Mack Reynolds - Code Duello

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 co me 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 bewildered 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?”

“Whatcher real name?” Helen said.

For the briefest of moments, it seemed as though he was going to close his eyes again, but he straightened. He looked at her, attempting the patronizing air of the adult toward the eight-year-old. It didn’t quite come off.

“Antonio Cesare Bartolemo d’Arrezzo… little Principessa.”

Helen thought about it. “That’s too long,” she announced.