rhodes looked at the Great Marconi. “You know,” he said. “Something has just occurred to me. We set down only yesterday, and I haven’t gotten around to acquiring a Firenze crediter. Will my Interplanetary do?”

“What’s a crediter?” the Great Marconi said, taking another pull at his Grappa Sour.

“A crediter, a crediter,” Jerry said. “A credit card, an exchange card, a debenture I.D. What do you call them on this planet?”

The other was looking at him blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jerry said impatiently, “What do I pay for this drink with?”

“With money,” the Florentine said.

“You mean actual money?”

“It’d better not be counterfeit.”

Jerry said, “Heyl” and grabbed his drink back from Helen. “You’re too young for that kind of stuff.”

“Oooo,” Helen said. “That’s strong.” The glass was almost empty.

The Great Marconi stared at her, took in the glass. “You’d better get her back to your hotel. Grappa Sours are sold only one to the customer. They’re potent.”

Jerry began to growl, “You don’t know this…” but then cut it short, to cover. He cleared his throat glared at Helen and said, “I suppose you’re right. Since I don’t have any of the local exchange, can you pay for this?”

“No.”

Jerry looked at him.

The other said, “I thought it was on you.”

“You’re great, all right,” Helen muttered.

He smiled winningly at her. “The greatest, Signorina.”

Jerry looked around for the waiter, gave up. He snarled, “Listen, you bum, you never did answer my question. Why do you call yourself the Great Marconi?”

The Great Marconi’s face lost its amiability. “Because I am the greatest tutor on all Firenze, Signore. Now as to your designation…”

Helen said, “Tooter what?”

The Florentine looked at her. “Little Signorina, I have taken a great attraction to you, in spite of the oafishness of your companion with whom I shall deal in a moment. Any child who can put down a Grappa Sour in a split second…” He cleared his throat. “But to answer your question. I tutor gentlemen who have been called out.”

His eyes went back to Jerry Rhodes. “I am, without doubt, the greatest fencer, the best shot, on all Firenze.”

Jerry snorted disbelief. “Then why’re you on your uppers, Citizen Great Marconi? If you were such a stute of a duelist, you’d be on top of the heap. Here, you can’t even pay for a couple of drinks.”

“And a ice cream,” Helen added for a clincher.

The Great Marconi twisted his expressive face into a moue. “They are afraid to come to me,” he admitted. “They should form lines at the door of my studio, but they are afraid.”

Jerry and Helen looked at him.

He grunted disgust. “Because I am an Engelist,” he said.

“What!” Jerry blurted.

“You wouldn’t understand. Local politics.”

Jerry Rhodes’ usually all but vacuous expression took on a suddenly alert quality. “An Engelist!” he blurted.

Helen grabbed up her doll. “Easy, easy,” she crooned. “Take it easy, darling Gertrude.”

The Great Marconi said, “You wouldn’t understand. As an Engelist, I am a minority element. Very highly discriminated against.”

“Of course. Yes, I’m sure,” Jerry said, ignoring Helen, who was now kicking him under the table. “Look, I’d like to find out more…”

“I feel sick,” Helen announced. “I wanna go to my daddy.”

“Shut up,” Jerry said. Then, back to the Florentine: “Listen, ever since we set down on this planet, we’ve been hearing about the Engelists, but you’re the first one we’ve met. I’d like a chance, along with some friends, to find out more about your, uh, program and all. How you expect to overthrow the government, and all.”

“Oh, you would?”

Helen closed her eyes in mute anguish.

“Yes,” Jerry said definitely. “I’d like to know all about ft. So would my friends. You’d be surprised.” He began looking for the waiter again, snapping his fingers.

“That’s interesting,” the Great Marconi said, his face expressionless now.

It occurred to Helen that this particular face was more at ease, expressionless, than it was carrying the air of joviality it had up until this point. Inwardly, she groaned. “I wanna go back to my daddy,? she bleated.

“Shush,” Jerry told her. “As soon as I take care of the bill, we’ll all go back to the hotel.”

She closed her eyes again. “Oh, great. Sucker every-l body else in, too.”

“What?” the Great Marconi said.

“I said, I wanna go back to my daddy.”

The waiter appeared.

Jerry said, “Look, I feel lucky. Tell you what I’ll do. We’ll flip this coin.” He brought his French franc from a pocket. “If I can call it, I don’t pay. If I can’t, I’ll pay you five times the tab.”

“Five times?” the waiter said.

“Right.”

The waiter said, “It’s a deal if you’ll let me flip the coin.”

“All right. It doesn’t make any difference.”

The Great Marconi was eyeing Jerry. “What if you lose?”

Jerry ignored him, handed the coin to the waiter.

“You’ll pay five times the bill?” the waiter said.

“Right,” Jerry said impatiently. “Flip it. I want to get going.”

The waiter flipped the coin high. While it was still in the air, he called, “Tails!”

The coin hit the table.

Jerry got up without bothering to look, and said to Helen and his newly acquired Engelist friend, “Come on.”

The waiter said, “Just a minute. You owe me six and a half silver lire.”

“What?” Jerry said.

The waiter pointed.

Jerry Rhodes bug-eyed the coin. He looked up at the waiter blankly. Finally, he got out, “But… but I haven’t any… any money.”

“No money!” The other was enraged. “Why, you I damned Engelist! Trying to get something for nothing! I took my chance, eh? But you’re unable to pay, now you have lost.” He spun and yelled, “Gino, Gino!

Come here, please. I wish this… this Signore to be arrested and hauled into the Court of the People! He refuses to pay his bill!”

Jerry Rhodes looked about desperately.

The Great Marconi had disappeared.

Chapter Seven

Dorn Horsten peered through the bars. “Where is Helen?” he demanded.

“How would I know?” Jerry growled.

Maggiore Roberto Verona, suave as ever, said smoothly, ” I am sure the little ragazza is safe. This is all most distressing. What in the world happened, my dear Signore Rhodes?”

