Mack Reynolds - Code Duello

Antonio Cesare Bartolemo d’Arrezzo smiled benignly at her and turned to Jerry. “You asked about the election?”

Do in Horsten by now had also settled to rest. He said, “I was interested too, though politics are far from my forte. You called it a pseudo-election?”

“The term, then, isn’t universal throughout United Planets?”

“Not exactly,” Horsten said.

Jerry Rhodes had come to his feet and gone over to the bar. He reached for a glass and then…

The First Signore restrained himself, though the torment of unrequited hope washed his face. All in vain. He had forgotten to return his treasured bottle to its locked chamber. The glass Jerry had selected was of highball capacity. He returned with it half full to his seat.

He managed to turn on a condescending beam. “Pseudo-election,” he said. “But surely the institution is well-founded in the traditions of antiquity.”

They looked at him. Even Helen.

The First Signore, on his own grounds now, was expansive. “I suppose the institution took real form in the Twentieth Century, back on Mother Earth, though it was not unknown earlier. Ah, the Third Reich is as good an example as any. If your history serves you, you’ll recall that Adolf was unsuccessful in winning a majority in the crucial elections, somewhat to the surprise of industrial monopolists, such as Thyssen and Krupp, who were backing him. It was necessary to have President Hindenberg, supposedly of the opposition, appoint him chancellor. Shortly after, Adolf thoughtfully eliminated all other political organizations and in the future polled some ninety-five percent of the vote. An even better example, perhaps, was to be found in the, uh, Republic of Russia.”

“You mean the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?” Horsten said, intrigued now.

The First Signore smiled encouragingly. “Exactly. Wonderful name, eh? Shows vivid imagination. Here, the leaders of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat—who the proletariat was dictating to is somewhat obscure, since supposedly all other classes had been liquidated—had long since decided that one party was sufficient, and eliminated unnecessary confusion on the part of the electorate, hence garnering a comfortable majority of some ninety-seven percent, give or take a point or two in each election to betoken authenticity.”

“So”—Jerry nodded—“you carry on in the tradition of the Nazis and communists.”

“Oh, no, no,” the First Signore protested. He took up his glass momentarily for his long postponed sip, but put it down again in the enthusiasm for his subject. “Firenze is in the tradition of the great democracies, such as Great Britain and the States, to continue to draw example from the same era. In such case, their political party often achieved even better than ninety-seven percent of the vote.”

His audience of three blinked in unison. Horsten said apologetically, “I labored under the impression that in those countries they had more than one party.”

“No, no. Optical illusion, camouflage, double-take—or whatever it was they called it in those days. In England they had the Conservative Labor Party and in the States the Republican Democrats, though in both cases there was the optical illusion of two parties. In actuality, they stood for the same thing, the status quo, represented the same elements and couldn’t be told apart The electorate, admittedly, was given the, uh, fun of turning one wing of the party out, periodically, and replacing it with the other, but it made no difference. Oh, don’t misunderstand. Other candidates appeared from time to time, though largely, election laws were such that minority parties were as banned as they were in the Reich. Such protest opposition votes as did get through, when they were counted at all, were largely write-in candidates. Two, Pogo and Donald Duck, were among the more popular—two political figures of whom little comes down to us. Others sometimes made a brief play for the write-in vote. Twiggy and Batman come to my mind; once again, their principles, platforms and so forth, have been lost to us in the ages. But Donald Duck and Pogo were contestants for several elections running. Someone like the perennial Norman Thomas, whom I sometimes suspect of having been desirous of joining his organization to that of the Republican Democrats, making it the Republican Democrat Socialist Party. He once complained that Roosevelt had taken over his whole platform.”

“I’m not really that far up on political history,” Horsten said, impressed by the other’s erudition. “I am surprised that you are.”

The First Signore shrugged in modesty. “Of course, we of the families who are particularly interested in politics begin our training quite early in life.” He reached for his glass again. Looked at it in some surprise. Frowned. Scowled. Thought about it some more. Squinted at the liquid level still once again, gave up and took a sip. When he put the glass down this time, it remained a bit nearer to him than before.

“So this pseudo-election you hold…” the scientist prodded.

“Is in the best of democratic traditions,” the First Signora said.

“But it’s not a real election?” Jerry said.

“Of course it is a real election. Every five years we hold one. It’s a national holiday. Very popular. Everyone eligible must vote. There are penalties if one doesn’t. It’s done very properly. Secret ballot, and all. We pretend we have no record of those who vote for Pogo or…”

“Pogo!” Helen blurted.

There was a mystified element on the face of the chief of state of Firenze. “Surprisingly enough, the name of this candidate has come down through the centuries, evidently as a symbol of protest. Since our citizenry is compelled to vote, some resort to writing in the mysterious historical personage, rather than vote for the party candidate.”

“Party candidate?” Horsten echoed, in way of prompting.

“Yes, of course. In the far past, on Firenze, we had four political parties which originally stood for differing principles. However, as this sometimes proved disconcerting for the responsible elements in our socioeconomic scheme of things, they coalesced until we had the Holy Temple Radicals and the Liberal Conservatives.”

There was confusion in the eyes of Jerry Rhodes. “But now …” he said, as though with hope.

“Well, now, in the face of the threat of the Engelists, the two have joined into the Machiavellian Party.”

“Machiavellian Party?” Helen bleated, before she could remember to keep in character.

The First Signore beamed at her. “Yes, little Principessa,” He chuckled ruefully. “I am afraid the full significance of the name of this great statesman of the past is lost to us, but he was once most prominent in the original Firenze, or Florence, as it was called in Amer-English, and later Earth Basic.”

Helen muttered something to Gertrude.

Jerry said quickly, covering Helen’s break, “And how large a percentage of the vote do the Engelists rack up?”

The other stared at him, as though the visitor from overspace was jesting in very bad taste.

“Do you think us ridiculous enough to allow those subversives on the ballot?”

“Oh. Oh, of course not,” Jerry said soothingly. “Obviously not. A pseudo-election. Nobody but the Machiavellian Party. Secret ballot. If anybody casts a write-in for Pogo or some other protest vote, you don’t let them know you’ve kept a record of it.”

“Correct,” the First Signore said, happy that all was understood. “As the Seventh Signore, of the Firenze Bureau of Investigation, once pointed out, that man who will cast a vote for Pogo today, is a potential subversive tomorrow.”

Horsten got back into the scene. “Your Zelenza, you must excuse our ignorance. There are so many socioeconomic systems, so many political forms, in United Planets, that it is most difficult to keep universally informed. If I understand correctly, the Firenze chief executive is entitled the First Signore, and is assisted by a cabinet of nine?”