Code Duello

Chapter Nine

“On, OH,” Sid Jakes said, in the tiny screen, “you people have times there, don’t you? Let me know later. Off.” His grinning face faded.

But the four were already staring at the entry.

There were two ultra-efficient looking guards with unfamiliar type of handweapons at the ready, flanking the door. Their eyes were straight ahead, their expressions those of the goon down through the centuries.

He of the booming voice stood between them. Though in mufti, he was obviously to uniform born. His eyes swept them, swept the room in quick check. He stepped back, a double step, and faced the door, as though deity were about to enter.

Maggiore Roberto Verona and one other came through it. Whoever the other was, he obviously outranked the maggiore. His uniform was magnificent and well bespattered with decorations.

Helen had adjusted well enough to say sotto voce to Jerry, “The fewer the wars, the more medals the big brass wear.” She had scooped up the disguised communicator and placed in it Gertrude’s toy hands.

The man who was obviously none other than the First Signore came striding in, quite obviously at his full ease.

“Apologies everyone, apologies,” he called, his voice casual. “Maggiore, I believe you are acquainted with our friends from overspace. The honors, please.”

Tim First Signore was a man barely in his mid-thirties but bore the air of command as though it had been with him since the cradle. But his, also, was the ages-old face of the politician; the open friendliness, the so evident sincerity, the obvious integrity, the love of his fellow man.

“Already, I don’t like this guy,” Helen muttered.

“Shh,” Horsten hissed.

Maggiore Verona said, his voice indicating the degree to which he was overwhelmed by being in the presence of his ultimate chief, “Your Zelenza, may I present the celebrated Dr. Dorn Horsten, and the Signorina Helen Horsten?”

“An honor, Your Zelenza,” the doctor said, bowing to the exact extent a noted scientist would be expected to, to a chief of state of a member world of U.P.

Helen stared, put her thumb in her mouth, caught herself, pulled it out and stuck both her hands behind her back, and continued to stare, her little feet toeing in.

“The honor is mine, Doctor. I am informed your work is known from one extent of the confederation to the other.” The First Signore bowed. And to Helen, “My, what a pretty dolly you have there.”

“His Eccellenza Gerald Rhodes, entrepreneur from the planet Catalina.”

Jerry said, projecting the fact that in his time he had met many a bigwig, “A pleasure, Your Zelenza.”

The First Signore eyed him appraisingly. “My pleasure, Signore Rhodes. I am told you visit our world with the possible intention of taking advantage of its many opportunities.”

Maggiore Verona continued, the heartiness in his voice fading somewhat. “His Eccellenza, Zorro Juarez, of the planet Vacamundo.”

The chief executive of Firenze said, “Ah yes, Signore. I understand that you have already had an unfortunate experience with our necessarily stringent regulations against dissident elements.”

Zorro said defensively, “I was simply trying to find out something about these Engelists everybody talks about.”

“Of course. Unfortunately you went about it in the wrong manner. One of my council heard of the matter and took care of it. I, personally, shall be happy to give you any information you may require, when opportunity permits.”

His eyes swept the four of them in hospitality, and he strode toward the bar, saying over his shoulder, “Maggiore, please explain the situation.” He took up a glass and let his eye run over the collection of bottles.

Maggiore Verona had followed him into the living room proper, leaving the other newcomers still in the entrada.

“Dr. Horsten, Signori,” he said. “There has been a change in the plans of His Zelenza. He has decided, after all, personally to attend the pseudo-election.”

Helen looked at Jerry from the side of her eyes and murmured softly, “Ha. The Rhodes luck. Tossed out on the street.”

“However,” the anti-subversion officer hastened to add, “His Zelenza insists that all efforts be made to secure other quarters for you.”

His Zelenza, not bothering to listen, was holding up to the light the bottle which Zorro and especially Helen had been drawing upon for refreshment. In his left hand was a tiny glass, on his face an expression of shock. He said, “My Betelgeuse Chartreuse!”

Horsten was exploring the situation with the un-happy Roberto Verona, assisted by Zorro Juarez. However, Jerry Rhodes was of more practical stuff. He approached the ultimate head of the Firenze state, nonchalantly flipping his French franc.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, Your Zelenza.”

“Yes, Signore?”

“It occurs to me that there are seven bedrooms in all in this suite.”

“Oh?” The other frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve ever counted. Seven, eh?”

“Seven,” Jerry said definitely. He flipped the coin, caught it. “It occurs to me that possibly you are a man not unaccustomed to taking a chance now and then.”

“A chance?”

“A bit of a gamble.”

The First Signore tore his eyes from his bottle. “You have touched on my weakness, Signore. But I am not sure I follow.”

Jerry flipped the coin again. “I am willing to wager a flat hundred thousand interplanetary credits against my being allowed to remain in my room, here in the suite, that I can call the flip of this coin.”

“A… hundred… thousand… interplanetary… credits!”

Jerry flipped the coin, caught it, flipped again, a great nonchalance in his air.

This time it was the First Signore who cleared his throat.

“I’ll flip the coin,” he said flatly. “You call it.”

“Right.” The coin changed hands.

His Zelenza looked at both sides. “This is heads, this is tails, eh? Very well.” He flipped it, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his left hand, covered it with his right.

Jerry said, “Heads.”

The other peered, scowled, shook his head. “You win.”

Jerry put his hands in his pockets. “Same bet,” he said. “This time for the right of Dr. Horsten and his daughter to remain in their rooms.”

“I say, you are a sportsman.”

“One hundred thousand interplanetary credits.” Jerry nodded.

“You’re on,” the First Signore said. He flipped, caught the coin again, peered at it suspiciously.

“Tails, this time,” Jerry said.

The scowl deepened. “You’ve won again.”

“And now…” Jerry began.

“Your Zelenza!” Roberto Verona blurted.

His Zelenza was scowling unhappily at the coin.

The maggiore said quickly to Zorro, “Unfortunately, the First Signore’s staff is such that additional room simply can’t be spared. Happily, there is, down in the basement, an emergency room vacated by an assistant janitor…”

“Oh, no,” Zorro protested.

The Firenze chief of state returned the coin, albeit reluctantly. He said to Jerry Rhodes, “Given time, I must introduce you to my own favorite game, poker.”

The two goons with their highly bemedaled superior had departed the entrada and now marched through the living room on what was obviously a security tour of inspection of the suite.

His Zelenza returned to his bottle, and drop by drop poured the thick golden liquid into his tiny liqueur glass. He half filled it, then carefully put it down. He returned the crystal stopper to the bottle, opened a small door set below in the bar, inserted the bottle on a shelf, closed the door, locked it with a small golden key, which he stashed away in a pocket of his jerkin. Muttering, he took the glass and made his way toward the living room’s throne-like, most comfortable chair—formerly, the usual domain of Helen.

To one side, the maggiore was explaining to an in-distant Zorro. To the rear of the penthouse suite, the bodyguards were making their room-to-room check. Dorn Horsten stood in owl-like magnificence, every inch the stolid, absent-minded scientist. Jerry, his accommodations taken care of, had sunk oafishly onto a couch.

His Zelenza began to lower himself into his comfort chair, a sigh of anticipated relaxation already on his lips.

“Hey,” Helen squeaked.

He caught himself in suspension, stuck there; turned to inspect his destination. There was approximately thirty-five pounds of femininity that hadn’t been there a moment ago immediately below his derriere. In his attempt to avert disaster, he jerked, spilling a portion of the contents of his carefully cherished glass.

His Zelenza came erect.

A score of feet away, Maggiore Verona, who had caught the action, froze, his shoulders hunched up as though in defense against dangerous developments.

However, a malady-laden smile struggled for existence on the First Signore’s face. He took an audible breath, then, in ultimate sacrifice, took his place on the same great couch occupied by Jerry Rhodes.

Helen, at her ease, crossed her plump legs and said, conversationally, “Whatcher name?”

His Zelenza blinked, looked around for minions to come to his support, found none. He refrained from his drink, and said, “I beg your pardon, little Principessa?”

Helen said confidentially, “Whatcher real name?”

The chief of state of Firenze let his eyes go from right to left, covering the vicinity. For the moment, there seemed none witnessing the conversation; Dorn Horsten was involved in a low talk with Jerry about moving their luggage to rooms which would conflict least with the First Signore’s staff; Maggiore Verona was still in verbal combat with the miffed Zorro.

His Zelenza said condescendingly, “You mean, what does my mama call me?”

Helen looted at him in childlike flatness. She shook her head. “I don’t care what your old lady calls you. Whatcher name?”

Horsten, evidently not as absorbed in his conversation as all that, turned, and called, “Helen!”

Helen was wide-eyed innocence. “All I said was whatzis name. I can’t call him Uncle Hizelenza, if he’s gonna live with us.” All of a sudden she began to pucker up. “He’s gonna move into my big room,” she wailed.

The massive scientist came over hurriedly. “Now, see here…” he began.

“I like my big room. And so does Gertrude,” Helen wailed.

“Who is Gertrude?” The First Signore said to nobody in particular, and was ignored, probably for the first time in his memory.

The suite was being invaded by additional uniformed, faceless Florentines, some bearing personal luggage of their ultimate superior, some of his immediate staff, complete with briefcase and office equipment, all carrying the air of competence inevitable in those connected with supreme authority. Zorro’s luggage passed in the opposite direction, in the hands of two of the goons, a deflated Zorro following.

The maggiore came up hurriedly. “Doctor,” he said in despair, “His Zelenza has been most gracious…”

The First Signore was evidently reaching some sort of an edge under the impetus of Helen’s keening. He had come to his feet again, his glass, containing what was evidently his idea of the ultima thule of potables, temporarily abandoned on a cocktail table.

He said, between his teeth, “Not at all, Maggiore. The little Principessa is our guest. How charming that her father allowed her the master bedroom. She shall retain it. Who is Gertrude, a nurse?”

“A nurse?” Helen said, immediately turning off the temperament, in view of victory. “Gertrude’s a boy. Gertrude’s an Engelist.”

“An Engelist!” the First Signore uttered. By this time, his face had surrendered its air of supreme command of the local situation; in fact, there was an element of being lost in bedlam.

The maggiore said hurriedly, “Gertrude is her doll, Your Zelenza. The little girl has heard others speaking of the subversives since her arrival. She… she doesn’t understand.”

“Ha!” Helen said darkly.

Two aides approached, each, evidently, with messages for their chief.

At long last, he had someone at whom to roar.

He roared.

The aides disappeared magically.

