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 scientis
t, “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 pedest
rians 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.”
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