Mack Reynolds - Code Duello

Helen turned a beady eye on him. She swung the gun barrel in his direction. “Stick ’em up,” she ordered. “You put my Uncle Zorro in the jug.”

“Helen!” her father said in exasperation.

The Florentine was chuckling. He said in mock seriousness, “I refuse to stick ’em up. We loyal officers of the Third Signore never surrender.”

“You asked for it,” Helen said flatly and pulled the trigger.

“ Helen !” her father blurted, rising from his chair in horror.

But the stream of water caught Maggiore Roberto Verona full in the face. He sat there frozen as it splattered over him. The water dribbled down over his lower face and onto his natty uniform.

Dr. Horsten was on his feet, a handkerchief in hand. He dabbed at the besoaked Verona, roaring over his shoulder, “Helen! Go to your room! Immediately!”

Helen dropped the water pistol and, wailing, headed for the back rooms of the suite.

Maggiore Verona took a deep breath and collected himself with effort. He stood, holding up a hand to restrain the good doctor’s efforts, and said shakily, “It is nothing. All apologies are accepted. She is but a little”—it took him an effort to bring out the last—“child.”

He cleared his throat. “I must go. I must go change.” He attempted a military bow, which didn’t come off. “Signori, if you will excuse me.” He headed for the door.

Dr. Horsten, continuing his chucking and incoherent apologies, saw him out, then returned to the oversized living room. There was storm in his expression.

“Where’s that witch?”

Helen stuck her head through the double door that led back to the master bedroom, which she had taken over as her own domain.

“Coast clear?”

“What in the name of the…” Horsten began in wrath.”

“Knock it,” she muttered. She went over to the bar and ungraciously gave Jerry’s leg a shove. She clambered up on a stool and reached for a bottle and glass.

“I had to shut him up some way,” she said defensively. She gestured with her head at Jerry, a motion which made her little-girl curls flare out winningly. “He was about to blab about an agent provocateur we ran into, in town today.”

Jerry, scowling, said, “What’s an agent, whatever-you-said?”

“ Agent provocateur” Helen repeated, gurgling liquid into her glass until Horsten turned his head away to avoid the sight. “Have you ever heard the old Czarist Russian saying? When four men sit down to talk revolution, three are police spies and the other a fool.” Jerry just looked at her.

“Well,” she said. “Undoubtedly, that’s our Great Marconi. Although I’m beginning to wonder.”

“What are you talking about?” Horsten asked. She told him about the Great Marconi and he scowled. He said, “What did you mean, you’re beginning to wonder?”

Helen took a slug of her drink and sat down on the bar stool—she had been standing on it—and crossed her legs.

“Well, at first I figured he was secret police, trying to draw Jerry out, to see if he had any interest in Engelism.”

“But now?”

She said thoughtfully, “Now I’m beginning to wonder if possibly he wasn’t an Engelist pretending he was an Engelist.”

“You threw that one too fast,” Jerry protested.

Suddenly the front door of the penthouse suite opened and they turned to face it, all three frowning.

Zorro Juarez entered, his face as dark as when he had stormed out that morning.

He came up before them, his hands on his hips. “You know where I’ve just been?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Helen said.

“That’s what I thought. How’d you get me out?”

The three looked at him.

“We didn’t,” Jerry said. “If I got this straight, you weren’t eligible to have a lawyer because you were accused of being an Engelist. How come you were silly enough to stick your neck out like that?”

“Look who’s talking,” Helen said, taking another slug of her drink. “You’re hardly out of jail yourself.”

Zorro was mystified. “Well, somebody evidently cut a lot of red tape, somehow. They had me in a sort of community cell, in a concentration camp. Everybody accused of subversion.” He went over to the bar and without looking at the label of the bottle Helen had poured her drink from, upended it over a tall glass and let the golden, thickish beverage gush down.

“Engelists, eh?” Horsten nodded.

“No.”

“No? What other kind of subversives are there on Firenze?”

Zorro took back a slug of his drink, looked down into the glass appreciatively, took another. “I wouldn’t know. But my fellow jailbirds were the most unlikely candidates for membership in an underground organization you ever set eyes on.”

Jerry said plaintively, “I don’t know what there is about this evening. I don’t seem to follow any of the conversation. Were these people Engelists, or not?”

The dark complected cowman growled, “If they were, they sure hid it from me. I tried to sound them out, individually and in groups. None of them knew anything about Engelism.”

“Maybe they thought you were an agent provocateur ,” Jerry said, in newfound wisdom.

“What’s that?”

Jerry looked at Helen from the side of his eyes. “A police spy stuck in with amateur revolutionists to draw them out.”

Zorro thought about it. He shook his head finally. “No, that wasn’t it. They weren’t even particularly interested in the subject. Couldn’t even get them to talk about it.”

Horsten was scowling. “What did they talk about?”

“Mostly about the Dawnplanets.”

If he had suddenly levitated to the ceiling, Zorro Juarez couldn’t have set them further aback.

Zorro said, “I thought this alien intelligent life, the Dawnmen, were supposed to be a big United Planets secret.”

Dom Horsten, his face registering complete disbelief, made his way over to one of the room’s overstuffed comfort chairs and sank down, dwarfing it.

“Supposedly they were,” he said unhappily. “Helen and I didn’t tell you the whole story. Neither of us were with Section G at the time, but we were briefed on the situation. It seems that when the Dawnworlds were first contacted, Ross Metaxa, along with the President of United Planets and the Director of the Commissariat of Interplanetary Affairs, brought together some two thousand of what they evidently thought were the most dependable chiefs of state of United Planets and laid the-situation in their laps. I suppose they expected the conference to lead to greater cooperation among the member worlds.”

“And…” Zorro prompted.

The scientist shrugged huge shoulders. “Evidently, the attempt proved successful with some. Metaxa tried to swear them all to secrecy. He should have known better. How can you swear two thousand highly individualistic men and women to secrecy?”

“They blabbed?”

“It would seem some of them did, from what you say. Otherwise, how would the man in the street, here on Firenze, know about even the existence of the Dawn-worlds?”

Helen said in disgust, “Just how much were they aware of?”

Zorro made a gesture of discomfort. “Remember, I only spent a few hours in the place. But they knew that the aliens live on a small confederation of planets located somewhere out beyond Phrygia. And they’d got the rumor that the Dawnmen had fabulous discoveries that would make any human unbelievably rich and powerful if he could get his hands on them.”

Horsten removed his glasses and ran a weary hand over his face. “Well,” he said, “it’s not our immediate problem. We’re here to upset the Engelist applecart, and get Firenze back on the road to progress.”