The First Signore, now well shaken, turned to the liqueur glass of his treasured Golden Chartreuse. He took it up, began its journey to his lips, came to a bewildered halt, stared unbelievingly into the empty crystal. His expression clearly reflected that he couldn’t remember finishing the drink and that he couldn’t quite believe that he had. For the briefest of moments he looked at Helen, who stood nearest the short table upon which the glass had rested, but then he shook his head in inner disbelief.

He turned and made his way to the bar. It took him a moment to recall that he had put the bottle under lock. He fumbled for the tiny golden key, finally located it and acquired the bottle. He made an initial motion toward refilling the small liqueur glass, but then, shaking his head again, put it to one side and reached for a tumbler.

Maggiore Roberto Verona was staring at his superior; on the face of it, he had never seen the First Signore in this condition. He shook his head and turned back to his duties.

The hustle and bustle was beginning to subside somewhat, the efficiency of the underlings not being affected by the contretemps to which their chief was being subjected.

Jerry Rhodes, who had gone through this slumped on his couch, hands in pockets, said to his host, “What’s a pseudo-election?”

The First Signore had regained control. He made his way back to his recently evacuated position, tumbler firm in his grasp. He suddenly became aware of the fact that in the background not only Maggiore Verona, but several others of his staff were eyeing him in untoward wise.

He snapped, “Out Everybody, out. I suddenly find myself weary.”

“Undoubtedly, the trip down…” the maggiore began smoothly.

“Whatever,” the First Signore snapped. “Oat! I… I wish to have a relaxed few moments with my. new… uh, friends from overspace. Anything for a…” He cut himself off in mid-sentence and finished with simply, “Everybody out!”

They scooted.

The chief executive of Firenze sank back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes. He muttered, loud enough to be heard, “I must be getting old,” but then, he cleared his throat, popped his eyes open, sat more erect and brought himself under control.

That is—what was the question?”

“Whatcher real name?” Helen said.

For the briefest of moments, it seemed as though he was going to close his eyes again, but he straightened. He looked at her, attempting the patronizing air of the adult toward the eight-year-old. It didn’t quite come off.

“Antonio Cesare Bartolemo d’Arrezzo… little Principessa.”

Helen thought about it. “That’s too long,” she announced.

Antonio Cesare Bartolemo d’Arrezzo smiled benignly at her and turned to Jerry. “You asked about the election?”

Do in Horsten by now had also settled to rest. He said, “I was interested too, though politics are far from my forte. You called it a pseudo-election?”

“The term, then, isn’t universal throughout United Planets?”

“Not exactly,” Horsten said.

Jerry Rhodes had come to his feet and gone over to the bar. He reached for a glass and then…

The First Signore restrained himself, though the torment of unrequited hope washed his face. All in vain. He had forgotten to return his treasured bottle to its locked chamber. The glass Jerry had selected was of highball capacity. He returned with it half full to his seat.

He managed to turn on a condescending beam. “Pseudo-election,” he said. “But surely the institution is well-founded in the traditions of antiquity.”

They looked at him. Even Helen.

The First Signore, on his own grounds now, was expansive. “I suppose the institution took real form in the Twentieth Century, back on Mother Earth, though it was not unknown earlier. Ah, the Third Reich is as good an example as any. If your history serves you, you’ll recall that Adolf was unsuccessful in winning a majority in the crucial elections, somewhat to the surprise of industrial monopolists, such as Thyssen and Krupp, who were backing him. It was necessary to have President Hindenberg, supposedly of the opposition, appoint him chancellor. Shortly after, Adolf thoughtfully eliminated all other political organizations and in the future polled some ninety-five percent of the vote. An even better example, perhaps, was to be found in the, uh, Republic of Russia.”

“You mean the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?” Horsten said, intrigued now.

The First Signore smiled encouragingly. “Exactly. Wonderful name, eh? Shows vivid imagination. Here, the leaders of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat—who the proletariat was dictating to is somewhat obscure, since supposedly all other classes had been liquidated—had long since decided that one party was sufficient, and eliminated unnecessary confusion on the part of the electorate, hence garnering a comfortable majority of some ninety-seven percent, give or take a point or two in each election to betoken authenticity.”

“So”—Jerry nodded—“you carry on in the tradition of the Nazis and communists.”

“Oh, no, no,” the First Signore protested. He took up his glass momentarily for his long postponed sip, but put it down again in the enthusiasm for his subject. “Firenze is in the tradition of the great democracies, such as Great Britain and the States, to continue to draw example from the same era. In such case, their political party often achieved even better than ninety-seven percent of the vote.”

His audience of three blinked in unison. Horsten said apologetically, “I labored under the impression that in those countries they had more than one party.”

“No, no. Optical illusion, camouflage, double-take—or whatever it was they called it in those days. In England they had the Conservative Labor Party and in the States the Republican Democrats, though in both cases there was the optical illusion of two parties. In actuality, they stood for the same thing, the status quo, represented the same elements and couldn’t be told apart The electorate, admittedly, was given the, uh, fun of turning one wing of the party out, periodically, and replacing it with the other, but it made no difference. Oh, don’t misunderstand. Other candidates appeared from time to time, though largely, election laws were such that minority parties were as banned as they were in the Reich. Such protest opposition votes as did get through, when they were counted at all, were largely write-in candidates. Two, Pogo and Donald Duck, were among the more popular—two political figures of whom little comes down to us. Others sometimes made a brief play for the write-in vote. Twiggy and Batman come to my mind; once again, their principles, platforms and so forth, have been lost to us in the ages. But Donald Duck and Pogo were contestants for several elections running. Someone like the perennial Norman Thomas, whom I sometimes suspect of having been desirous of joining his organization to that of the Republican Democrats, making it the Republican Democrat Socialist Party. He once complained that Roosevelt had taken over his whole platform.”

“I’m not really that far up on political history,” Horsten said, impressed by the other’s erudition. “I am surprised that you are.”

The First Signore shrugged in modesty. “Of course, we of the families who are particularly interested in politics begin our training quite early in life.” He reached for his glass again. Looked at it in some surprise. Frowned. Scowled. Thought about it some more. Squinted at the liquid level still once again, gave up and took a sip. When he put the glass down this time, it remained a bit nearer to him than before.

“So this pseudo-election you hold…” the scientist prodded.

“Is in the best of democratic traditions,” the First Signora said.

“But it’s not a real election?” Jerry said.

“Of course it is a real election. Every five years we hold one. It’s a national holiday. Very popular. Everyone eligible must vote. There are penalties if one doesn’t. It’s done very properly. Secret ballot, and all. We pretend we have no record of those who vote for Pogo or…”

“Pogo!” Helen blurted.

There was a mystified element on the face of the chief of state of Firenze. “Surprisingly enough, the name of this candidate has come down through the centuries, evidently as a symbol of protest. Since our citizenry is compelled to vote, some resort to writing in the mysterious historical personage, rather than vote for the party candidate.”

“Party candidate?” Horsten echoed, in way of prompting.

“Yes, of course. In the far past, on Firenze, we had four political parties which originally stood for differing principles. However, as this sometimes proved disconcerting for the responsible elements in our socioeconomic scheme of things, they coalesced until we had the Holy Temple Radicals and the Liberal Conservatives.”

There was confusion in the eyes of Jerry Rhodes. “But now …” he said, as though with hope.

“Well, now, in the face of the threat of the Engelists, the two have joined into the Machiavellian Party.”

“Machiavellian Party?” Helen bleated, before she could remember to keep in character.

The First Signore beamed at her. “Yes, little Principessa,” He chuckled ruefully. “I am afraid the full significance of the name of this great statesman of the past is lost to us, but he was once most prominent in the original Firenze, or Florence, as it was called in Amer-English, and later Earth Basic.”

Helen muttered something to Gertrude.

Jerry said quickly, covering Helen’s break, “And how large a percentage of the vote do the Engelists rack up?”

The other stared at him, as though the visitor from overspace was jesting in very bad taste.

“Do you think us ridiculous enough to allow those subversives on the ballot?”

“Oh. Oh, of course not,” Jerry said soothingly. “Obviously not. A pseudo-election. Nobody but the Machiavellian Party. Secret ballot. If anybody casts a write-in for Pogo or some other protest vote, you don’t let them know you’ve kept a record of it.”

“Correct,” the First Signore said, happy that all was understood. “As the Seventh Signore, of the Firenze Bureau of Investigation, once pointed out, that man who will cast a vote for Pogo today, is a potential subversive tomorrow.”

Horsten got back into the scene. “Your Zelenza, you must excuse our ignorance. There are so many socioeconomic systems, so many political forms, in United Planets, that it is most difficult to keep universally informed. If I understand correctly, the Firenze chief executive is entitled the First Signore, and is assisted by a cabinet of nine?”

“Quite correct. The Second Signore is our Chief of Security; the Third Signore, Maggiore Verona’s superior, heads of the Ministry of Anti-Subversion; the Fourth Signore is in charge of Counter-Espionage; the Fifth, the AFA, short for Anti-Firenze Activities; the Sixth Signore has control of Central Intelligence; the Seventh is Director of the Bureau of Investigation; the Eighth, Commissioner of the National Police; the Ninth Signore heads the Department of Internal War; and the Tenth Signore holds the portfolios of State, Interior, Justice, Revenue, Agriculture, Trade, Health and Education.”

There was a silence on the part of the newcomers from overspace. The First Signore took the opportunity to reach for his glass again.

“Tony?” Helen said, twisting her rose-red little mouth in childish thoughtfulness.

“Eh?” The First Signore of the Free Democracy of the Commonwealth of Firenze was obviously taken aback by her form of address.

“Your name’s too long.”

Jerry said, in a hurry, “That Tenth Signore. He’s kind of low man on the totem pole, eh?”

The Florentine nodded to acknowledge the question. “Ah, perhaps, but believe me, Michael is just as necessary”—he shook his finger here at Jerry, in way of emphasis—“to free government as any of the rest of this administration. I wish to assure you, Signore Rhodes, that all is tranquil here on Firenze. Your investments and those of your colleagues on Catalina would be safe. Ah, which reminds me. In what form do you have this variable capital you are considering investing in our many opportunities?” As though absently, he came to his feet, went over to the bar and put his precious bottle back under lock and key.

Jerry was off-hand. “What form? Oh, naturally, the most negotiable.”

The First Signore continued to look at him expectantly.

Jerry said, “Mother was anxious to be liquid, in case an immediate opportunity or so was available.”

“Oh, believe me, there are many. But in what form is your capital?” The First Signore chuckled. “Obviously, not in Firenze currency, which, after all, is the most negotiable exchange possible—on Firenze.”