Jerry said in exasperation, “Nobody’d listen to me. I forgot to make arrangements for exchange. I didn’t know my Interplanetary Crediter wouldn’t be legal tender on this half-baked, backward planet.”

The maggiore’s voice was suddenly chill. “I am sure you are distressed, Signore Rhodes, and shall ignore your derogatory comments.” He flicked his hand at a jailer who came forward and opened the cell door.

Dr. Horsten was staring at the accommodations Jerry was departing. “A cell,” he exclaimed. “Wonderful. Imagine, in this day and age. A jail. Guards and everything. I can’t wait to tell my colleagues on, say, Avalon, or Earth, or… well, just about any place.”

He turned to Maggiore Verona and beamed. “And my daughter. You have her in, uh, durance vile, as well? Oh, wonderful! What an experience.” He looked at his disgusted younger colleague. “Jerry, how unfortunate you aren’t a journalist, eh? What a story for Interplanetary Press. Ah, tell me again. Just what was this, uh, romp, as the gangsters call it on the Tri-Di shows?”

The Florentine official was taken aback. “But, really, Doctor, this is all a terrible misunderstanding. Your daughter…”

“Oh, I am sure Helen can take care of herself.” Horsten said in growing enthusiasm. “I dote on the historical fiction gangster shows. My only relaxation. I can just see it all. Jerry, here, dashing up in a low-slung, black hovercar. Mufflegun in both hands. Ah, where did it happen, Jerry, my boy?”

“At a sidewalk cafe,” Jerry growled in disgust. “How do we get out of this hole?”

“This way,” the maggiore said hastily, trying to stem the universally renowned scientist’s tirade.

“Up to the, uh, what do they call them? Pay booth, cash register… ?”

The Florentine groaned softly under his breath. “… threatening all with his weapon. Dash it, I wish I had been there. Romantic, eh? Jerry, just what was it you did?”

Jerry said sourly, “Couldn’t pay my bill. Six and a half silver lire, or whatever. If this ever gets back to Mother, she’ll probably buy this town, just to plow it under.”

Maggiore Verona looked at him from the side of his eyes, a certain respect there. “Ah, Signori, if you’ll just come this way.”

He led them down a sterile corridor, the doctor still excitedly proclaiming the romanticism of it all, Jerry scowling darkly. They emerged into a well furnished office in which there were half a dozen Florentines, including two women, obviously matrons by their attire. Helen was seated on a desk, Gertrude under one arm, holding forth with a highly superior air and a treble voice on the shortcomings of the planet Firenze. Her audience, all in uniform, all on the brawny side—even the feminine contingent—were obviously fascinated. On spotting her supposed father and his companions,

Helen wound it up. “An” when me and Gertrude grow up, if we’re still on this dump planet, we’re gonna become Engelists.”

“What!” the anti-subversion maggiore blurted.

“Me and Gertrude both,” Helen said definitely. She looked at her father and switched gears. “I don’t like being here,” she wailed. “I wanna go home!”

Horsten said hurriedly, “Now, Helen, everything will be all right. We’ll return immediately to the hotel.”

“I don’t wanna go back to that dump hotel. I wanna go home!”

Maggiore Verona was looking bleakly at the Florentines. “What’s been going on here?”

One official, who had come suddenly to his feet when the maggiore had entered the room, stuttered an answer. The child had been taken care of with silken gloves. Ice cream had been brought, chocolate for the little girl, strawberry for her doll, who, Helen had claimed, would eat nothing else.

“Very well, very well,” Verona finally cut off the tirade. He turned to Horsten and Jerry Rhodes. “My vehicle is waiting. I shall be happy to return you to the hotel, Signori.” He looked at Helen, suppressing distaste. “And you too, of course, Signorina.”

Helen snorted and tucked Gertrude more firmly under her arm.

On the way back to the Albergo Palazzo, the maggiore murmured gently, “Where in the name of the Holy Ultimate would the little ragazza have ever heard of the Engelists? Ah, what sort of conversations do you hold before her?”

“Huh!” Jerry grunted.

“Signore Rhodes?”

Jerry said, “It’s the only thing anybody ever talks about on Firenze. Everybody talks about the Engelists, but nobody ever says anything about them. What they stand for, who they are, what they want. I came here to Firenze with the idea of investing some variable capital. But the planet’s in a confusion worse than Catalina. I think I’ll go back and…”

The maggiore said smoothly, “My dear Signore Rhodes, we have checked your credentials, and have also made preliminary investigation of the situation that prevails on your home planet. Tell me, are there others who feel the same way as you do in regard to the, uh, desirability of transferring their investments elsewhere?”

Jerry bent an arrogant glare on him. “I am not sure that is your business, Citizen Verona.”

The assistant to the Third Signore contemplated his fingertips. “Only indirectly, Signore. I will be happy to refer you to members of the First Signore’s administration who are in a better position to advise you on Firenze investment opportunities. I might say, however, that they are all but unlimited.”

“In spite of the Engelists?”

“Perhaps because of them,” the other said smoothly. “But here we are at the hotel.”

They remained silent until they had regained the penthouse suite usually reserved for the First Signore, now retained by Jerry Rhodes and his guests.

Jerry, projecting a continuation of his indignation over spending an hour or two behind bars, strode immediately toward the bar. He said ungraciously over his shoulder, “Anybody else like a drink?”

Dorn Horsten said, ‘“f you and the maggiore are involved in personal affairs, perhaps I should adjourn.”

“No, stay where you are,” Jerry said. “Maybe you’ll find out something about this off-beat world, too.”

The massive scientist shrugged and settled down in a chair. “Frankly, I am a bit nonplussed,” he admitted.

“I had been thinking in terms of recommending that an interplanetary research center be established here on Firenze devoted to the thallophytes.”

The major looked at him. “And…”

“Well, one of my local colleagues from the university seemed to differ with my opinions. I answered his objections, but evidently he took umbrage at my vocal inflection.”

They were all looking at him.

The algae specialist cleared his throat. “Briefly, he challenged me.”

“Challenged you!” Jerry blurted. “Now you?”

