by Anthology
"I'll overlook that remark for old time's sake. But I defend the kingship. A show of force was necessary to prevent crime from running rampant."
"Maybe," Bendy said. "Anyhow I appreciate your frankness in introducing us to Gizl and what he modestly describes as his meager knowledge. Since you've already admitted that he's the one who provided the big feed, will you ease Alis's mind now and assure her that what she was eating wasn't Negusburger?"
"Negusburger?" The king laughed. "Is that what you thought, Alis?"
"Not really," she said. "But I couldn't help wondering where all the food came from all of a sudden."
"Over here." The king led them to the corner where Gizl had sunk from sight. The top of the elevator, now level with the floor, blended exactly with the linoleum tile. "I don't know how it works, but Gizl and his people have their headquarters down there somewhere. All I have to do is place the order and up comes food or whatever I need. Would you like to try it?"
"Love to," Bendy said. "What shall I ask for?"
"Anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything at all."
"Well." Bendy looked impressed. "This will take a moment of thought. How about a gallon—no, as long as I'm asking I might as well ask for a keg—of rum, 151 proof."
Up it came, complete with spigot and tankard.
"Fabulous!" Bendy said. He rolled it out of the elevator and the elevator went down again.
"Let me try!" Alis said. "If Doc can get a keg, I ought to be able to have—oh, say a pint of Channel No. 5. Would that be too extravagant?"
"A simple variation in formula, I should think," the king said.
What came up for Alis didn't look in the least like an expensive Paris perfume. In fact, it looked like a lard pail with a quantity of liquid sloshing lazily in it. But its aroma belied its looks.
"Oh, heaven!" Alis said. "Smell it!" She lifted it by its handle, stuck a finger in it and rubbed behind each ear.
"It's a bit overpowering by the pint," Bendy said. He'd drained off part of a tankard of rum and looked quite at peace with the world. "You'd better get yourself a chaperone, Alis, if you're going to carry that around with you."
"I'll admit they're not very good in the packaging department, but that's just a quibble. Could I have—how many ounces in a pint?—sixteen one-ounce stoppered bottles? And a little funnel?"
"Easiest thing in the world," the king said. "Don? Anything you'd like at the same time? Save it a trip."
"I've got an idea, Your Majesty, but I don't know whether you'd approve. Even though I work in a bank, I've never seen a ten thousand dollar bill. Do you think they could whip one up?"
"I really don't know," Hector said. "It could upset the economy if we let the money get out of hand. But we can always send it right back. Let's see what happens."
The elevator came up with the bottles, the funnel and a green and gold bill.
It was, on the face of it, a ten thousand dollar bill. But the portrait was that of Hector Civek, crowned and ermined. And the legend on it was:
"Payable to Bearer on Demand, Ten Thousand Dollars. This Note is Legal Tender for all Debts, Public and Private, and is Redeemable in Lawful Money at the Treasury of the Kingdom of Superior. (Signed) Gizl, Secretary of the Treasury."
X
Don didn't know what he might learn by skulking around the freezing grounds of Hector's palace in the faint moonlight. He hoped for a glimpse of the kangaroo-Gizl to see if he were as sincere off-guard as he had been during their interview.
But his peering into basement windows had revealed nothing, and he was about to head back to the campus for a night's sleep when someone called his name.
It was a girl's voice, from above. He looked up. Red-headed Geneva Jervis was leaning out of one of the second-story windows.
"Well, hello," he said. "What are you doing up there?"
"I've sworn fealty," she said. "Come on up."
"What?" he said. "How?"
She disappeared from his sight, then reappeared. "Here." She dropped a rope ladder.
Don climbed it, feeling Like Romeo. "Where'd you get this?"
"They've got them in all the rooms. Fire escapes. Old McFerson was a precautious man, evidently." She pulled the rope back in.
Jen Jervis had a spacious bedroom. She wore a dressing gown.
"What do you mean, you swore fealty?" Don asked. "To Hector?"