Jerry’s eyes were going blank, but his luck held and he was taken off the hook by the front door banging open. The highly uniformed security officer, who had earlier supervised the First Signore’s arrival, came through. Immediately behind was a cluster of others in some agitation.

“What is the meaning of this!” d’Arrezzo snapped. “I ordered that I not be disturbed.” He strode several steps forward.

Helen gave a sigh of relief, snaked out a hand and snagged the glass of priceless potable, and took a quick snort. She shot a look of disgust at the hapless Jerry even as she quickly returned the glass under the glare of Dorn Horsten.

“Geneva,” she muttered to Jerry. “Your money would be on Geneva.”

Half a dozen newcomers were in the entrada.

“Your Zelenza!” the officer commanding said apologetically. “We have just captured this Signore, attempting to enter your presence! In view of his identity…”

Helen said, “Why, it’s the Great Marconi!”

Chapter Ten

The newcomer winced but shaking loose the two security men who hung onto his arms, honored Helen with a bow. The Great Marconi, Signorina.” He came forward. His eyes, as ever, overly bright, swept the others in the living room, winding up with the First Signore, whose face was less than welcoming.

There was a quirk of amusement in the Great Marconi’s expression. He sweepingly bowed once again. “Ah, Cousin Antonio, you will forgive me if I forego the traditional affectionate embrace. A touch of the steel in my most recent affair, you know. The arm is a bit stiff.”

The First Signore said, “Cesare, you are well acquainted with our arrangement.” He turned back to the security men. “Leave us!”

The officer hesitated. The Florentine chief of state looked at him.

“Yes, Your Zelenza.” He turned and the guard contingent bustled out with him.

The First Signore returned to the newcomer, who grinned mockingly. “My dear Antonio, no matter your lofty rank—as of the moment—and my lowly position in the scheme of things, I cannot guarantee complete lack of contact, particularly if you insist on leaving your official estates and coming here to our somewhat grimy capital.”

“I am not speaking, obviously, of chance encounter. But your presence can only embarrass me, in view of my office. Your sworn agreement was not to seek out…”

The Great Marconi spread his hands in a most Latin gesture, the palms up, his eyebrows up as well. “My dear Antonio, I had no idea you were here. The Tri-Di news broadcasts had it that you would conduct your campaign on the air and from the, uh, safety of the palace.”

“Safety!” the other blurted, his expression going suddenly empty. “Are you impugning my courage, Cesare, by…” In mid-sentence, he broke off. He said, frowning, “But if you were not seeking me…”

Cesare Marconi smiled broadly. “You are much too vain, Cousin Antonio. I have other friends than those numbered in the ranks of my relatives.” He turned to Jerry, who had teen taking this in, in fascination. “How unfortunate that we became separated at the cafe, my dear, uh, Cross Rhodes.”

Jerry snorted.

The newcomer said cheerily, “I have come to discuss with you the matters in which you expressed interest.”

Helen said, “Oh, oh,” and darted a look at the Florentine chief executive.

Dorn Horsten stepped forward. “Uh…” he began.

But the First Signore waved a hand negatively and in disgust. “Undoubtedly, my Cousin Cesare informed your young friend that he was an Engelist. He knows about as much of Engelism as I do of the archaeolgy of the Denebian planets.”

His seedily appareled cousin, even as he made his way toward the bar, said with cheer, “If you were not immune, through your lofty position, Antonio, I would call you out.” He turned his back to them and inspected critically the collection of potables.

“Any time…” the First Signore began heatedly.

Cesare Marconi half turned and the easy-going mask stripped away. “Yes? You were about to say?”

His cousin switched gears, though obviously in inner heat. “I was about to say that your Engelism is a pose, to embarrass me. You actually know nothing about the subversive movement, which is exactly why you are tolerated in your making a spectacle of yourself and your family.”

Cesare Marconi had returned to his perusal of the beverages. “Um,” he murmured. “Where’s the Chartreuse? Hidden again? Antonio, you were a tight money pincher as a boy and being on the ultimate expense account hasn’t changed you.” He took up a bottle and scowled at the label. “What’s whiskey?”

“It’s from Earth,” Dorn Horsten said. “Distilled from cereal. Alcohol is the sole depressant involved.”

“I’ll try it” Marconi nodded, pouring a tumbler half full.

“Usually,” Horsten said, “you mix a small amount with something.”

“Oh? Doesn’t that diffuse the flavor?”

“Yes.”

The Great Marconi took a sip, flinched, but refused to retreat before strangers. He returned with the glass to a chair, seated himself and crossed his legs.

“You are quite incorrect,” he told the First Signore. “I am thoroughly acquainted with Engelism, its origins, the conditions which brought it about, even its goals. However, mine is, you might say, a wing of the movement. A splinter element which has split away. The Engelists, we are told, desire to overthrow the present socioeconomic system by force and violence. Of this, my wing disapproves, seeking the basic change necessary by peaceful means, by civilized use of the ballot. Which is, of course, not against the Constitution of the Free Democracy of the Commonwealth of Firenze.”

His cousin was fuming. “As you are aware, the Constitution is temporarily being held in abeyance during the emergency. Until the subversives have been brought under control, civil rights and some of our political guarantees must be sacrificed.” He turned to Dorn Horsten. “He speaks gibberish. His so-called wing of the Engelists which wishes to overthrow the government by vote isn’t even on the ballot.”

“No fault of mine,” Marconi said, trying another sip of the drink. He made a face. “This stuff is worse than grappa.” Then, “You keep everybody off the ballot but yourselves. However, in the long run it will do you no good. You can’t change the weather by fiddling with the thermometer, and you can’t prevent a revolution by miscounting, or not counting at all, the votes of the majority.”

“You think the Engelists a majority!” The other laughed.

“Not yet, not yet, but they will be.”

There was a gentle hum from some unknown source and the perturbed Florentine chief snapped, “Yes!”

Into the entrada came one of the highly uniformed members of the staff who had been about earlier. He said, “Your Zelenza, the meeting of the Council.”

“Eh? Oh, yes, of course.” The First Signore looked from his cousin to the otherworlders and back again, evidently came to a decision and snapped to Horsten, “He is the family… jester. You might keep it in mind.” Without further farewell, he marched to the entrada and the front door, which opened before him.

Helen looked at Cesare Marconi. “Tony thinks you’re a phony-baloney, Mr. The Great Marconi.”

“The feeling has long been reciprocated, Signorina,” the Florentine told her. He came to his feet again and made his way to the bar and scowled down at it. “He’s probably got it locked up,” he muttered.

The massive scientist came over to Helen and squint-eyed down at her. “Are you drenched?” he said accusingly.

“On that lilac-water?” She snorted.

The door through which the First Signore had just left had not closed behind him. Through it now, came Zorro Juarez, a harassed air upon him. Maggiore Verona brought up the rear. He looked at Cesare Marconi.

Marconi looked back, “Go away,” he said. “I’m burglarizing Antonio’s quarters and don’t want to be bothered.”

The maggiore quivered but momentarily held his ground.

The relative of the Firenze chief of state said nastily, “I’ll get my mother to tell my aunt you were seen talking to an Engelist Then you’ll be in the soup, Roberto old friend.”

“What Engelist? No member of the Marconi family-even you—would ever tell a deliberate falsehood.”

Cesare Marconi leered at him. “Me—that’s who. Do you deny you’re talking to me, right this minute? An admitted Engelist.”

The maggiore was indignant.

Helen said to him helpfully, “You go on. Me an’ Gertrude’ll keep an eye on him.”

Maggiore Verona came to unhappy decision, bowed, muttered, “Signorina, Signori,” and left.

The Great Marconi looked after him and sneered.

Jerry said to Zorro, “How’s the janitor accommodations in the cellar?”

Zorro glowered at him. “Shut up. You’re in luck, up here.”

“I’m always in luck,” Jerry said mildly. “And now I’m really in. I get the feeling the First Signore is going to try to sell me the local equivalent of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

The Florentine was looking at the two of them.

Horsten quickly changed the subject. “I don’t believe. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you, uh, Mr. Marconi.”

Jerry said, to Zorro, as well as to Horsten, “This is the Florentine I told you about. We met this morning at the Florida Café!”

“I had guessed. Tell me, Signore Marconi, why didn’t the maggiore, just now, challenge you? I thought that on this world challenges were exchanged on the lightest of excuse.”

“And run the chance of killing a member of the First Signore’s immediate relations?” He had given up his attempt to locate his cousin’s favorite potable, and returned with his oversized drink of whiskey to his seat.

“Frankly,” Horsten said, “I was somewhat surprised that His Zelenza himself didn’t challenge you.”

The Florentine was at his full ease. “Doctor—you are Dr. Horsten, of course? You were on Tri-Di, you know. The cameras were on you there at the university with Academician Udine. Doctor, an example is the Old West of the historical fiction Tri-Di shows. Those final scenes, where the two top gunmen come down the main street and shoot it out. It never happened, you know. You must read up on it some time. Very educational. In actuality, men of the Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid gunman level took full care not to step on each other’s toes. Very professional about it. It was much easier to shoot unarmed men down in the O.K. Corral and later brand them rustlers, since you were a marshal and who could say you nay? Or to run up your score of twenty-one notches from ambush, like our famed juvenile delinquent.”

Zorro, his handsome face grimacing, said, “What’s all this about you being an Engelist? All we hear about on this screw-box world, is the Engelists, but you never see one.” The Vacamundo cattleman was absently pounding his tranca in the palm of his left hand.

“Now you have the exception that proves the rule,” the Florentine said. “In me, you meet an Engelist.”

Jerry said, “Do you mean to say you really think you’ve got a chance of overthrowing this government? Why, half the population spends its time sniffing out subversives. Look at that cabinet of the First Signore. Ten men and all but one of them working on internal security. Go to the library and ask for a book on Engelism, and they throw you in the jug. Open your mouth about the Engelists, and thirteen bystanders howl for the police.”

Cesare Marconi again let his mask slip momentarily, and there was the drawn seriousness. “Signore Rhodes, don’t be overly impressed by the efforts governments make to prevent their institutions from being subverted. Social revolution can be equated to the fundamental change involved in an egg becoming a chick. Let us say that there might be some elements who are desirous of having the egg remain an egg. To that end, they may paint the shell of the egg with crosses, angels and cherubs. Or they might paint it red, white and blue, or other patriotic colors of other ages. They might inscribe it with all sorts of speeches and slogans, dreamed up by the most competent speech writers and advertising men available. However, that chick cannot long be put off.”

“Gosh,” Helen said.

