Code Duello up-4

by Mack Reynolds

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

  “What?”

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

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

  “How would I know?” he said impatiently,

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

  “What’re you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  All four of his subordinates were frowning at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  PART THREE

  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 be
wildered 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?”