Code Duello up-4

by Mack Reynolds

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

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

  Zorro bug-eyed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How do you mean?” Jerry said.

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

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

  “And?”

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

  “Such as what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Oldest dream?” Jerry said.

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

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

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

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

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

  Zorro Juarez did a double take.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Dorn looked at her too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Not with these tactics,” he got out.

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

  Jerry Rhodes’ eyes widened.

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

  “Now…” Brinker began, his hands reaching.

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

  Jerry Rhodes looked down at the unconscious sorehead.

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

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

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

  Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

  They bent on him a simultaneous glower.

  Jerry swallowed apologetically and shut up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Helen!” Dorn Horsten said.

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

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

  “Brinker what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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