Cesare Marconi looked at her thoughtfully before going on. “So it is with social change. If one is pending—I am not speaking of mere military revolt, or of overthrowing one group of opportunists for the benefit of another, while basic institutions are retained—than those who oppose have their work cut out. You can spend endlessly, paying your educational system from school-marms to professors to teach the young why it’s no-go.

You can subsidize ministers of every denomination to thunder against it in church and synagogue, temple and black mass coven. Alleged great thinkers can write lengthily on why it is against human nature, or whatever, but if it’s pending, you’d best have it.”

Helen said, in her child’s treble, “Or what happens, Mr. Great Martini?”

“Marconi!”

“If the little chick doesn’t break the shell, huh? What happens?”

He took her in, an edge of bafflement there. “It either breaks the shell, when the breaking is due, Signorina, . or it dies.”

Jerry said, “How does that fit in with your analogy?”

“In comparison with society? In society, when a social revolution is pending and is put off, then reaction is the inevitable alternative—usually bloody reaction, Signore Rhodes.”

The Florentine came to his feet deliberately, and looked about at them. “And now, you must pardon me.”

Suddenly there was an evil looking, black compact weapon in his hand. Its muzzle swept them, obviously in the grip of a more than ordinarily competent user.

His voice was dangerous now. “I am interested in taking a very thorough look at your luggage, Signori.”

There was a flicker in the hand of Zorro Juarez, even as Dorn Horsten snapped, “Zorro, no!”

Too late. A tendril flicked from the end of the tranca. Almost lazily, the speed deceptive, it reached and curled about the small arm. As quickly as it had appeared a split second before in the beautiful quick draw of the Florentine, that quickly the gun vanished from his hand. Magically, it was in the grasp of Zorro Juarez, who was looking mockingly at Cesare Marconi.

That duelist, smiling faintly, put his hands in his pockets and nodded. “That’s what I thought,” he said.

He looked from Zorro to Dorn Horsten, to Jerry Rhodes, each in their turn. “I didn’t know which one it would come from, or how. But I got the impression that when somebody yells, ‘stick ’em up’ at this little group, it doesn’t react exactly as surface appearances might indicate.” He looked down at Helen. “I can’t figure out where you come in,” he said.

Helen stuck her tongue out at him.

He turned and headed for the door.

“Stop!” Zorro snapped, the gun at the ready.

Cesare Marconi took his turn at a mocking grin.

“’Why?” he said, over his shoulder. “I found out what I came to find out. Now I want to think about it.” He twisted his mouth at the threat of the weapon. “You wouldn’t dare use that.”

“Wait long enough for a question or two,” Horsten said, after glaring his disgust at Zorro. “Where did you get the gun?”

“Wondering how I got it past the guards, eh?” Marconi shook his head. “You needn’t suspect that I’m a plant they let by with the shooter because we’re in cahoots. It was stashed in the bar. My beloved cousin keeps them about his quarters—an assassin complex. I don’t blame him.”

“Are you really an Engelist?”

The Florentine smiled wryly. After a thoughtful pause, he said, “Yes.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

The mouth was still wry. “Perhaps, some day, I’ll tell you.”

Zorro said to the scientist, “Scop?”

“Shut up.”

Cesare Marconi was mocking of voice again. “You’re really not what you seem, are you?” He looked at Zorro. “So you have truth serum on hand. Naughty, naughty.”

Zorro said, “One last question. What do you know about the Dawnworlds?”

Horsten’s face froze in disapproval. Jerry Rhodes’ eyebrows went up.

For the first time since his arrival, the self-named Great Marconi seemed out of his depth. “Dawnworlds? Never heard of them.”

Horsten said, “Evidently, some new planets that might eventually join up with our confederation.”

The Florentine scowled his puzzlement at Zorro Juarez, shrugged and turned, saying over his shoulder, “And once again, for the present, Signorina and Signori, farewell.”

This time, they made no effort to halt him as he left.

When he was gone, Horsten glared at Zorro. “Have you gone completely around the bend? Didn’t you have sense enough not to take his gambit when he pulled that gun? What was the hurry? Any one of us could have taken him, at any time.”

“Given luck,” Jerry said.

Zorro was embarrassed. “I acted without thinking. Sorry. It makes me nervous, somebody with a shooter in his hand.”

Helen snorted, matching her big companion’s disgust. “Nervous people don’t make good Section G operatives,” she said. “But what in the name of the Holy Ultimate was the idea of asking him about the Dawnworlds?”

Zorro flared up defensively. “Damn it, none of you seem to realize that something’s off-beat about this Dawnworld thing. You know what one of those over-muscled goons asked, on the way down to that two-by-four room they’ve boxed me into?”

He had all eyes.

“One of them mentioned the fact that I was from overspace and asked me, in off-hand curiosity, if I’d heard anything new about the Dawnworlds. I tried to draw him out, without saying anything myself, and came up with a rumor he’d heard. Evidently, some outfit, somewhere, is getting together an expedition to raid these Dawnworlds. Not connected with any government, mind you. Some private pirate gang.”

“What? Horsten blurted.

Zorro threw up a hand in a gesture of disgust. “All I’m telling you is what I heard. That’s why I asked this Marconi character if he knew anything. We’ve blown our cover with him anyway. We might’ve learned something.”

“One thing,” Helen said grudgingly. “I doubt if our Great Marconi is an agent provocateur. If he is, then we’re in the chowder already. But I don’t think he is.”

“And I don’t think he’s an Engelist, either,” Jerry said.

Helen looked at him. “Why not?”

Jerry shrugged it off in deprecation. “I don’t know. He’s got something simmering. What, I don’t know. But from everything we’ve seen and heard, these Engelists are a bunch of crackpots, and I don’t get quite that impression about Cesare Marconi.”

Dorn Horsten snorted. “If he’s an Engelist, it’s for the purpose of using them. I’m afraid that friend Marconi is one of the ruling hierarchy of Firenze who’s managed to get expelled from the inner ranks, and wants back in.”

Jerry said, “Well I wouldn’t be surprised if he made it. Compared to that First Signore, he’s a brain.”

“Which is more than I can say for you,” Helen snarled. “What do you think Dorn was pointing at his watch for? What do you think I said Geneva for?”

Jerry looked at her blankly.

“When you were telling d’Arrezzo about all the supposed capital you’ve got. Geneva, Geneva. The planet Geneva, where the only industry is interplanetary banking and exchange and making chronometers. If you’ve got variable capital in large amounts on hand, it’d be stashed safely away on Geneva.”

“Oh,” Jerry said apologetically. He brightened. “Evidently they’ve checked out my cover, and found that I’m supposedly loaded with the stuff.”

Horsten said, “If Irene Kasansky handled your cover, it’s handled, period. She’s undoubtedly fed into the records information indicating your family is one of the wealthiest in United Planets.”

Jerry lighted up. “There should be some way for me to blow some of it.” He added quickly, “Just in the way of maintaining the front, of course.”

Zorro growled, “How about buying this damned hotel and putting another floor on it so I can get some decent accommodations?” He looked at Horsten. “Shouldn’t we report again to Sid Jakes?”

Helen hopped down from her chair. “If you had your way, we’d report to Jakes every hour, on the hour. Our cover’s blown badly enough as it is. We’d better keep that communicator off the sub-space waves as much as we can.”

“Well, he ought to know about this new Dawnworld development. Possibly there’s something he can add to what we know. Something we can use.”

“Our assignment’s Firenze,” Horsten said. “Let Metaxa and Jakes worry about the Dawnworlds.”

Helen had approached the bar and squatted down before it on her heels, in a compelling childlike stance. She looked at the lock of the compartment the First Signore had used earlier. After a moment of contemplation, she took a hairpin from her blonde tresses.

She said, “Hm.”

“Hey!” Horsten snapped.

She ignored him. Her tiny hands were, as always, deft. The door opened. Helen peered inside.

“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Three bottles of the stuff. Tricky miser, isn’t he?” She reached into the interior, brought forth a full bottle of the exotic liqueur beloved by the First Signore of Firenze. She held the bottle up and read the label. “Twelve Star Golden Chartreuse,” she said. “He hordes it as though he couldn’t get another jug of the stuff with all the loot in his treasury.”

“Put it back,” Horsten said. “He probably couldn’t. I’ve heard of it. There’s no more available. When Betelgeuse Three was first explored, it didn’t allow colonization. The planetary engineering boys went to work and the biome balance was thrown off. When the first colonists moved in, the berry from which the beverage was made, surprisingly similar to the Earth plant of the ericaceous genus Vaccinium, was still surviving, and continued to do so for possibly half a century. During that period, the liqueur was laid down. Supposedly it has the most delicate bouquet and flavor of all time. However, ecology of Betelgeuse Three had been altered to the point where the berry slowly became extinct.”

She activated the stopper. “So you can’t get any more? You know, the stuff grows on you.”

“Put it back, you little lush,” Horsten said. “If you can’t get any more, why develop a taste for it?”

Helen ignored him. She put the bottle down by her side momentarily, bent back to the keyhole with her hairpin. She locked the small door again, came erect with the bottle, and acquired a glass from the bar.

She went back to the overgrown chair she had claimed as her own, put the bottle and glass on the cocktail table, after pouring herself a respectable portion, made herself comfortable and said, “All right, the meeting will come to order. So far, we’ve been handling this like a bunch of clowns. We need a plan of action.”

She raised her glass to her nose and sniffed. “You know”—she nodded to her supposed father—“you’re right. It sure stinks pretty. A little sticky, maybe, but real nice.”

Chapter Eleven

Dr. Horsten lumbered along the sidewalk with the great dignity of an Imperial penguin. His right forefinger, which in size resembled a small salami, was in the possession of his little girl who, to match his pace, even though he was but strolling, had devised a combination of trip and skip. Beneath her free arm was tucked a rather oversized doll whose bedraggled hair and every-which-way clothing proclaimed it had seen better days.

The big man seemed to have other, deeper things, on his mind, but he dutifully pointed out various sights as they progressed along the streets of Firenze, capital city of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Firenze. It was quite a charming sight to their fellow pedestrians who couldn’t quite make out the actual words exchanged.

Helen tinkled in her childish treble, albeit softly, There’s another one of the obscenities.”

“Shush, damnit, watch your language. Somebody’ll hear you-” He beamed affectionately down at her.

“Watch your own damn language.” She smiled back winningly. “What’s the use of going out if every one of their multiple security agencies has at least one man on us, plus, probably, the Engelists to boot?”

“It’s a matter of getting the feeling of the town. Watch yourself; our cover is already blown badly enough, you diminutive witch.”