"Sure. What better way to find out what he's up to? Besides, I was getting fed up with that dormitory at Cavalier. No privacy. House mothers creeping around all the time. Want a drink?"
Don saw that she had a half-full glass on the dresser. Next to the glass stood a bottle of bourbon with quite a bit gone from it.
"Why not?" he said. "Let's drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may freeze to death."
"Or be shot down by Reds." She poured him a stiff one. "Here's to happy endings."
He sipped his drink and she swallowed half of hers.
"I didn't picture you as the drinking type, Jen."
"Revise the picture. Come sit down." She backed to the big double bed and relaxed into it, lying on one elbow.
Don sat next to her, but upright. "Tell me about this fealty deal. What did you have to do?"
"Oh, renounce my American citizenship and swear to protect Superior against all enemies, foreign and domestic. The usual thing."
"Have you got a title yet? Are you Dame Jervis?"
"Not yet." She smiled. "I think I'm on probation. They know I'm close to Bobby and they'd like to have him on their side, for all their avowed independence. They're not so terribly convinced that Superior's going to stay up forever. They're hedging their bets, it looks to me."
"It looks to me that maybe Bobby Thebold might not understand. He's the kind of man who demands absolute fealty, from what I've seen of him."
"Oh, to hell with Bobby Thebold." Jen took another swallow. "He's not here. He's had plenty of time to come, if he was going to, and he hasn't. To hell with him. Let me get you another drink."
"No, thanks. This will do me fine." He drank it and set the empty glass on the floor. Jen drank off the last of hers and put her glass next to his.
"Relax," she said. "I'm not going to bite you." She lay back and her dressing gown opened in a V as far as the belt. She obviously wasn't wearing anything under the gown.
Don looked away self-consciously.
Jen laughed. "What's the matter, boy? No red blood?" She rolled herself off the end of the bed and went to the dresser. "Another drink?"
"Don't you think you've had enough?"
She shook her red hair violently. "Drinking is as drinking does. Trouble is, nobody's doing anything."
"Exactly. Everybody's acting as if Superior's one big pleasure dome. Civek's on the throne and all's well with his little world. Even you've joined the parade. Why? I don't buy that double-agent explanation."
She was looking in the bureau mirror at the reflection of the top of her head, peering up from under her eyebrows. "I'm going to have to touch up the tresses pretty soon or I won't be a redhead any more." She looked at his reflection. "You don't like me, do you, Donny-boy?"
"I never said that."
"You don't have to say it. But I don't blame you. I don't like myself sometimes. I'm a cold fish. A cold, dedicated fish. Or I was. I've decided to change my ways."
"I can see that."
"Can you?" She turned around and leaned against the bureau, holding her glass. "How do you see me now?"
"As an attractive woman with a glass in her hand. I wonder which is doing the talking."
"Rhetorical questions at this time of night, Donny? I think it's me talking, not the whisky. We'll know better in the sober light of morning, won't we?"
"If that's an invitation," Don began, "I'm afraid—"
Her eyes blazed at him. "I think you're the rudest man I ever met. And the most boorish." She tossed off the rest of her drink, then began to cry.
"Now, Jen—" He went to her
and patted her shoulder awkwardly.
"Oh, Don." She put her head against his chest and wept. His arms automatically went around her, comfortingly.
Then he realized that Jen's muffled sobs were going direct to the Pentagon through his transceiver. That piece of electronics equipment taped to his skin, he told himself, was the least of the reasons why he could not have accepted Jen's invitation—if it had been an invitation.
He lifted her chin from his chest to spare the man in the Pentagon any further sobs, which must have been reaching him in crescendo. Jen's face was tear-stained. She looked into his eyes for a second, then fastened her mouth firmly on his.
There was nothing a gentleman could do, Don thought, except return the kiss. Rude, was he?
Jen broke away first. "What's that?" she said.
Don opened his eyes and his glance went automatically to the door. It would not have surprised him to see King Hector coming through it in his royal night clothes. But Jen was staring out the window. He turned.
The sky was bright as day over in the direction of the golf course. Don made out a pinpoint of brighter light.
