Mack Reynolds - Code Duello

“Quite correct. The Second Signore is our Chief of Security; the Third Signore, Maggiore Verona’s superior, heads of the Ministry of Anti-Subversion; the Fourth Signore is in charge of Counter-Espionage; the Fifth, the AFA, short for Anti-Firenze Activities; the Sixth Signore has control of Central Intelligence; the Seventh is Director of the Bureau of Investigation; the Eighth, Commissioner of the National Police; the Ninth Signore heads the Department of Internal War; and the Tenth Signore holds the portfolios of State, Interior, Justice, Revenue, Agriculture, Trade, Health and Education.”

There was a silence on the part of the newcomers from overspace. The First Signore took the opportunity to reach for his glass again.

“Tony?” Helen said, twisting her rose-red little mouth in childish thoughtfulness.

“Eh?” The First Signore of the Free Democracy of the Commonwealth of Firenze was obviously taken aback by her form of address.

“Your name’s too long.”

Jerry said, in a hurry, “That Tenth Signore. He’s kind of low man on the totem pole, eh?”

The Florentine nodded to acknowledge the question. “Ah, perhaps, but believe me, Michael is just as necessary”—he shook his finger here at Jerry, in way of emphasis—“to free government as any of the rest of this administration. I wish to assure you, Signore Rhodes, that all is tranquil here on Firenze. Your investments and those of your colleagues on Catalina would be safe. Ah, which reminds me. In what form do you have this variable capital you are considering investing in our many opportunities?” As though absently, he came to his feet, went over to the bar and put his precious bottle back under lock and key.

Jerry was off-hand. “What form? Oh, naturally, the most negotiable.”

The First Signore continued to look at him expectantly.

Jerry said, “Mother was anxious to be liquid, in case an immediate opportunity or so was available.”

“Oh, believe me, there are many. But in what form is your capital?” The First Signore chuckled. “Obviously, not in Firenze currency, which, after all, is the most negotiable exchange possible—on Firenze.”

Jerry’s eyes were going blank, but his luck held and he was taken off the hook by the front door banging open. The highly uniformed security officer, who had earlier supervised the First Signore’s arrival, came through. Immediately behind was a cluster of others in some agitation.

“What is the meaning of this!” d’Arrezzo snapped. “I ordered that I not be disturbed.” He strode several steps forward.

Helen gave a sigh of relief, snaked out a hand and snagged the glass of priceless potable, and took a quick snort. She shot a look of disgust at the hapless Jerry even as she quickly returned the glass under the glare of Dorn Horsten.

“Geneva,” she muttered to Jerry. “Your money would be on Geneva.”

Half a dozen newcomers were in the entrada.

“Your Zelenza!” the officer commanding said apologetically. “We have just captured this Signore, attempting to enter your presence! In view of his identity…”

Helen said, “Why, it’s the Great Marconi!”

The newcomer winced but shaking loose the two security men who hung onto his arms, honored Helen with a bow. The Great Marconi, Signorina.” He came forward. His eyes, as ever, overly bright, swept the others in the living room, winding up with the First Signore, whose face was less than welcoming.

There was a quirk of amusement in the Great Marconi’s expression. He sweepingly bowed once again. “Ah, Cousin Antonio, you will forgive me if I forego the traditional affectionate embrace. A touch of the steel in my most recent affair, you know. The arm is a bit stiff.”

The First Signore said, “Cesare, you are well acquainted with our arrangement.” He turned back to the security men. “Leave us!”

The officer hesitated. The Florentine chief of state looked at him.

“Yes, Your Zelenza.” He turned and the guard contingent bustled out with him.

The First Signore returned to the newcomer, who grinned mockingly. “My dear Antonio, no matter your lofty rank—as of the moment—and my lowly position in the scheme of things, I cannot guarantee complete lack of contact, particularly if you insist on leaving your official estates and coming here to our somewhat grimy capital.”

“I am not speaking, obviously, of chance encounter. But your presence can only embarrass me, in view of my office. Your sworn agreement was not to seek out…”

The Great Marconi spread his hands in a most Latin gesture, the palms up, his eyebrows up as well. “My dear Antonio, I had no idea you were here. The Tri-Di news broadcasts had it that you would conduct your campaign on the air and from the, uh, safety of the palace.”

“Safety!” the other blurted, his expression going suddenly empty. “Are you impugning my courage, Cesare, by…” In mid-sentence, he broke off. He said, frowning, “But if you were not seeking me…”

Cesare Marconi smiled broadly. “You are much too vain, Cousin Antonio. I have other friends than those numbered in the ranks of my relatives.” He turned to Jerry, who had teen taking this in, in fascination. “How unfortunate that we became separated at the cafe, my dear, uh, Cross Rhodes.”

Jerry snorted.

The newcomer said cheerily, “I have come to discuss with you the matters in which you expressed interest.”

Helen said, “Oh, oh,” and darted a look at the Florentine chief executive.

Dorn Horsten stepped forward. “Uh…” he began.

But the First Signore waved a hand negatively and in disgust. “Undoubtedly, my Cousin Cesare informed your young friend that he was an Engelist. He knows about as much of Engelism as I do of the archaeolgy of the Denebian planets.”

His seedily appareled cousin, even as he made his way toward the bar, said with cheer, “If you were not immune, through your lofty position, Antonio, I would call you out.” He turned his back to them and inspected critically the collection of potables.

“Any time…” the First Signore began heatedly.

Cesare Marconi half turned and the easy-going mask stripped away. “Yes? You were about to say?”

His cousin switched gears, though obviously in inner heat. “ I was about to say that your Engelism is a pose, to embarrass me. You actually know nothing about the subversive movement, which is exactly why you are tolerated in your making a spectacle of yourself and your family.”

Cesare Marconi had returned to his perusal of the beverages. “Um,” he murmured. “Where’s the Chartreuse? Hidden again? Antonio, you were a tight money pincher as a boy and being on the ultimate expense account hasn’t changed you.” He took up a bottle and scowled at the label. “What’s whiskey?”

“It’s from Earth,” Dorn Horsten said. “Distilled from cereal. Alcohol is the sole depressant involved.”

“I’ll try it” Marconi nodded, pouring a tumbler half full.

“Usually,” Horsten said, “you mix a small amount with something.”

“Oh? Doesn’t that diffuse the flavor?”

“Yes.”

The Great Marconi took a sip, flinched, but refused to retreat before strangers. He returned with the glass to a chair, seated himself and crossed his legs.

“You are quite incorrect,” he told the First Signore. “I am thoroughly acquainted with Engelism, its origins, the conditions which brought it about, even its goals. However, mine is, you might say, a wing of the movement. A splinter element which has split away. The Engelists, we are told, desire to overthrow the present socioeconomic system by force and violence. Of this, my wing disapproves, seeking the basic change necessary by peaceful means, by civilized use of the ballot. Which is, of course, not against the Constitution of the Free Democracy of the Commonwealth of Firenze.”