“Why, you overgrown ox. I ought to clobber you one. Besides, I’ve got the feeling of this jerk planet. It’s a nut factory. Half of them in uniform, the other half look like they’re on the kind of rations you get on the Welfare State worlds.”

Horsten chuckled benignly, as though the little girl had gotten off a childish bit of bright saying.

“Here’s a park,” he said. “Suppose we sit for a time and give the poor chaps tagging us an opportunity to rest their feet.”

They found an unoccupied bench and the little girl bounced up beside her daddy and smoothed her pretty skirt self-consciously. She propped the doll up beside her and smoothed its skirt as well.

She murmured, “Still no beep from Gertrude. Evidently they haven’t any great shakes in the way of parabolic mikes, at least not the mobile variety.”

“Which surprises me, but then I am continually being surprised on this world. It’s not exactly as I had expected it from the little Metaxa told us.”

“Let’s face it. This is a damned police state.”

Horsten grunted discomfort at her words. “But with that all-important difference, Helen. The dream of freedom is there. They are fighting to retain it.”

“Retain it? It’s already gone. It’s been smothered in gobbledygook. Which is often what happens to freedom, inalienable rights and such. It’s everybody to his own definition, and the devil take the hindmost.”

Horsten said in unhappy doggedness, “It’s why we were sent here. They’re desperately hanging onto free institutions, in the face of one of the most insidious undergrounds in United Planets.”

But Helen was feeling more than usually argumentative, even for Helen. “That word freedom is on the elastic side. Wait’ll I think of the classic example I memorized back when I was going to school. It’s a dilly.” She thought for a moment, pink tongue stuck out the side of her mouth.

“Yeah. Here it is. You need the background. The Spanish conquest of Mexico and the Aztecs. The quotation comes from Fransisco de Aguilar, one of Cortes’ Conquistadors . It goes: ‘Sometimes the captain gave us very good talks, leading us to believe that each one of us would be a count or duke and one of the titled; with this he transformed us from lambs to lions, and we went out against that large army without fear or hesitation… We had a courageous captain and soldiers who were determined to die for freedom.’ ”

In spite of himself, Dorn Horsten had to laugh. He said, “I’ve got a better one. From the state where my people originated, Texas.”

“Texas? I thought you came from some planet with a one point four gravity. Texas? Didn’t it used to be a political division back on Mother Earth? The only thing that comes to my mind is an old saying, ‘If there had been a back door to the Alamo there wouldn’t have been a Texas.’ ”

Horsten winced. “Luckily for you, I am several generations removed from the old sod. At any rate, the area used to Belong to Mexico. Immigrants from the southern United States were invited in to help populate it. However, after a couple of decades they revolted, desiring freedom.”

“Freedom?”

“Freedom. First, it seems as though the Mexicans, way down in the capital, Mexico City, wanted to tax them as any other Mexicans. But that wasn’t the worst abridgment of freedom. It seems as though Mexico had abolished slavery and the newly arrived emigrants weren’t allowed the freedom to own slaves. Happily with the aid of Volunteers’ from America, such as Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie, they threw off the Mexican yoke and established a new country whose laws allowed slavery. They applied for entry into the United States and when it was granted submitted to paying the taxes to Washington which they had refused to Mexico City, half the distance away. So the freedom to own slaves was evidently the more germane freedom for which they fought.”

Helen snorted. “But, let’s get back to freedom here on Firenze. We’ve got to get cracking, or we’re going to pull a zero for poor Lee Chang. And, thus far, we know precious little more about these Engelists than we did when Ross Metaxa briefed us.”

“Do you think Zorro and Jerry will be able to make some sort of contact? Frankly, I got exactly nowhere with my local scientists. I could be mistaken, but the impression I got was that none of them belonged to the underground. In fact, none of them seemed interested in the movement, even when I dropped a few hints.”

Helen said, “Zorro’ll make his contacts today with agricultural elements. Possibly they’re more politically minded than your double-domes.”

If he can stop thinking about the Dawn worlds long enough. See here, what do you think about Jerry?”

“’What is there to think about Jerry? Lee Chang pulled a blank when she brought that one into her Department of Special Talents.”

“I don’t know. How do you explain the phenomenon of his luck?”

“It’s that damn morale of his. That air of knowing perfectly well that everything is going to work out for him. It simply never occurs that it could be otherwise. Suppose you’re playing poker. You’ve got, say, four queens and the pot’s gigantic. You look over at him, knowing his reputation for luck. He’s got this idiotic confidence on his face. You have inner qualms. Still wearing that complete rejection of the classic poker face, he raises. Now you know he’s got at least four kings and probably a straight flush. Your own morale shattered, you fold. Actually, what he’s probably got is a pair of deuces.” She snorted disgust again.

Horsten looked at her. “Suppose you called him instead of folding?”

“You don’t. That’s what makes you so furious, afterwards. Did you ever play poker with him?”

The big man shuddered. “I wouldn’t bet him it was Tuesday, on Tuesday. As a scientist, I don’t believe in time travel, and I’d hate to be the one to prove myself wrong.”

“Why, Dorn, you old fuddy-duddy. You made a funny.”

He suddenly sat erect. “Poker!” he exclaimed.

“What’s the matter?”

“Where’s Jerry?”

“He was going to wait until the First Signore came back to the suite and go through the pretense of looking into investment opportunities. There’s always the off chance that some of these Engelists are in the highest places, among d’Arrezzo’s own financial advisers. It wouldn’t be the first time a revolt has been sponsored from the top down. Look at Franco, look at Hitler…”

“Poker?” Horsten ejaculated, coming hurriedly to his feet.

“What’s the matter with you?”

He grabbed her by the hand and took off in the direction from which they had come. Her short legs had to blur to keep up with his pace.

“Why do you think our friend Antonio d’Arrezzo was so compliant about letting Jerry—and us—remain in his personal suite?”

“He bet with Jerry, and lost! Slow down, damn it!”

He looked desperately up and down the street, even as he hurried. Passersby now looked at them, startled. Gertrude was being dragged along by one leg; Helen’s hair streamed back.

“Aren’t there any hovercabs in this confounded town!” he complained. “How do you know the First Signore lost that bet?”

She blinked up at him.

“Jerry didn’t look. He never looks. He automatically assumes he’s won. You didn’t see the coin, I didn’t. Nobody saw it but d’Arrezzo. Are you sure Jerry won?”

“What are you driving at? Look out!”

Dom Horsten, in blind hurry to get back to the hotel, had started across a street. A small, two-seat sports hovercar was upon them, its klaxon blurting hysterically.

Horsten straight-armed it with his left, and the hood accordioned in a crash and moan of ruptured metal. Not even bothering to look back, he hustled Helen on.

“Didn’t you get those questions about Jerry’s supposed resources? What form he has his capital in? And you know what we’ve briefed Jerry to say.”

“What’re you talking about!” she wailed. Only her acrobatic training was keeping her on her feet and saving her from being dragged by the agitated scientist. “Large amounts of cash, and Firenze is a planet that’s evidently short of negotiable exchange. Jerry supposedly has an almost infinite amount of variable capital deposited on Geneva, famed for its numbered accounts. Famed for the politicians and treasurers who have taken it on the lam from the planets where they held office.”

“Oh, oh,” Helen said. “He asked Jerry if he knew how to play poker!” She reached up and snagged her companion’s belt, hit her heels against the sidewalk and gracefully bounded to the other’s shoulder. “Get a move on, horsey!”

No cab was forthcoming and they were forced to retrace the whole way back to the Albergo Palazzo on foot. At the main entrance, Dorn Horsten came to a quick halt. The Great Marconi was emerging.

The self-named Engelist beamed at them. “Ah, the celebrated Dr. Horsten. I was just refused entrance to your quarters. But here you are.”

“What did you want?”

Cesare Marconi negligently let his eyes go back and forth, checking their vicinity, before saying, “On considering you and your associates at greater length, it occurred to me that we might exchange further information.”

The big scientist hesitated. “Look. Come along. Perhaps we could use an extra witness—a Florentine witness.”

The other’s eyebrows went up, but he trailed along. He murmured, “Very well, but believe me, my most fervent oath to veracity is as though written on expanding gas, in this town.”

On the way to the private elevator which led to the penthouse suite, Marconi said, “And what is the great emergency?”

Helen, still perched on Horsten’s shoulder, her arms around his neck, said, “My daddy thinks maybe Mr. First Signore is gonna try and gyp my Uncle Jerry.” She added, “He doesn’t know my Uncle Jerry.”

Cesare Marconi looked at her thoughtfully. He murmured, “And I am afraid your Uncle Jerry doesn’t know Cousin Antonio. One does not become a chief executive on any world without certain devious qualities. Certainly, one does not become First Signore without them.”

“My Uncle Jerry is lucky,” Helen announced.

“So is my cousin Antonio. He’s lucky somebody hasn’t shot him already. It’s high time he got out from under.”

They reached the penthouse, to be greeted by a host of the First Signore’s bodyguards. The officer in charge scowled at Cesare Marconi. “Signore, I have already informed you that His Zelenza…”

Dorn Horsten bit out, “Citizen Marconi accompanies me. I am His Zelenza’s guest.”

“But the First Signore has ordered that he not be disturbed!”

The small group was hustling past him to the door of the suite. Horsten said, “Don’t be an ass, my good fellow. I live here.”

Helen made a face at the security man.

Inside, they pulled up abruptly. Exactly what Horsten had dreaded finding wasn’t clear, but not this.

Space had been cleared for a big table in the living room’s center. Two or three of the faceless staff which accompanied the Florentine chief of state were busily at work on it. To one side Jerry Rhodes and’ their host, Antonio d’Arrezzo, glasses in hand. With them stood a newcomer to the Section G group. He was a smallish man, evidently nervous by nature and with added worries currently besieging him.

The First Signore scowled. “Cesare! I thought I…”

Cesare Marconi made his usual sweeping bow. “The good doctor insisted I accompany him.”

Horsten looked about the room, even as he lowered Helen to the floor. “What transpires?”

Jerry said, “The First Signore is being kind enough to introduce me to one of his favorite games.”

“Poker?” Helen blurted inadvertently. She was ignored.

At that moment, four of the goon guards came staggering in from a rear room. Between them they carried a large and weighty wheel-like object. They manhandled it to the table, heaved together and settled it to one end.

“Roulette!” Horsten said.

“Ah,” the First Signore said, turning his attention from his black sheep cousin. “Then you are acquainted with my secret vice, Doctor. I would invite you to participate but I suspect, that as a scientist, you are slightly out of your financial depth. The Signore Rhodes and I, ha ha, have had words. We have challenged each other to play for, ha ha, sizable stakes.”