"It's a star shell," he said. "A flare."
They went to the window and leaned out, looking past a corner of the bubble gum factory.
"What's it for?" Jen asked.
Don pointed. "There. That's what for."
"A blimp!" she said. "It's landing!"
"Is it an Air Force job? I can't make out the markings."
"I think I can," Jen said. "They're—PP."
"Private Pilots! Senator Bobby the Bold!"
Jen Jervis clutched his arm. "S.O.B.!" she whispered fiercely.
Don Cort was down the rope fire escape and away from the mansion before it woke up to the invasion. As he crossed the railroad spur he had a glimpse of Jen Jervis hauling up the rope and of lights going on elsewhere in the building. There was a lot of whistle-blowing and shouting and a lone shot which didn't seem to be aimed at him.
Don waited at the spur, behind a boxcar, to see how the Hectorites would react to the landing of the blimp, A few men gathered at the front gate and looked nervously into the sky and toward the golf course. Others joined them, armed with shotguns, pistols, and a rifle or two, but not with King Hector's paralysis gadget.
It was clear that Hector had no intention of starting a battle. His men apparently were under orders only to guard the mansion and the bubble gum factory. No one even went to see what the blimp was up to.
Don found as he neared the golf course that the people from the blimp apparently had no immediate plan to attack, either. He found a sand trap to lie down in. From it he could watch without being seen. The star shell had died out but he could see the blimp silhouetted against the sky. Men in battle dress were establishing a perimeter around the clubhouse. Each carried a weapon of some kind. It was all very dim.
Don remembered his communicator. "Cort here," he said softly. "Do you read me?"
"Affirmative," a voice said. Don didn't recognize it. He described the landing and asked, "Is this an authorized landing or is it Senator Thebold's private party?"
"Negative," said the voice from the Pentagon, irritatingly GI.
"Negative what?" Don said. "You mean Thebold is leading it?"
"Affirmative," said the voice.
"What's he up to?" Don asked.
"Negative," the voice said.
Don blew up. "If you mean you don't know, why the hell don't you say so? Who is this, anyhow?"
"This happens to be Major Johns, the O.O.D., Sergeant, and if you know what's good for you—"
Don stopped listening because a man in battle dress, apparently attracted by his voice, was standing on the green, looking down into the bunker where Don lay, pointing a carbine at him.
"I'll have to hang up now, Major," Don said quietly. "Something negative has just happened to me. I've been captured."
The man with the carbine shouted down to Don, "Okay, come out with your hands over your head."
Don did so. He hoped he was doing it affirmatively enough. He had no wish to be shot by one of the Senator's men, regardless of whether that man was authorized or unauthorized.
Senator Thebold sat at a desk in the manager's office of the Raleigh Country Club. He wore a leather trench coat and a fur hat. Wing commander's insignia glittered on his shoulders and a cartridge belt was buckled around his waist. A holster hung from it but Thebold had the heavy .45 on the desk in front of it. He motioned to Don to sit down. Two guards stood at the door.
"Name?" Thebold snapped.
Don decided to use his own name but pretend to be a local yokel.
"Donald Cort."
"What were you doing out there?"
"I saw the lights."
"Who were you talking to in the sand trap?"
"Nobody. I sometimes talk to myself."
"Oh, you do. Do you ever talk to yourself about a man named Osbert Garet or Hector Civek?" Thebold looked at a big map of Superior that had been pinned to the wall, thus giving Don the benefit of his strong profile.
"Hector's the king now," Don said. "Things got pretty bad before that but we got enough to eat now."
"Where did the food come from?"
Don shrugged.
Thebold drummed his fingers on the desk. "You're not exactly a fount of information, are you? What do you do for a living?"
"I used to work in the gum factory but I got laid off."
"Do you know Geneva Jervis?"
"Who's he?" Don said innocently.
Thebold stood up in irritation. "Take this man to O. & I.," he said to one of the guards. "We've got to make a start some place. Are there any others?"
"Four or five," the guard said.