“Well, he was a somewhat, shall we say feisty, little fellow. Ah, say, five and a half feet tall or so. He somewhat shrilly called upon me to choose weapons, and when I mentioned the Macedonian sarissa…”

“Sarissa?” the maggiore said blankly.

Horsten turned to him and beamed. “The Macedonian phalanx was based on a pike, called the sarissa, which was some twenty feet in length. A conception attributed to Philip. It proved effective.”

“Twenty feet?” the major said, still blankly. “And he is five and a half feet tall? A university professor? Could he even pick up such a weapon?”

The doctor’s eyes were wide. “I wouldn’t think so,” he said.

“But…”

The doctor spread his hands. “Academician Udine began laughing. Professor Porsena began laughing. Dr. Luna was fractured, I believe is the old idiom. Shortly, we were all, uh, in stitches. It eventually came out very nicely.”

The maggiore shook his head as though in utter disbelief and turned back to Jerry. “What did you mean, now you ?”

“Huh?”

“You said, when Dr. Horsten mentioned being challenged, Now you .”

“Oh. Zorro Juarez, that cowboy from Vaca… Whatever the name of the place is. He’s scheduled to meet the chief customs inspector, Grossi, tomorrow morning at the Parco Duello, wherever that is. The doctor and I are his seconds.”

The maggiore said, “No, he’s not.”

“Yes, he is,” Jerry said. “We arranged it, the doctor and I.”

The maggiore said, “The Code Duello, on the planet Firenze, applies to signori only. Criminal elements are not eligible to meet on the field of honor. That, of course, includes all subversives such as Engelists.”

Helen, who had been following all, wide-eyed, as though understanding only about half of what the adults were saying, said shrilly, “What’s that got to do with my Uncle Zorro? Me and Gertrude’s gonna marry Uncle Zorro.”

They ignored her, but nevertheless, the question was answered.

The maggiore said, “Zorro Juarez has been arrested as a suspected Engelist. As such, he is not eligible to the honor of being called out under the Code Duello.

“You mean he’s not allowed to duel tomorrow morning?” Jerry demanded.

“That is correct.”

“But what did my Uncle Zorro do?” Helen wailed.

“Yes, what did he do?” Dorn Horsten said.

The major said, “He went into the public library and attempted to secure books on the Engelists.”

The otherworldlings stared at him.

The maggiore elaborated patiently: “He conducted himself ridiculously. How he expected to elude the Anti-Firenze Activities officers I couldn’t say. He went into the main branch of the city library and asked for books, pamphlets, tapes, or whatever might be available on the Engelist movement.”

Jerry said, not quite understanding, “Well, what did they give him?”

“Give him! The librarian he consulted immediately phoned the Bureau of Security and the Anti-Firenze Activities Ministry. He was arrested within moments.”

The three looked at him.

“See here. Suppose someone wanted to find out about the Engelists. How would he go about it?” Horsten said.

The maggiore’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he want to find out about the Engelists?”

The scientist shrugged. “How would I know? Perhaps he wishes to write a book about them.”

“There are already sufficient exposes on the underground traitors, written by competent authorities on the subject.”

“Well, why didn’t this librarian give them to Citizen Juarez? He obviously was simply curious.”

“He didn’t want the volumes available. He claimed he wished to consult original sources. He wanted books written by the Engelists themselves!” The maggiore was being patient.

They held another moment of silence.

It was Horsten who took up the ball again. “You mean there is no manner in which a, well, student of the subject can simply go to the public library and take out books about the Engelists, written by Engelists, rather than by their critics?”

It was the major’s turn to be bewildered. “Do you think His Zelenza’s government is insane?”

Jerry said, “Look. How can anybody combat these subversives if they don’t even know what they stand for?”

“We know what they stand for,” the maggiore said indignantly.

“What?” Helen said. She was seated on the floor, her hatbox full of toys before her.

Dr. Horsten stepped in quickly. “Out of the mouth of babes, eh?” He chuckled. “But, actually, I have the same question. What do they stand for?”

“Forcible overthrow of the legitimate government and the imposition of a dictatorship!”

“Well, yes, we already gathered that. But how do they expect to go about all this? How do they attempt to appeal to the people? How do they operate?”

The maggiore said, “You seem strangely interested in the Engelists for strangers.”

Dorn covered. “Well, it’s partly pure curiosity, since we’re hearing so much about them. And partly in view of the fact that our companion, poor Zorro, has been arrested as one. All of which seems ridiculous to me. He’s never even been on Firenze before. He knows nobody here. Has no interest in your politico-economic system.”

The maggiore thought about it. Finally, he said, “Well, here’s an example, although I am actually committing an indiscretion.” From an inner pocket he drew forth a four page leaflet, printed on cheap paper and, by the looks of it, on some primitive equipment. He handed it over hesitantly to the scientist.

Dorn Horsten scowled down.

“Florentines Ariser he read. “Overthrow the Tyranny of Representative Govemment!

“Come again on that one?” Jerry said.

Horsten ignored him and read on. ” Establish the People’s Democratic Dictatorship!

“It wouldn’t really be democratic,” the maggiore injected. “All they want is to seize power for themselves.”

“Fellow citizens of Firenze, adopt the following program . One. Infiltrate the army and police forces and kill your officers. Two. Boycott the elections. Three. Destroy the machines directed at …”

The scientist stopped, flabbergasted. He said to Maggiore Verona, “Where in the world did you get this?”

“It’s one of their propaganda leaflets.”

“Obviously. But… well, do you mean they pass these out indiscriminately on the streets?”

“When we can’t catch them, they do.”

Horsten shook his massive head. “These people could use some lessons,” he muttered. He went back to the propaganda leaflet, still registering disbelief. He shook his head in despair and, putting the pamphlet aside, turned to the Florentine.

“See here. We hardly know Citizen Juarez. However, as fellow strangers to Firenze and former shipmates on the Half Moon, I, at least, feel some duty toward him, to the extent that I feel bound to see he is adequately legally represented.”