“Ha ha, is right,” Helen muttered, meandering off in the direction of the bar, Gertrude slung under her left arm.

Jerry took a pull at the glass he held in his hand. His voice was slightly hazy. He said, “Great opportunity. I was telling His Zellensidor…”

The nervous little man standing next to the First Signore looked pained.

“…about having my capital stashed away on Geneva, an’ he pointed out he had a lotta interests here on Firenze such as my mother sent me over to take a look at. ’Ranium mines, and all. So the Tenth Signore, here, just by coincidence, like, turned up. An’ he can handle the whole thing. So we’re gonna have a friendly game, an’ maybe Tony…”

The Tenth Signore looked pained again.

“… maybe Tony’ll get some of my negotiable capital, or maybe I’ll get some of his securities.”

Horsten said quickly, “But, Jerry, have you considered all this? Your mother and all. Axe you sure it’s fair? That is…”

Jerry waved the hand in which he held the glass, spilling only a few drops. “Oh, I warned ’em. Didn’t I, Tony? Told him I was lucky.”

The First Signore beamed over his shoulder at Horsten. He was supervising the final setting-up of the roulette layout. “I, too, am inordinately fortunate,” he told the scientist.

Horsten looked at the small confederate of the First Signore. He said, “If I understand it, you carry the Treasury portfolio in His Zelenza’s government.”

The other bobbed. “That is correct, Signore.”

“So I suppose that if your chief is the fortunate one, you can deposit his winnings to a numbered account on Geneva.”

Cesare Marconi said mockingly, “Why, Antonio, aren’t you ashamed?”

His cousin straightened and turned in anger. “Who let you in, Cesare? I warn you…”

Horsten said, giving up trying to convey unspoken messages to his young colleague, “I brought him along, Your Zelenza. Aside from you and your staff, Citizen Marconi is about the only Florentine we have met since setting down on the planet I was in hopes he could tell me something of the workings of this rather, if you’ll pardon me, unexampled world.”

The Florentine leader said coldly, “I am afraid his ramblings will avail you little in that regard, Doctor.” The roulette table was now operative. He snapped his fingers at the half dozen aides and guards present and they scrambled.

“Well, well.” The First Signore rubbed his palms together briskly. “Who shall take the bank?” jerry Rhodes finished his drink, but his expression was blank. “Remember, I’ve never played.”

Horsten said, “The percentage is with the bank, Jerry.” He was ignored.

The First Signore took the younger man’s glass from his hand and turned to the bar. He began to refresh the drink. Inadvertently, his eyes went to the bottle from which he himself, had been drinking. He frowned slightly in puzzlement, put Jerry’s glass down and took up the bottle of Golden Chartreuse. He held it to the light, checking its level. He shook his head in bewildered disbelief, but then gave up his trend of thought and went back to mixing another portion for his guest, from a different bottle.

“Doctor,” he said. “A beverage for you, as well?” And, grudgingly, “Cesare, since you are here, if I will it or not…”

“I’ll make my own,” the Great Marconi said, and then, twisting the knife in the wound, “I have a predilection for that Betelgeuse drink of yours. I mix it with ginger beer and sugar.”

The First Signore repressed a groan of pure soul agony but returned with the tall glass to Jerry.

He stood in the croupier’s place at the head of the table and explained the game. “We have, here, this wheel and little ball. I spin the wheel and toss the ball in. There are thirty-eight slots, in all, into which it may fall; thirty-six of them numbers, one a zero, and one a double zero. Now then, on the table we have places to bet. One for each slot. If you bet on number eighteen, let us say, and the little ball drops into that slot”—he oozed charm—“then you win thirty-six times your bet.”

“Wow,” Jerry said. “Now, that’s something. None of this one-to-one wager. Thirty-six times what you bet How can you lose? Fascinatin’.”

Antonio d’Arrezzo cleared his throat unctuously. “You can lose if the little ball drops into some other slot. Now, there are several other ways in which you can wager. For instance, you will note that half the numbers are red, and half black.”

Marconi and Horsten, both sighing, though through different motivation, drifted over to the bar. The Great Marconi took over the job of making them drinks, pouring them from the bottle of Golden Chartreuse. Its bouquet suffused the immediate vicinity.

“Do you really mix gingerbeer with this stuff?” Horsten said.

“No. I’m just trying to give Antonio ulcers thinking about it. See here, can that friend of yours afford to lose?”

“He could sign a draft on any bank on Geneva to the extent of a billion interplanetary credits, and it wouldn’t faze him.”

The Great Marconi whistled softly. “Why didn’t I see him first?”

Horsten said, “But he’s not going to lose. Can your cousin afford a financial jolting?”

“Theoretically, as First Signore, he has in his name the possession of all nationalized industry on Firenze. Theoretically he could sign over their ownership.”

“What do you mean, theoretically?”

“Under interplanetary law, his signature would stand up in the Department of Interplanetary Trade on Mother Earth.”

“But…” Horsten prompted.

Cesare Marconi looked at him. “Isn’t it obvious? If he signed away, in his position as chief of state, the public property, his neck would be in a noose before the day was out.”

“Then why take the chance?”

The Great Marconi pulled at his glass glumly. “He’s not going to lose.”

The two, carrying their drinks, made their way back to the roulette table. The First Signore had just finished explaining the workings of the ages-old game. Jerry Rhodes stood at the table side, a stack of chips before him. Evidently, through the Tenth Signore, the two contestants had made some sort of financial arrangement so that they could wager.

Jerry took a sip from his glass, set it down and took up a chip. “Well start off slow,” he said, his voice slurring only slightly. “Hundred thousand interplanetary credits on the very number you mentioned—eighteen.”

“A… hundred… thousand… interplanetary… credits,” Cesare Marconi said.

Dorn Horsten had given up.

Antonio d’Arrezzo spun the wheel. He tossed the plastic ball so that it rolled, counter to the direction of the spin, about the edge of the bowl in which the wheel sat. All eyes were fascinated.

The ball lost momentum, slipped from the rim, hit into the numbered slots, bounced out, bounced in again, seemed to have found its place in slot number thirty, but then gave one last feeble bounce.

“Eighteen!” Jerry blurted happily.

The First Signore stared disbelief.

“Thirty-six to one,” Jerry said, grinning around at the small circle of them. “Tha’s what I call odds.” He looked to the Firenze strong-arm, pinch-hitting as croupier. “Let her roll.”

It was the jittery Tenth Signore who said, “Let her roll?”

Jerry Rhodes looked at the Florentine chief of state accusingly. “You said no limit, didn’t you?”

“Eh?” Antonio d’Arrezzo was still staring at the plastic ball, nestled in slot eighteen. “Oh. No limit.

Why… yes, of course.” He had been in the process of shoving two stacks of chips, eighteen to the stack, in Jerry’s direction, with his croupier stick.

Jerry pushed them all over onto number eighteen.

Cesare Marconi shot Horsten an incredulous look. “You mean he’s going to wager thirty-seven hundred thousand interplanetary credits on one spin of the wheel? One chance in thirty-eight of it coming up?”

Horsten shook his massive head. “I told you he was lucky.”

“Nobody’s that lucky.”

The First Signore plucked the ball from the eighteen slot and looked at it He hefted it. He seemed to shrug infinitesimally, then spun the wheel again. He tossed the ball as he had before.

Jerry said, “A bet of thirty-seven hundred thousand credits at odds of thirty-six to one. Why, I’d have to figure it out Mother’ll be pleased. Mounts to a sizable chunk of that ’ranium industry. We’ll go to work on transportation, next.” He looked at the Tenth Signore. “Didn’t you say that was one of the nationalized industries?”

“Yes.”

Cesare Marconi glowered a look of disgust at the young man, turned and went back to refresh his glass. But he had returned by the time the ball was bouncing from slot to slot.

“Eighteen!” Jerry chortled. He looked at Dorn Horsten, as though soliciting approval. “Now isn’t that luck?” He turned his shining face to the Florentine Minister of Treasury. “How much of the ’ranium industry do I have now?”

“You own it,” the Tenth Signore moaned.

“Now look here…” Horsten began, and was completely ignored.

Jerry said, in a burst of enthusiasm, “Let ’er ride again!”

The First Signore shook his head. “But… but if you won again, I wouldn’t have the chips to… to pay off.”

Jerry upended his drink, tossed the empty glass over his shoulder. “Chips, snips,” he slurred. “All or nothin’. One more rolla the wheel. If it comes up eighteen, you lose. Everything. I own all the nationalized industry on Firenze.”

For long moments, silence reigned. The First Signore was breathing deeply. So deeply that he sounded as though he had but finished the climbing of a considerable peak.

“Your Zelenzar The Tenth Signore groaned.

“Quiet!” d’Arrezzo ground out. He turned to his opponent and whispered, “You’re on.”

He picked up the plastic ball, stared at it for a long moment, hefted it slightly. He shook his head, and spun the wheel.

There was commotion at the entry. The door banged open.

The First Signore looked up to glare.

Zorro, in the hands of two of the brawniest of the Florentine guards, was being dragged along, in the trail of a gaudily uniformed officer of what the Section G representatives now recognized as the Ministry of Anti-Subversion. The officer held something in his right hand, and there was an air of triumph in his every move.

“What is the meaning of this!” d’Arrezzo barked.

“Your Zelenza!” the newcomer returned, completely uncowed. “They’re subversive spies! All spies. We captured this one sending a report to his superiors back on Earth. We were able to tape most of it.” He held up that which he had been carrying in his hand.

“Hey!” Helen bleated from across the room where she had retreated with her doll. “That’s my Gerturde’s Tri-Di Dolly Set. You give me that back!”

It was a good try, but without any response whatsoever.

“Report?” the First Signore snapped. His glare encompassed the otherworldlings.

“Yes, Your Zelenza. Most of it is unintelligible. Something about Dawnworld planets. However, we have enough to prove that these”—with a sweeping hand he indicated Jerry, the disgruntled Zorro and Dorn Horsten—“are all operatives of Section G, evidently some espionage agency of the Octagon.”

“I see,” the First Signore said.

Helen had come up to take her stance next to Horsten, at the roulette table, her doll under her arm.

Gertrude began to go Beep, beep, beep .

Chapter Twelve

The sound was audible enough for all to hear. The Florentines were not the only ones to scowl.

Of a sudden, Dorn Horsten moved. He took two lumbering steps, grasped hold of the gigantic roulette wheel, and heaved. It came up in his huge hands, and he rested it on one side on the floor. As all watched, taken aback, he pulled away the metal sheathing which covered the bottom. Beneath was a bed of wires and miniature power packs.

