Mack Reynolds - Code Duello

Jerry Rhodes said, “Is that the only kind of trouble you can get into on this world?”

“Are you attempting to be amusing, Signore, uh… Rhodes?”

Jerry said plaintively, “So far, I haven’t found anything to be amusing about on this planet. All I want to know is where I can find some decent food and a little action. After a week of Tuesdays on that so-called passenger freighter, what I need is…”

Helen, who at long last had been set back on her own feet again, whined, “I don’t like this place, Daddy. I wanna go home.”

“Now, Helen, be a good girl.”

The sub-officer had closed his eyes again, when Helen opened her trap. The tenente said, “That will be all. Take them to customs.”

At this point Helmut Brinker called it quits. His duties, evidently, took him no further. He shook hands, even with Jerry Rhodes, patted Helen carefully on the head, as though half suspicious that she might bite him, and set off for the spaceport cart.

Helen held on to Zorro’s hand on the way to the next stop. He growled at her from the side of his mouth, “Aren’t you overdoing this?”

She looked up at him balefully and snarled in a low voice, “The way I look at it, so far I’ve stopped two duels. And if you three overgrown clods don’t keep your traps shut, I doubt if we’ll ever get to the hotel without one of you getting ventilated, or whatever they do in the way of dueling here.”

He snorted, but let it go.

The natty sub-officer pushed through another door and led the way to customs inspection where the robos had obviously piled their luggage. On their appearance, three inspectors, under what was obviously a customs official, began opening bags and trunks.

“Hey,” Jerry said in mild protest at their indifferent handling of his luxurious trappings.

The sub-officer handed the clipboard to the customs man, who looked at Jerry Rhodes in speculation. “You have something to hide?”

“Who me?”

“Do you swear that you have no Engelist propaganda either in your luggage or on your person?”

“Propaganda?” Jerry said blankly.

Dorn Horsten said to him, “An old Amer-English word derived from ‘to propagate.’ It merely meant the particular doctrines or principles promulgated by an organization, with no suggestion of whether or not the teachings were correct or false. Later, however, the word gained an unsavory connotation and grew synonymous with political lies.”

The customs official looked coldly at the scientist. “All Engelist propaganda is composed of lies. Are you suggesting otherwise?”

“But I’ve never even read or heard any,” Horsten protested.

“You haven’t answered my question!” the other snapped. “Do you deny all Engelist propaganda is composed of subversive lies?”

“Well, now…”

Helen began to cry. “I gotta go to the baaathroom .”

Dorn Horsten looked at the customs inspector plaintively.

The sub-officer sighed in resignation and said, “This way, Dr. Horsten.”

Horsten took Helen’s hand and they followed the Florentine to a side door and out. The inspector looked after them for a moment, then turned back to his duties.

He had gotten to a rather outsized hatbox a few minutes later and had begun to activate its opening mechanisms, when a voice squealed from behind him, “Don’t you bother my dolly!” He winced and his shoulders hunched up under the attack of the eight-year-old.

Helen stomped up indignantly and snatched the hatbox from the other’s hands.

The chief inspector looked at the harassed Horsten.

Dr. Horsten said, “She’s tired.”

The inspector said, “All baggage must be thoroughly examined.”

Helen had turned her back defiantly and sat down on the floor, the hatbox between her chubby legs.

Zorro said, “I’ll help.”

He hunkered down on his heels before her and said, “Let’s see your dolly.”

The inspector and the sub-officer who had been accompanying the travelers since first they had entered the administration building, stood looking down in frustration.

Helen looked suspiciously at Zorro Juarez, as though wondering if she was being betrayed to the enemy by, this former ally. However, she touched the box’s stud and the top slid open.

“This is Gertrude,” she said. And then, proudly, “Gertrude’s a boy.”

The sub-officer muttered something and the inspector looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m getting back to my post before…”

“Before what?” the chief inspector said accusingly.

“Nothing.” The sub-officer left as though in a hurry.

Helen was saying, “And this is his potty.”

Zorro, still squatted on his heels, began to say, “How does it work?” But then, quickly, “Never mind. What is this?” He reached the potty up in the direction of the inspector for examination, but that official winced and put his hands slightly behind his back.

A quiet technician on the far side of the room, stationed behind a battery of switches and dials, said, “I get an electronic buzz.”

The three customs men, who had been bent over the various bags, straightened and looked at him. The inspection chief spun, his eyebrows high.

“Get a level on it!”

Helen was saying, “And this is the washin’ machine. You wanna see me wash his jerkin?”

“No,” Zorro said.

“You put it in here,” she said.

The technician, registering disbelief, had come to his feet and approached Helen. Zorro stood up.

The technician pointed at the hatbox. “It comes from there.”

The inspector’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Horsten.

“Oh, good heavens,” Dr. Horsten said. He pushed his pince-nez glasses back, as though preparatory to a lengthy discussion.

The technician stooped and came up with a gadget that neatly fit into his hand. He stared at it.

“Hey,” Helen said in indignation. “That’s my Gertrude’s stove.”

The technician flicked a stud with the nail of his little finger, then shifted his grip on the toy hurriedly as he obviously burned himself. He looked at the inspector in awe. “See that little thing, there?” He indicated. “That must be the smallest powerpack I’ve ever seen.”

The inspector glared at him. “Put it back,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The technician put it back and returned to his post.

Dr. Horsten said to Helen, “Put your toys away, dear. You can play when we get to the hotel.”

“I don’t wanna go to the hotel. I wanna go home. I hate this place. This place is…” She thought about it, then finished definitely, “… a dump.”

The inspector gave up on this front. He turned on Zorro. “What’s that you have in your hand, a weapon? Let me see it.”

“Weapon?” Zorro said. “This is my tranca.” He held up the leather swagger stick.

“What is a tranca?” the inspector said in suspicion.

“Why…” Zorro looked down at it, as though that was the last question he had ever expected to hear. “How could one tell a gentleman gaucho from a vaquero unless he carried a tranca?”

The inspector looked at him sarcastically and took the leather object in question. He stared down at it, hefted it. Finally, he took it over to the technician and held it before a screen.

“Take a reading on this.”

“It reads clean. Some very hard leather, maybe some rubber. Not enough metal to make any difference.”

The inspector took it back to Zorro, puzzled. “What do you do with it?”

Zorro returned the puzzlement. “Do with it? I carry it. I’m a gaucho.” His voice went stiff. “Do you doubt my word that I am a gaucho?”

The inspector straightened and his face went expressionless. “It was not my desire to question your veracity, Signore. However, if honor is involved…”