“Legally represented?” Verona said, puzzled. “But he’s accused of being an Engelist.”

Jerry poured another dollop of drink in his glass. He still stood at the room’s bar. “Something missed me there. From what you said, all he’s accused of is trying to get some books on Engelism. I might’ve done that myself, if I’d thought about it.”

The maggiore said, “I would not advise it, Signore Rhodes. Perhaps it is true that your mother owns half the Catalina-Avalon planet complex, however, you are a long way from there, and here on Firenze we are very conscious of the subversives who wish to destroy our whole way of life.”

Horsten said, “To get back to Zorro’s legal representative. Ordinarily, undoubtedly he would have appealed to the United Planets Embassy, since it seems unlikely that Vacamundo would be represented diplomatically here. However, since the U.P. Embassy has been discontinued…”

“Undoubtedly, new representatives, uncontaminated by Engelist doctrine, will shortly be sent from Earth.”

“Yeah, but meanwhile Zorro’s in the jug,” Helen said.

The Florentine looked at her.

Horsten said hurriedly, “Helen, you spend too much time looking at the Tri-Di historical crime shows.”

“Look who’s talking,” Helen muttered. She went back to her box of toys.

Horsten said, “But what about Zorro’s lawyer?”

“I told you,” Maggiore Verona explained. “He’s accused of being an Engelist. Obviously, no reputable attorney would represent him.” He looked from Dorn Horsten to Jerry Rhodes, as nothing could be more obvious. “What would people think of a supposedly loyal Florentine who would represent an Engelist?”

“Not an Engelist,” Jerry blurted. “Somebody accused of being an Engelist.”

“Well,” the other said stiffly. “You must admit, there’s precious little difference. A mere technicality.”

Jerry slugged down his drink. “I don’t know,” he said, a wild element in his voice. “I continually get the impression on this planet that everybody’s kidding.” He looked at the Florentine anti-subversion officer. “You sure you don’t want a drink? Listen, something just occurred to me. You introduced yourself as attached to the Third Signore’s staff. What did you say the Third Signore is in charge of?”

“Anti-subversion.”

“What’s that got to do with us? Why’re you spending your time with us?”

The maggiore was a bit embarrassed, but still suave. “My dear Signore Rhodes. Surely it is the same on other worlds. Until evidence is presented to the contrary, we must operate on the, uh, possibility…” He let the sentence fade away.

Jerry grabbed up the bottle and poured himself another stiff one. “I’m beginning to think you people’ve been chasing these subversives so long you’ve gone drivel-happy.” He gave the bottle a half wave in illustration. “You know what I ran into today at that sidewalk cafe? A guy who…”

Helen came up with a little plastic gun from her hat box. She snarled at Jerry, pointing the gun, “Put down that bottle stranger. You had enough.”

The maggiore laughed condescendingly. “Ah, little ragazza, you should never point a loaded weapon, unless you mean to use it.”

Helen turned a beady eye on him. She swung the gun barrel in his direction. “Stick ’em up,” she ordered. “You put my Uncle Zorro in the jug.”

“Helen!” her father said in exasperation.

The Florentine was chuckling. He said in mock seriousness, “I refuse to stick ’em up. We loyal officers of the Third Signore never surrender.”

“You asked for it,” Helen said flatly and pulled the trigger.

“Helen!” her father blurted, rising from his chair in horror.

But the stream of water caught Maggiore Roberto Verona full in the face. He sat there frozen as it splattered over him. The water dribbled down over his lower face and onto his natty uniform.

Dr. Horsten was on his feet, a handkerchief in hand. He dabbed at the besoaked Verona, roaring over his shoulder, “Helen! Go to your room! Immediately!”

Helen dropped the water pistol and, wailing, headed for the back rooms of the suite.

Maggiore Verona took a deep breath and collected himself with effort. He stood, holding up a hand to restrain the good doctor’s efforts, and said shakily, “It is nothing. All apologies are accepted. She is but a little”—it took him an effort to bring out the last—“child.”

He cleared his throat. “I must go. I must go change.” He attempted a military bow, which didn’t come off. “Signori, if you will excuse me.” He headed for the door.

Dr. Horsten, continuing his chucking and incoherent apologies, saw him out, then returned to the oversized living room. There was storm in his expression.

“Where’s that witch?”

Helen stuck her head through the double door that led back to the master bedroom, which she had taken over as her own domain.

“Coast clear?”

“What in the name of the…” Horsten began in wrath.”

“Knock it,” she muttered. She went over to the bar and ungraciously gave Jerry’s leg a shove. She clambered up on a stool and reached for a bottle and glass.

“I had to shut him up some way,” she said defensively. She gestured with her head at Jerry, a motion which made her little-girl curls flare out winningly. “He was about to blab about an agent provocateur we ran into, in town today.”

Jerry, scowling, said, “What’s an agent, whatever-you-said?”

“Agent provocateur” Helen repeated, gurgling liquid into her glass until Horsten turned his head away to avoid the sight. “Have you ever heard the old Czarist Russian saying? When four men sit down to talk revolution, three are police spies and the other a fool.” Jerry just looked at her.

“Well,” she said. “Undoubtedly, that’s our Great Marconi. Although I’m beginning to wonder.”

“What are you talking about?” Horsten asked. She told him about the Great Marconi and he scowled. He said, “What did you mean, you’re beginning to wonder?”

Helen took a slug of her drink and sat down on the bar stool—she had been standing on it—and crossed her legs.

“Well, at first I figured he was secret police, trying to draw Jerry out, to see if he had any interest in Engelism.”

“But now?”

She said thoughtfully, “Now I’m beginning to wonder if possibly he wasn’t an Engelist pretending he was an Engelist.”

“You threw that one too fast,” Jerry protested.

Suddenly the front door of the penthouse suite opened and they turned to face it, all three frowning.

Zorro Juarez entered, his face as dark as when he had stormed out that morning.

He came up before them, his hands on his hips. “You know where I’ve just been?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Helen said.

“That’s what I thought. How’d you get me out?”