“Ah ha,” the doctor snorted.

Cesare Marconi whinnied amusement “Why Cousin Antonio, a rigged wheel? No wonder you were surprised when you didn’t win, and no wonder you won so often before at your parties to raise campaign funds.”

But the First Signore, in his rage, was having none. He whirled on Jerry Rhodes, now completely sober.

“An agent of Section G, I have heard rumors of this Section G and its subverting of member worlds of the United Planets. All a farce! You have no unlimited wealth on Geneva. You would have cheated me!”

“Hal” Helen snorted. “Look who’s talking.”

The open palm of Antonio d’Arrezzo lashed out across the face of the younger man. Jerry Rhodes, off guard, staggered back.

“We will meet on the field of honor!” the First Signore snapped. “Name your weapon!” He turned his glare on the scientist and then went on to Zorro Juarez. “And when I have finished with this make-believe interplanetary tycoon, then you, and you!”

The Firenze chief of state turned his glare on Cesare Marconi. “And then, perhaps you. I am not amused by you befriending these enemies of the State, nor, for that matter your professed adherence to the Engelists.” He turned back to Jerry, still fuming. “Your choice of weapons, Signore.” The term “signore” came out a sneer.

Jerry blinked at him, still not quite accommodated to the last few moments of developments.

“Uh, Sten guns,” he said. “Sten guns at five paces.”

Antonio d’Arrezzo whirled to his guard officer. “He has chosen. Make immediate arrangements!” Stiff-legged, he strode for the entry and the doorway, the Tenth Signore bustling along behind him.

The suite had emptied save for the Section G operatives and Cesare Marconi. The latter was eyeing Jerry Rhodes laconically. He turned to the bar, began making himself another drink with his cousin’s precious Betelgeuse Chartreuse. “What,” he said, “is a Sten gun?”

Jerry, rubbing his face where he had been slapped, in the classical challenge to duel, laughed in self-deprecation. “That’ll stop him,” he said.

Zorro, Helen and Horsten all looked at him, even as they gathered themselves.

He said, in rueful explanation, “I took a page from the Doc’s book, when that university scientist challenged him. I named an impossible weapon.”

Marconi bent an eye on him, even as he poured. “Impossible?”

Jerry allowed himself a chuckle. “A Sten gun. I saw one in a Tri-Di historical show once. Second or Third World War, back on Earth. Anyway, they used to drop them to the partisans behind the lines. Very simply constructed submachine gun.”

The Florentine said, in interest, “What’s impossible about it?”

Jerry scowled. “Why, it’s almost as ancient as Dom’s Macedonian pike. There are no such things any more.”

Cesare Marconi looked at him. “I have unfortunate news for you. Way-out weapons are quite a fad on the Firenze field of honor. There is an amazingly complete library on them in the archives of the College of the Code Duello.”

Zorro said, speaking for the first time since he had been hauled so unceremoniously into the room. “You mean they’d make up a couple, to order, just for this one duel?”

“Yes. In practically no time at all.”

Jerry flinched. “But… but the ammunition, and so forth.”

“They’ll make that too. Do you know what a Sten gun fires?”

“I… I think they fire bullets. A clip of twenty or so.”

“At five paces?” the Florentine said. “Holy Ultimate, you’ll both be hamburger. No, only you. I have no great respect for my highly placed cousin, but he has perhaps the fastest reflexes on the planet Firenze. It is no mistake he is the First Signore.”

Helen said, “Look. While you’re over there, make me one of those king-size drinks too, will you?”

They used the heavy table, which a few moments past had been utilized for the roulette layout, for their conference. The wheel lay to one side, where Dorn Horsten had let it drop upon revealing its crooked nature. Zorro had swept the felt layout board to the floor as well, and all had brought up seats, save Helen who remained in the comfort chair she had made her own.

Cesare Marconi, somehow, had automatically become a member of the group. He said to Dorn Horsten, “What’s this Section G? My friend, Bulchand, just before he was killed in a put-up duel, revealed he belonged to it, and that undoubtedly new representatives would be coming to replace him from Earth, if he was killed. It’s why I contacted you. You seemed unlikely, but you were the only travelers from Earth in some time.”

The scientist looked at him quizzically. Finally, he said, “All I can tell you is that its purpose, so far as Firenze is concerned, is to get this planet back on the road to progress.”

“That sounds good enough to me.”

Helen said, “I’m beginning to think I know the answer to this already, but just for the record, if you’re in favor of progress on Firenze, what’re you doing in the ranks of the Engelists?”

Marconi eyed her in speculation. “I’m beginning to think I know the answer to this question already too, but you’re an adult, aren’t you?”

Helen snorted and looked at Zorro and Jerry. “Evidently more so than my two colleagues, here.” She looked Marconi full in the face. “What’re you doing in the ranks of the Engelists?”

“Ranks of the Engelist? I am the Engelists.”

Dom Horsten was scowling at him. “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate is that supposed to mean?”

Helen looked at her large partner. “Isn’t is obvious? What he’s saying is, there are no Engelists on this crackpot planet. There are none, never were any.” A speculative look came to her face. “I was about to add, and never will be.”

“Nothing’s making sense around here!” Zorro complained. “What do you mean, there are no Engelists? We were sent here, all the way from Earth to…”

Helen overrode him. “Get stute, love. It’s all phony. The powers that be on this zany world maintain themselves with a police state camouflaged as a democratic regime that has to curtail all liberties, civil and otherwise, in the supposed fight against subversion. It’s not the first time witch hunting has been resorted to, when there were precious few witches, in order to maintain the status quo. This is just the most complete example known in history.”

Jerry said, “You mean everybody on Firenze spends practically all their time looking for subversives that aren’t there? How about that leaflet Maggiore Verona showed us?”

Horsten grunted. “Obviously, the government itself printed them up. Which explains how stupidly it was worded. No, Helen’s right. It’s a sort of reverse of the old Roman adage. When confronted with possible revolt from your people at home, stir up trouble abroad. In this case, the powers that be pretend the need to unite the country against subversives when their real interest is to preserve themselves in control. Only those on the very highest levels are in on the secret. Not even that colonel in the Anti-Subversion Ministry, whom Helen and I interrogated, knew the real situation.”

Zorro growled, “What gets me is that when you arrive at the top, the First Signore—not to mention that silly little member of his council, the Tenth Signore—you draw a small-time crook, and not a particularly smart one, at that.”

Dorn Horsten said, “That’s one of the mistakes the man in the street has made down through the ages. He simply can’t realize that those in ultimate power are not, necessarily, competent to exercise power. And that applies to the most highly evolved societies as well as the backward.” He snorted. “Take the first caesars, following the founders of the Empire, Julius and Augustus. From Tiberius, through Caligula and Claudius to Nero. Sex deviates, sadistic monsters, playboys, mass murderers. Caligula was actually quite mad. The end of the Julain line? Nero, who fiddled around until the Empire burned and they were heading to lynch him when he committed suicide.

“It’s not the only example. History teems with them. But can you imagine some sincere Centurion, stationed at an important outpost on the Parthian frontier, being told that the God-Emperor, back in Rome, had made one of his racehorses a Consul, and made prostitutes of his two sisters? He simply wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, believed it. You don’t have to go that far back. Would a good British subject of the early Nineteenth Century have believed you, had you told him his monarchy was. crazy? Did the American people of the Twentieth Century have an idea, really, of the true competence of some of their elected presidents?”

Jerry said, “But this isn’t just a matter of an incompetent getting to power. Sure, that’s happened before, (specially when rulers inherited their jobs, but even when they could get elected to them because they happened to have a photogenic face for TV, or oozed sincerity, politician style. But this whole government, the whole planet, is a farce.”

Helen sighed. “It’s not the first time there, either. Remember some of the supposed sovereign states, back before man reached into space. What was the one on the French Riviera? Monaco. A bit over three hundred acres. Half the size of Central Park, in the New York City of the time. But it had a supposed prince, princess and all the rest of the feudalistic foofaraw. Even that wasn’t the most ludicrous. Did you ever hear of the Sovereign Order of the Knights of Malta, which was contemporary with Monaco, the United States and the rest? It was a sovereign country with its own citizens, ambassadors, air force, license plates and so forth and it occupied the second floor of a villa in Rome, as its sole territory.”

She changed the subject. “All right. Fine. Ross Metaxa, back in the Octagon, was sold a bill of goods, along with everyone else. There are no Engelists on Firenze and the present ruling class are incompetents, not patriots fighting an underground. But we’ve got more pressing problems.” She looked at Zorro. “How in hell did you get caught by those dimwits?”

The dark complected Vacamundian was surly. “I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me that they’d have that cubicle of a room, occupied by a junior janitor, bugged. I thought the rest of you were wrong, that we ought to report on these Dawnworld developments, so I took your disguised communicator and called Sid Jakes. You know the rest.”

“No use crying over spilled milk,” Jerry Rhodes said.

All eyes went to him.

Helen snarled, “I ought to spill some milk over you. What was the idea of getting into that stupid roulette game with the big shot? You knew damn well you didn’t have any real negotiable credits on Geneva.”

Jerry was plaintive. “I couldn’t escape him. I couldn’t have got out of it without blowing our cover. He was hot to get his hands on hard exchange in a numbered account on Geneva, and he wasn’t going to take no.”

Helen looked at Cesare Marconi, who had been absorbing it all, his face intelligently serious. “Why don’t you start talking?” she said.

He nodded. “Obviously, my cousin was trying to get out from under while he still had his skin. He probably does not wish to go through even this next pseudo-election.”

“Why not?” Zorro said.

Marconi turned to him. “During the elections, the First Signore’s immunity to challenge no longer applies, at least in so far as other potential candidates within the ranks of the Machiavellian Party are concerned. Over the years, a man’s reflexes fall off. This is Antonio’s second term and he’s possibly afraid he wouldn’t live to serve another.” He looked around at the others. “I can only be ashamed of the fantastically ridiculous institutions of my planet, that the Code Duello should play such a major part. It would seem impossible.”

Horsten said, “It’s not as unprecedented as all that We were talking about the United States a moment ago. In its early days, two of its most prominent statesmen, both of presidential caliber, fought a duel. Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr. One was killed, the other’s career was ruined by the results of the fight.”

“At any rate,” Marconi said, “Antonio’s problems are probably solved. He’ll have his Anti-Subversion lads do up a good case against you. The fact that you’re from overspace makes it still better. This duel will be highly popular and”—he looked at Jerry glumly—“his killing you will undoubtedly result in his retaining his office. Hell be so popular that his opponents wouldn’t dream of opposing him openly.” His eyes went to Horsten and Zorro. “Then, he’ll take on you two, just to parlay his popularity to the skies.”