"Send me the brightest-looking one. Give this one and the rest a meal and a lecture and turn them loose. It doesn't look as if Civek is going to give us any trouble right away and there isn't too much we can do before daylight."
The guard led Don out of the room and pinned a button on his lapel. It said: Bobby the Bold in Peace and War.
"What's O. & I.?" Don asked him.
"Orientation and Integration. Nobody's going to hurt you. We're here to end partition, that's all."
"End partition?"
"Like in Ireland. Keep Superior in the U. S. A. They'll tell you all about it at O. & I. Then you tell your friends. Want some more buttons?"
Don was fed, lectured, and released, as promised.
Early the next morning, after a cup of coffee with Alis Garet at Cavalier's cafeteria, he started back for the golf course. Alis, in a class-cutting mood, went with him.
The glimpses of the Thebold Plan which Don had had from O. & I. were being put into practice. Reilly Street, which provided a boundary line between Raleigh Country Club and the gum-factory property, had been transformed into a midway.
The Thebold forces had strung bunting and set up booths along the south side of the street. Hector's men, apparently relieved to find that the battle was to be psychological rather than physical, rushed to prepare rival attractions on their side. A growing crowd thronged the center of Reilly Street. Some wore Thebold buttons. Some wore other buttons, twice as big, with a smiling picture of Hector I on them. Some wore both.
The sun was bright but the air was bitingly cold. As a result one of the most popular booths was on Hector's side of the street where Cheeky McFerson was giving away an apparently inexhaustible supply of hand-warmers. Cheeky urged everybody to take two, one for each pocket, and threw in handfuls of bubble gum.
Two of Hector's men set up ladders and strung a banner across two store-fronts. It said in foot-high letters: Kingdom of Superior, Land of Plenty.
A group of Thebold troubleshooters watched, then rushed away and reappeared with brushes and paint. They transformed an advertising sign to read, in letters two feet high: Superior, U.S.A., Home of the Free.
Hawkers on opposite sides of the midway vied to give away hot dogs, boiled ears of corn, steaming coffee, hot choc
olate, candy bars, and popcorn.
"There's a smart one." Alis pointed to a sign in Thebold territory. The Gripe Room it said over a vacant store. The Senator's men had set up desks and chairs inside and long lines had already formed.
Apparently a powerful complaint had been among the first to be registered because a Thebold man was galvanized into action. He ran out of the store and within minutes the sign painters were at work again. Their new banner, hoisted to dry in the sun, proclaimed: Blimp Mail.
Underneath, in smaller letters, it said: How long since you've heard from your loved ones on Earth? The Thebold Blimp will carry your letters and small packages. Direct daily connections with U. S. Mail.
"You have to admire them," Alis said. "They're really organized."
"One's as bad as the other," Don said. Impartially, he was eating a Hector hot dog and drinking Thebold coffee. "Have you noticed the guns in the upstairs windows?"
"No. You mean on the Senator's side?"
"Both sides. Don't stare."
"I see them now. Do you see any Gizl-sticks? The thing Hector used on Negus?"
"No. Just conventional old rifles and shotguns. Let's hope nobody starts anything."
"Look," Alis said, grabbing Don by the arm. "Isn't that Ed Clark going into the Gripe Room?"
"It sure is. Gathering material for another powerful editorial, I guess."
But within minutes Clark's visit had provoked another bustle of activity. Two of Thebold's men dashed out of the renovated store and off toward the country club. They came back with the Senator himself, making his first public appearance.
Thebold strode down the center of the midway, wearing his soft aviator's helmet with the goggles pushed up on his forehead and his silk scarf fluttering behind him. A group of small boys followed him, imitating his self-confident walk and scrambling occasionally for the Thebold buttons he threw to them. The Senator went into the Gripe Room.
"Looks as if Ed has wangled an interview with the great man himself," Alis said.
"You didn't say anything to Clark about our talk with the Gizl, did you?"
"I did mention it to him," Alis said. "Was that bad?"
"Half an hour ago I would have said no. Now I'm not so sure."