The three looked at him.

“We didn’t,” Jerry said. “If I got this straight, you weren’t eligible to have a lawyer because you were accused of being an Engelist. How come you were silly enough to stick your neck out like that?”

“Look who’s talking,” Helen said, taking another slug of her drink. “You’re hardly out of jail yourself.”

Zorro was mystified. “Well, somebody evidently cut a lot of red tape, somehow. They had me in a sort of community cell, in a concentration camp. Everybody accused of subversion.” He went over to the bar and without looking at the label of the bottle Helen had poured her drink from, upended it over a tall glass and let the golden, thickish beverage gush down.

“Engelists, eh?” Horsten nodded.

“No.”

“No? What other kind of subversives are there on Firenze?”

Zorro took back a slug of his drink, looked down into the glass appreciatively, took another. “I wouldn’t know. But my fellow jailbirds were the most unlikely candidates for membership in an underground organization you ever set eyes on.”

Jerry said plaintively, “I don’t know what there is about this evening. I don’t seem to follow any of the conversation. Were these people Engelists, or not?”

The dark complected cowman growled, “If they were, they sure hid it from me. I tried to sound them out, individually and in groups. None of them knew anything about Engelism.”

“Maybe they thought you were an agent provocateur,” Jerry said, in newfound wisdom.

“What’s that?”

Jerry looked at Helen from the side of his eyes. “A police spy stuck in with amateur revolutionists to draw them out.”

Zorro thought about it. He shook his head finally. “No, that wasn’t it. They weren’t even particularly interested in the subject. Couldn’t even get them to talk about it.”

Horsten was scowling. “What did they talk about?”

“Mostly about the Dawnplanets.”

Chapter Eight

If he had suddenly levitated to the ceiling, Zorro Juarez couldn’t have set them further aback.

Zorro said, “I thought this alien intelligent life, the Dawnmen, were supposed to be a big United Planets secret.”

Dom Horsten, his face registering complete disbelief, made his way over to one of the room’s overstuffed comfort chairs and sank down, dwarfing it.

“Supposedly they were,” he said unhappily. “Helen and I didn’t tell you the whole story. Neither of us were with Section G at the time, but we were briefed on the situation. It seems that when the Dawnworlds were first contacted, Ross Metaxa, along with the President of United Planets and the Director of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, brought together some two thousand of what they evidently thought were the most dependable chiefs of state of United Planets and laid the-situation in their laps. I suppose they expected the conference to lead to greater cooperation among the member worlds.”

“And…” Zorro prompted.

The scientist shrugged huge shoulders. “Evidently, the attempt proved successful with some. Metaxa tried to swear them all to secrecy. He should have known better. How can you swear two thousand highly individualistic men and women to secrecy?”

“They blabbed?”

“It would seem some of them did, from what you say. Otherwise, how would the man in the street, here on Firenze, know about even the existence of the Dawn-worlds?”

Helen said in disgust, “Just how much were they aware of?”

Zorro made a gesture of discomfort. “Remember, I only spent a few hours in the place. But they knew that the aliens live on a small confederation of planets located somewhere out beyond Phrygia. And they’d got the rumor that the Dawnmen had fabulous discoveries that would make any human unbelievably rich and powerful if he could get his hands on them.”

Horsten removed his glasses and ran a weary hand over his face. “Well,” he said, “it’s not our immediate problem. We’re here to upset the Engelist applecart, and get Firenze back on the road to progress.”

Zorro said, “Shouldn’t we get in touch with Sid Jakes and let him know about this development?”

The big man shook his head. “They’re too confoundedly conscious of all the paraphernalia involving communications, bugs, eavesdropping and such, here on Firenze. The police probably have every device known in U.P. to tap any signals we might send to Earth.”

“Even a Section G communicator?” Jerry said. “I thought they were beyond tapping.”

“There is no such thing as being beyond tapping,” Horsten told him. “Our laboratories come up with something today, supposedly perfect, but in a year or so, or even a week or so, and some stute, somewhere, figures out a method of listening in. Whether or not the security people on Firenze have a way of cracking our communications with Earth, we don’t know, but I don’t think we ought to take any chances, particularly with nothing more important than this. Let’s wait until we have something big, and well mention it, too, at the same time.”

“It seems to me this is pretty big,” Zorro said. “What’s more important ultimately than the presence of the Dawnworlds?”

“Ultimately, yes. But right now your assignment is to find out about these Firenze subversives and thwart them.”

“So where do we start?” Helen said. She grunted disgust. “Thus far we know damn little more about them than we did when Metaxa briefed us back in the Octagon.”

Jerry walked over to the vicinity of Dorn Horsten and sat down on the couch, his face in unwonted concentration. “You know,” he said. “I still wonder if what we shouldn’t do is go right to Roberto Verona and lay our cards on the table. If anybody knows anything about these Engelists, it’s his Department of Anti-Subversion.”

Helen grunted disgust again.

Zorro said, “I think we ought to get in touch with Sid Jakes and let him know about this Dawnworld development.”

But Horsten was staring at Jerry. “You know,” he said. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

Helen said, “Have you slipped around the corner? We open our traps to Verona about being interested in the Engelists and bingo, we’re all in Zorro’s concentration camp.”

“Um,” Horsten said, coming to his feet and looking at the chronometer on his wrist. “But we won’t open our traps to Verona. What time is it getting to be? Late enough to burglarize a government office?”

“Oh, no,” Helen protested.

“Oh, yes,” Horsten said, beaming at her. “As Jerry says, if anybody knows anything about these Engelists, it’s the Department of Anti-Subversion.”

“Right,” Jerry said, standing too. “With my luck, we’ll stumble right on the guy who…”

“With your luck,” Helen snorted, “we’ll all break our legs, walking down stairs. Have you forgotten? That coin of yours isn’t flipping heads any more.”

“How do you mean?”

“Remember betting the waiter five to one?”

Jerry grinned. “That was lucky, wasn’t it?”

“Lucky!” She glared at him.