Jerry cleared his throat. “Suppose I finish him, instead. I’m kind of lucky.”

The Florentine shook his head. “Luck isn’t going to be involved. And, you being a subversive from overspace, if by the wildest chance you did win, the mob would find you and pull you down. If you’re lucky, there’ll be a quick death under Antonio’s fire, which is what will happen anyway. As I told you, his reflexes are admirable, possibly next to my own, the best on Firenze.”

Zorro said, “If you’re so good, why aren’t you First Signore?”

Marconi looked at him and said very slowly, “I told you I was the sole Engelist on Firenze. I am opposed to the present institutions. And that includes dueling as a method of achieving political ends.” He snorted self-deprecation. “In spite of the fact that events have made it necessary for me to take up tutoring fencing to make my living.”

Helen popped up from her chair and strode over to the bar, the childish skip gone from her walk. She grabbed up the sole remaining bottle of Golden Chartreuse and returned with it to the table to pour herself a healthy slug. “What an aroma,” she murmured.

And then, “Look. We’re going around and around, getting nowhere. By the looks of it, we’re being kept in this suite until the slaughter. Jerry’s going to have his work cut out avoiding that appointment in the Parco Duello. And…”

“Not in the park,” Cesare Marconi said, shaking his head. “Too big an event. It’ll be in the auditorium of the College of the Code Duello, where the Tri-Di coverage will be perfect.”

Jerry said, “You mean this whole thing goes on the air?”

“Like I said, Signore Rhodes, it will be the making of the First Signore in this pseudo-election. It will be played up to the point where every man, woman and child on Firenze will be glued to the Tri-Di set.”

“Hm,” Helen said.

The Great Marconi reached out for the bottle of Chartreuse, but little Helen was before him. She snatched the rare liqueur. There was only an inch or so left.

The Florentine’s eyebrows went up. She didn’t look particularly the worse for wear, in spite of the hefty number of drinks she had poured down since the First Signore and his party had left.

Helen said, ” I think I’ve got a use for this.”

Dorn Horsten grunted. “You’ve had a use for all three bottles the bar originally was equipped with,” he said. “I’ll never get over it. You put away alcohol like it was strained fruit juice.”

“Shut up, you big lummox, I’m thinking.”

Horsten grunted again and turned back to the Florentine duelist. “To get back to Jerry and his rendezvous with your cousin. What will be the procedure?”

“I suppose you two, you and Zorro, will have to be Signore Rhodes’ seconds. However, I’ll act as your adviser. The manufacturing of the Sten guns shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours. Undoubtedly, Antonio’s seconds will then turn up and a time will be set for the meeting. You have, perhaps, a day and a half, at most, two.”

Helen said, “No way of escaping? Getting off the planet?”

He looked at her glumly. “With the security forces on this world? And only one spaceport? And with no United Planets Embassy, even? Why do you bother to ask?”

The auditorium of the College of the Code Duello was done up in such wise that it might have been recognized by a showman of yesteryear as a movie set portraying the Florence of the days of the Medici. Perhaps a cinema producer of the past might have so recognized it, though the doubt is there that Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, or Donatello would have. Alas, long millennia had expired between the golden Renaissance city and the interior decorators employed by the Machiavellian Party.

Nevertheless, the setting was impressive in its rich grandeur. On the face of it, the First Signore was going to milk every drop of propaganda value from his revenge on the subversives from overspace who had come to undermine the institutions of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Firenze. Or, so at least had the mass media of the planet announced.

Uniforms were impressive; even those of the enlisted men of the guard were a blaze of color. Officers and high rankers of the immediate staffs of the First Signore and his Council on Signori were quite breathtaking in their grandeur.

Even Cesare Marconi, for once, had risen above his usual seedy attire and had blossomed forth in the garb of a Florentine of the highest position.

He stood, most unhappily, with the group of Section G operatives in the corner of the auditorium where the protocol officers had assigned them. There were two or three Tri-Di cameras trained on them, otherwise they were free to their own devices.

The self-styled Great Marconi grunted deprecation. “I am beginning to wonder why I am here,” he said. “Foot-dragging opposition to my cousin’s government is one thing. In the past, nobody took me very seriously. This is another thing.”

Zorro said sourly, “What happens now?”

“We’re waiting for the First Signore. His public relations people undoubtedly have it all figured out. Just the point where suspense has built up to the ultimate, but not quite to where the patriotic citizenry is beginning to weary of the delay. Only the blind, on Firenze, are not watching this, and they’re listening.”

Helen, now that their cover was irretrievably blown, had improvised from her wardrobe the nearest thing she could achieve to adult wear and a touch of cosmetics. She had rearranged her hair, managed a bit here, a bit there, so that she now appeared to be an adult, albeit a tiny one by the standards of any member of the United Planets save her own world.

Jerry said, not nearly so glum as the occasion might have warranted, “I’ve always been kind of lucky.”

They ignored that.

Dorn Horsten, pushing his glasses back on his nose in irritation, said, “I’m beginning to build up a disregard for your cousin, my friend.”

Cesare looked at him. “Don’t let your hopes get too high. Antonio will never meet you with Macedonian pikes, nor anything else where your strength might be a factor. Believe me, some way will be found in which his own chances are minimal.”

Horsten said, “You mean he’ll stack the deck? He doesn’t seem to have done so in Jerry’s case. Except for his alleged fast reflexes, the duel seems to be fifty-fifty.”

“Seems is correct,” Cesare said. “I don’t trust him.”

“But we all inspected and tried out the two weapons before they were sealed in that carrying case, last night.” The scientist looked at Jerry in compassion. “You certainly picked the most deadly short-range weapon come down through history.”

Zorro said abruptly to their Florentine companion, “Look, isn’t there any way for the rest of us to get out of this? It’s bad enough that Jerry, here, has obviously had it, but…”

Shut up, lover,” Helen snorted.

He glared at her darkly. “We don’t win any prizes by going down in noble defeat. If there’s anything we can do to help Jerry, very well. But if we can’t, our job is to survive and carry on the work. Maybe Marconi has some place we could hide.”

But Cesare Marconi was shaking his head. “Forget about it, Juarez. I’m possibly the most observed man on Firenze. They haven’t cracked down on me in the past, because of my family connections, but, as Antonio said the last time we saw him, they aren’t amused by my professions of being an Engelist. They know that I know the whole tiling is a fraud, that there are no Engelists. I couldn’t hide you. I couldn’t even hide myself.”

“There must be some way we can get out from under,” Zorro said.

There was a blare of anachronistic clarions.

There was a great animation at the opposite end of the hall, a great stirring. All, save the Section G operatives and their single Florentine adherent, came to formal attention.

Down the center of the auditorium, stiff-legged, the stride of the cavalryman long used to high military boots, came Antonio Cesare Bartolemo d’Arrezzo, First Signore of the Free Democratic Commonwealth of Firenze. He looked to neither left nor right at the perfectly aligned men at arms who flanked his march. In that multitude of the uniformed, his was the simplest garb of all, a simple black duelist’s costume, the shirt open at the neck, rubber-soled sport shoes on his feet.

Immediately behind him were his seconds, Alberto Scialanga, the Third Signore, and another high ranking officer, unknown to the otherworldlings until the formalities of the meeting had been gone through.

Cesare Marconi cleared his throat, an element of apology there. “All right,” he said. “Here we go. We advance to within five paces, the stipulated distance. Jerry, you stop at that point. Dorn and Zorro, you advance to make last preparations with his seconds, and to receive Jerry’s weapon. We went over the details last night. I’ll be immediately behind you, as adviser, in case you have questions.”

Helen said, “I don’t know what the rules are, but I’m coming along.”

Cesare Marconi scowled down at her, began to say something, shook his head, and closed his mouth.

They marched out to meet the First Signore and his people.

Jerry Rhodes’ opponent stood there, five correct paces away, his black-clad legs slightly parted, his hands behind his back. His two seconds approached. Dorn Horsten and Zorro Juarez met them halfway, Marconi immediately to their rear. The Third Signore carried an elaborately decorated flat box, the other second a golden key with which he ceremoniously unlocked the container.

Inside were two Sten guns. On the handle of one, in gold inlay, was lettered SIGNORE RHODES, on the other, SIGNORE D’ARREZZO.

The box was extended to Dorn Horsten, who took forth Jerry’s weapon and returned with it to his principle.

“Are there any questions, Signori?” Alberto Scialanga said to Horsten and Zorro.

“None,” the scientist said unhappily.

The First Signore’s men returned to him and proffered the box. He took forth his own weapon, balanced it in his hands as though he had handled such a gun all his life.

A highly decorated officer, the judge, stepped forward. As he did, guards and witnesses shifted out of the line of fire.

He said, his voice loud and clear for the sake of the Tri-Di technicians who were zeroed-in on the scene: “The Signori are familiar with the agreed procedure. Both Signori will turn their backs to each other. I shall count three. On the last, the Signori shall turn and fire at will. Is all understood?”

The First Signore bit out, “Yes.”

Jerry said, “I guess so.” He looked down at the Sten gun, as though he had never seen a firearm before and had never truly expected to.

All except the two duelists cleared away.

“This is murder,” Zorro muttered.

Dom Horsten looked at him. “We’ll have a chance, later,” he growled in frustration.

The judge began: “One… Two…”

All in that great auditorium took deep breath.

“Three!

The First Signore blurred into a spinning crouch, the Sten gun up at waist level, the finger on the trigger already exerting pressure.

A strange expression washed over his face. His eyes had been on the more slowly turning Jerry Rhodes, but now they shot down to his weapon, unbelievingly. His finger tensed again, in a jerky movement this time.

Jerry had brought his own weapon up, his eyes blinking rapidly. His own finger tensed.

The liquid that jetted from the barrel of Jerry’s vicious looking gun hit the ultimate head of Firenze full in the face. It was a yellowish, thickish liquid and inclined to drip and ooze, rather than splatter.

A delicious aroma began to permeate the vicinity.

The visage of Antonio d’Arrezzo fell in complete bewilderment. He shook his head. He stared down at his gun. His eyes, in bewildered shock, registered utter disbelief. His tongue inadvertently came out and licked around his slack, twitching mouth. One hand came up, two fingers touched his moisture bespattered face; he brought them away, stared at them, brought the fingers to his mouth.

It was the judge who giggled first.

But it was the Third Signore who first began to guffaw.