Code Duello up-4

by Mack Reynolds

“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.

  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?”

  “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!”

  Chapter Ten

  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.”

  His cousin was fumin
g. “As you are aware, the Constitution is temporarily being held in abeyance during the emergency. Until the subversives have been brought under control, civil rights and some of our political guarantees must be sacrificed.” He turned to Dorn Horsten. “He speaks gibberish. His so-called wing of the Engelists which wishes to overthrow the government by vote isn’t even on the ballot.”

  “No fault of mine,” Marconi said, trying another sip of the drink. He made a face. “This stuff is worse than grappa.” Then, “You keep everybody off the ballot but yourselves. However, in the long run it will do you no good. You can’t change the weather by fiddling with the thermometer, and you can’t prevent a revolution by miscounting, or not counting at all, the votes of the majority.”

  “You think the Engelists a majority!” The other laughed.

  “Not yet, not yet, but they will be.”

  There was a gentle hum from some unknown source and the perturbed Florentine chief snapped, “Yes!”

  Into the entrada came one of the highly uniformed members of the staff who had been about earlier. He said, “Your Zelenza, the meeting of the Council.”

  “Eh? Oh, yes, of course.” The First Signore looked from his cousin to the otherworlders and back again, evidently came to a decision and snapped to Horsten, “He is the family… jester. You might keep it in mind.” Without further farewell, he marched to the entrada and the front door, which opened before him.

  Helen looked at Cesare Marconi. “Tony thinks you’re a phony-baloney, Mr. The Great Marconi.”

  “The feeling has long been reciprocated, Signorina,” the Florentine told her. He came to his feet again and made his way to the bar and scowled down at it. “He’s probably got it locked up,” he muttered.

  The massive scientist came over to Helen and squint-eyed down at her. “Are you drenched?” he said accusingly.

  “On that lilac-water?” She snorted.

  The door through which the First Signore had just left had not closed behind him. Through it now, came Zorro Juarez, a harassed air upon him. Maggiore Verona brought up the rear. He looked at Cesare Marconi.