“Sure. I was all set to pick up that Great Marconi fellow, the agent provocateur, and bring him back to the hotel. If I’d been able to get away with not paying that check, we’d all have been in the soup. As it was, they stuck me in jail, and the Great Marconi disappeared.”

Helen deflated. “I never thought of that.”

“Which reminds me,” Jerry said to her. “You owe me a hundred interplanetary credits. Remember, you bet me that Zorro’d get killed in that duel.”

“What!” Zorro yelped.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Helen said to Horsten. “I’d never be able to explain that.”

It was getting dark when Helen and Horsten left the Albergo Palazzo, her hand in his as she tripped along, Gertrude and a little tin box Dolly’s Nurse Kit in the other.

She said from the side of her mouth, her voice low enough that the casual passerby couldn’t have heard, “Why didn’t you want Jerry and Zorro? I hate to admit it, but Jerry’s right. He’s got the damnedest luck.”

“That he has,” Horsten said. “But sometimes it’s a little too left-handed for my satisfaction. I’m continually waiting for the roof to fall in and kill a fly that’s been bothering friend Jerry.”

“Well… Zorro, then.”

“For this job,” the big scientist said, “we need all the inconspicuous qualities we can muster. Zorro, cracking that overgrown whip of his, doesn’t quite fit in.”

“All right,” Helen agreed. “So where is this Ministry of Anti-Subversion?”

“I wouldn’t know,” her companion said. “We’ll have to ask.”

“Ask?” Helen said bitterly. “And you talk about Zorro being conspicuous.”

Dorn Horsten smiled fondly at her and chose that very moment to stop at the curbside where a uniformed Florentine was staring in despair at a small armored hovercar, embellished with the red letters, NATIONAL POLICE. The hood had been slid back to reveal the mechanism, but, on the face of it, the driver was stymied.

“What’m I ever going to tell the sergente,” he muttered in suppressed rage. The scout car looked like nothing so much as a three-legged turtle, its tripod stilts supporting it some two feet off the surface of the street, in lieu of its now inoperative air cushion.

For the moment, the street was clear of other passersby. The scientist came to a halt, Helen still held by his hand, and said pleasantly, “Ah, my good fellow, could you give me a bit of direction?”

From the side of his mouth the police officer growled, “Dust off, Buster.”

Horsten’s eyebrows went up. “I merely wished to ask…”

The other turned and glowered at him. “Can’t you see I’m busy? This damned tin can flicked out on me. Go on, dust.” He turned back to contemplating his vehicle, muttering, “The sergente’ll have my neck.”

Horsten puffed out his cheeks.

Take it easy, you big ox,” Helen said lowly. “He’s a cop.”

Her companion ignored her. “I said I wished to ask some directions.”

The furious minion of Firenze law spun on him, his teeth tight. “And I said to dust off. Can’t you see I’m busy? I’ve got to cook up some explanation for my superior. He told me not to take this crate out. Anyway, dust. I haven’t any time…”

Horsten had started off the conversation with a benign beam, that good-natured air attainable best by truly king-sized specimens of humanity. The beam was rapidly changing to a glare. “I shall give you exactly one more chance to tell me the location of the Ministry of Anti-Subversion,” he said.

“Oh, you will, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, come on, Daddy!” Helen began to pull on her colleague’s arm. Between her teeth she added, in a hiss, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Or you’ll do just what?” the driver said.

Dorn Horsten looked at the armored police scout car. It’s upper surface resembled the corrugated exterior of a hand grenade, or, perhaps, the shell of a turtle. The vehicle squatted there on its three sturdy metal stilts. It was a nasty looking little car.

Very deliberately, Horsten reached his hand out and banged the top of it with his closed fist. The three legs buckled, the end one to the point of allowing the rear of the armored scout to touch the street.

The driver looked at his vehicle for a long empty moment. Then he turned his eyes on the big scientist and looked at him. Finally, he looked down at Helen.

Helen wrinkled her nose at him nastily.

“You shoulda told my daddy,” she said.

The policeman looked back at his car.

Finally he said to Horsten, “What was it you wanted to know?”

“Where is the Ministry of Anti-Subversion?”

“Over there.” The other pointed. He looked back at the armored scout again, gloomily. “What’m I ever gonna tell the sergente?” he muttered.

Horsten hustled Helen across the street in the direction the police officer had indicated.

She looked at him bitterly. “Zorro’s whip is too conspicuous,” she said. “What’d you think is going to happen when that cop tells his sergeant what you just did? And why you did it. And where it was you wanted to go.”

The algae specialist was all good nature again. He looked down at her. “If that man is stupid enough to tell his sergeant what happened, he’ll undoubtedly wind up behind bars for drinking whilst on duty, my dear girl.”

“I surrender,” she muttered. “I give up.”

They came to a halt and stared at the enormous building that confronted them.

“Ministry of Anti-Subversion,” Horsten read with satisfaction.

“Closed,” Helen said. “Look at the size of those bronze doors. The place looks like a cathedral.”

“Um. However, someone should be here. Probably a night shift, or, at least, some guards.”

“So we just knock?” Helen said hopefully, as he started off again, dragging her along.

“Well, I doubt if that would be effective. If they expected evening callers, undoubtedly there would be some entry provided, but all seems quite closed up.”

“I can see it coming,” Helen muttered glumly.

They stood before the gigantic bronze doors which dwarfed ten-fold even the oversized Dorn Horsten.

“There isn’t even an identity screen, a method of summoning the nightman,” Horsten said accusingly.

“All right, all right, you don’t have to find excuses for me,” Helen said. “I’ve been through the equivalent of this before.” She looked back over her shoulder. There was a broad expanse of paved area before the building, and not a soul in sight. The vicinity of the Ministry of Anti-Subversion was evidently not sought out by the citizenry of Firenze, come the cool of evening.

Horsten took the large bronze doorknob in hand. It was an enormous, elaborate thing. He shook it. “Locked,” he announced.

“Come on, come on,” Helen said wearily.

He pulled, seemingly gently. He looked down at the knob, now in his hand. “It came out,” he told her.

Helen grunted.

He put his huge paw against the door and shoved. Something inside the door groaned. He pushed a bit harder. Something rasped metallic complaint. Although his air seemed still one of gentle curiosity, his shoulders were now bunched.

“I’ll be confounded,” he said. “Open all the time.”

“You damned mastodon,” she said. “Come on. Inside, before somebody spots us.”

They pushed their way in, the scientist closing the door behind. They looked about.

“Looks like Grand Central Station,” Horsten muttered.

“What’s that?” Helen said.

“Confound if I know. An idiomatic saving that comes down from antiquity; a connotation of being large in interior.”

“Well, what do we do now?”

“I suppose we stroll about until we find someone.”

“Oh, great. Or until somebody shoots us.”

He looked down at her. “Now, who would shoot a nice little girl like you?”

She snorted at him. “Somebody who figures that nice little girls don’t break into hush-hush government ministries.”

Two massive stairways flanked a bank of a full dozen elevator shafts.

“Elevators,” the big man said. “How anachronistic can you get? Have you noticed, my dear, they seem to go beyond the call of reason to maintain an air of yesteryear on this planet?”

Helen said, “Let’s take the stairs. Then at least some stute won’t be able to trap us between floors.”

She caught onto his belt, gracefully bounded up to his shoulder, to save herself the climb. On the second floor, they looked up and down the extensive corridor that seemingly stretched away into infinity.

“All right,” Helen said. “Do we keep climbing, or what? How do we find the department devoted to the Engelists? This place obviously doesn’t run a night shift. And, for that matter, doesn’t seem to boast much in the way of night…”

A voice behind them snapped, “Stand where you are!”

Dorn Horsten turned—and turned on his good-natured beam. “Ah, here we are, he said jovially. “I knew we’d find somebody!”

The other was a heavy-set, elaborately uniformed, suspicious looking officer who held a heavy scrambler in his right hand. He was about thirty feet from them and stood with his legs well parted and in a slight crouch: the stance of a fighting man.

He was not to be cozened. His heavy, somewhat brutal face bore several scars, mementoes of duel or street fights, or perhaps of military combat.

“Who are you?” he snapped.

Horsten jiggled little Helen on his shoulders to reassure her, and beamed at the other. “The question is, who are you, my dear fellow?”

Obviously the Florentine was confused by this confrontation, but was not to be put off his competent guard. “I’m Colonnello Fantonetti,” he said, the weapon not wavering a particle. “Now, very quickly, who are you and what are you doing on the second floor of this ministry after closing hours?”

“I want down, Daddy!” Helen shrilled. “I’m afraid of that man.”

Horsten said something and, ignoring the colonnello momentarily, slipped her to the floor, tucking Gertrude and the Dolly’s Nurse Kit under his arm. Then he turned back to the Florentine.

“I came to inquire into the Engelists,” he said, in a tone that might have been disarming had the words been other.

“The Engelists?” the armed man blurted. “You admit it?” Then, “How did you get in here?”

“I walked in,” the big scientist said simply. He looked down at Helen, whose lower lip was trembling. “Now, now,” he said. “After a time, Daddy will play alez-oop with you.” He looked back at the anti-subversion officer. “So, you can tell me with whom I can get in touch in order to investigate thoroughly this Engelism program.”

The other shook his head, as though unbelieving, but the gun didn’t waver. He said, “This whole ministry is devoted to fighting the Engelists. I am head of my department Luckily, I was working late tonight. You have explained nothing. You are under arrest.” His eyes went to an empty desk which stood before the rank of elevator doors. On it was an orderbox and various switches and burtons. Still keeping his eyes on Dorn Horsten, as well as the muzzle of his scrambler, he started in that direction.

Helen said, “Allez-oop!”

The massive scientist had been holding her by one hand. Now, he suddenly flipped her upward, spun her, and flung her toward a stone column which stood some ten feet before the elevators.

The colonnello’s trigger finger had, at the first motion, tightened, but then he stood there, eyes bugging.

In air, Helen seemed to become a ball then, at the last split moment, she turned, legs foremost, and struck the stone pillar. Seemingly, she bounced; somehow, upward. She seemed to spin in the air. A tiny human pin-wheel she turned and turned again. Hit the desk toward which the Florentine had been heading; caromed off in an impossible exhibition of tumbling; hit the metal door of one of the elevators, caromed off and struck immediately before the colonnello. She bounced high. His head reared back in alarm. She settled down, light as gauze, on his shoulder.

“Oooo,” she said. “I musta slipped.” Her right arm was around the startled officer’s head, holding on tightly.

But her little left hand had a secure grip on the scrambler which, a moment ago, had been in his own supposedly competent grasp—and the muzzle was boring into his left ear.

Dorn Horsten was clucking as though in apology. “Now, dear,” he scolded her, “do be careful. You might blow the colonnello’s brains out.” He frowned slightly, as though in inner debate. “Assuming…” he added, but let the sentence dribble away.

The Florentine was frozen.

Horsten approached and took the gun from Helen’s hand and she dropped gracefully to the floor and smoothed out her pretty blue dress in an exaggerated little-girl gesture.

The scientist said, and there was authority in his voice now. “Where’s your office?”

Still dazed, the other indicated. “In there.”

“All right, let’s all go in there.”

Herding the colonnello before them, Horsten and his diminutive companion entered the office. It was large but standard, with the usual conglomeration of desks, files and office equipment, including orderboxes and vocotypers.

Even as Helen, humming under her breath, put her Dolly’s Nurse Kit on the larger desk and began pulling play vials and hypo needles forth, the big scientist ushered the captive to a chair.

The self-named Colonnello Fantonetti was not a coward. He grated, “What do you want? I warn you…”

Horsten silenced him with a wave of the pistol. “Just as I told you, information about the Engelists.”

“You’re obviously Engelists yourselves,” the other rasped.

“To the contrary, my dear fellow.”

It turned out that Helen’s play hypodermic needles were not exactly toys. She efficiently swabbed a section immediately above his wrist—not taking the time to have him remove his tunic, and roll up a sleeve—and pressed home a shot. She then returned her Dolly’s Nurse equipment to its box and bounded up into a chair very neatly.

Horsten said to the victim, “Scop, you know. Sorry it’s necessary. But we’re quite keen about finding out all there is to know on the Engelists.”

The other gritted his teeth. “You can’t escape,” he said, somewhat out of context with the subject.

“Um,” Horsten said. He looked down at his wrist chronometer and made impatient tush, tush noises while he waited. Helen sat there quietly, smiling in childlike innocence at the colonnello until that worthy, in disgust, closed his eyes to escape.

Horsten said finally, “What is your name?”

The colonnello had blisters of cold sweat on his forehead and he tried desperately to hold his lips tight. However, finally they opened.

“Salvador Marie Fantonetti.”

“And your position?”

“Colonnello, on the staff of His Eccellenza, Alberto Scialanga, the Third Signore.”

“What are your duties?”

“To combat the Engelists.”

“Who are the Engelists?”

“Subversives who wish to overthrow the government of the First Signore and the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Firenze.”

Dom Horsten said, “How do they expect to accomplish this?”

There was a slight hesitation in the drugged man’s voice. Finally, “I do not know.”

Horsten scowled. “Well, what methods do they use?”

“They attempt to subvert the institutions of Firenze.”

“Of course, but how?”

“By… by speaking against the First Signore and his Council of Signori.”

Helen said, “Do they have radio, Tri-Di, other broadcasting facilities?”

“No.”

“Well, do they have newspapers?” She was scowling in growing puzzlement as was her partner.

The colonnello remained silent.

She reworded it. “Do you think they have newspapers?”

“No.”

Dorn Horsten said impatiently, “Do they write books against the government?”

The Florentine remained silent.

“Do you think they write books against the government?”

“I… I do not know.”

“Do you know of any pamphlets, leaflets or other printed propaganda they have written against the government?”

“No.”

Helen said, a touch of disbelief in her voice, “What do they do in their attempts to overthrow the government?”

“They attempt to recruit followers to their underground by speaking against the administration of the First Signore.”

Helen and Dorn Horsten looked at each other.

The scientist started on a new tack. “Have you ever captured any Engelists?”

Their prisoner of the Scop drug remained silent.

Frowning his growing bewilderment, Horsten demanded, “Have you ever captured any persons you suspected of being Engelists?”

“Yes.”

“How many of these did you prove were Engelists?”

He remained silent.

“Did you prove any of them were Engelists?” Helen said impatiently.

“No.”

The two stared at him.

Finally Helen snapped, “Have you ever, in your whole career, seen a person that you absolutely knew was an Engelist?”

The hesitation was there once more. Finally, “No.”

Now they really goggled him. Helen snapped, “Look. How do you know there are any Engelists?”

“They attempt to subvert the institutions of the Free Democracy of the Commonwealth of Firenze.”

“That’s not what I asked you,” she snarled. She looked up at Horsten. “What in the hell’s going on?”

He was tugging on the lobe of his right ear and staring at their victim. “You know…” he said.

“What?”

“I think this man’s been memory-washed or something.”

“Are you zany? He’s a colonel in their damned Anti-Subversion Ministry. Who’d memory-wash him?”

“How would I know?” he said impatiently,

She jumped to the floor, went back to the desk where her Dolly’s Nurse Kit sat.

“What’re you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? Giving him a shot of our own memory-wash. What else is there to do? He doesn’t know a thing about the Engelists.”

Horsten, followed by Helen, pushed his way through the door of the penthouse suite and strode on into the living room. He came up abruptly.

“What in the name of Holy Jumping Zen are you doing?” he roared.

Zorro Juarez and Jerry Rhodes looked up. Helen’s hatbox of toys sat next to them on the floor. Zorro was cross-legged before a cocktail table. Jerry stood next to him. On the table was propped one of Helen’s gadget toys, a supposed miniature Tri-Di set. Even at this distance, Horsten and Helen could make out a face on the screen of the device.

Zorro said, “Making a report to Sid Jakes.”

The two newcomers to the scene approached nearer, until the face of the Section G assistant head was clear to their view too.

Jakes grinned at them. “How goes the assignment?”

“It doesn’t,” Horsten growled, after shooting a disapproving glance at his two associates. “We just broke into one of the Firenze ministries devoted to local subversive activities. We put a mucky-muck we found there under Scop.”

“Neat trick.” Sid Jakes grinned. “Why? And what did you find out?”

“Not a damn thing,” Helen snorted. “This is the most underground underground in the history of undergrounds.”

Dorn Horsten looked down into the small screen of the communicator. “So far, we’ve drawn a blank. I assume Zorro’s told you that evidently the Engelists got to the files of agent Bulchand before we were able to discover what, if anything, he had on them.”

“Yes.” Sir Jakes nodded, over the light-years. His usually exuberant voice clouded slightly. “He also told me that everybody and his cousin on Firenze seems familiar with the Dawnworld story.”

Horsten shot another look at Zorro, whose face was registering a certain amount of defiance. The scientist said, I wasn’t in favor of making this report at this time. Evidently Zorro and Jerry have overridden my opinion.”

Sid Jakes pursed his lips. “I doubt if there’s any connection, but we’ve had a complication here on the same matter. I might as well mention it, on the off chance that you’ll turn up something there on Firenze. Be a neat trick if you do. I can’t see any reason to believe…” He let it fade off.

All four of his subordinates were frowning at him.

Sid Jakes grinned. “Ronny Bronston is still in the hospital, but his office was broken into early this morning.”

“Broken into?” Helen said. “Bight there in the Octagon?”

“He didn’t answer her directly. His grin turned rueful. “Somebody stole the starchart.”

Jerry said. “The starchart giving the location of the Dawnworlds?”

Sid Jakes looked at him, his head cocked slightly. “How did you know?”

But at that moment a voice from the entryway boomed, “His Zelenza, the First Signore of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Firenze!”