Code Duello

and his Council of Signori?”

“No. Why?”

The concierge looked left and right, as though in subconscious check. He leaned a bit over the desk, and his tone was lower. “It seems that the Fifth Signore recommended to the First Signore, that the nightspots, as you call them, be temporarily closed. Evidently, they were being used as drops by the underground.”

Jerry groaned. “How long ago did that happen?” he said.

Helen whined, “Uncle Jerry, let’s go. You promised me and Gertrude a ice cream.”

The concierge said, “Why, actually, before my time. The curfew has been in effect for years.”

“Swell!” Jerry muttered. He gave Helen’s arm a tug as he started for the door, still muttering.

Out on the street, he said, in disgust, “No nightclubs, and me with an unlimited expense account and with the job of projecting myself as a playboy.”

Helen said sweetly, “You seem to have terrible luck, Uncle Jerry, old boy, old lad. Maybe that coin is beginning to flip tails.”

He snorted contempt of that opinion.

“Where’re we going?” he said.

“How would I know? To case this town.” They were walking down the avenue, obviously one of the city’s best, and heading toward the main shopping district. Helen stared at a window devoted to fashions.

Jerry jerked her arm. “Watch yourself,” he said from the side of his mouth. “You’re supposed to be interested in toy shops, ice cream parlors and such, not haute couture.”

Helen grunted sourly, but, to project her character, began to skip.

Her supposed guardian for the morning was taking in their fellow pedestrians and the passing traffic. He said softly, for her ears alone, “I thought Metaxa said this was potentially one of the more advanced worlds. It looks a few centuries behind the times to me. And nine people out of ten look on the raggedy side.”

She said, “I get the same impression. However, that’s the point. The underground’s got things so fouled up that the progressive elements can’t get underway.”

Jerry Rhodes spotted a sidewalk cafe.

He said, “What’d you say we sit down and let the town come to us? Have a mead, or something.”

She smiled up at him with the trustfulness of an eight-year-old in the hands of a mature adult, but her voice held a low snarl. “Mead, you rat. You know damn well I won’t be able to order anything stronger than lime squash.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He grinned down at her. “Sorry. You feel the need to kill the hangover? You were really knocking them back last night.”

“I’ll kill you, if you don’t knock that condescending tone in your silly voice.” She grunted satisfaction as they got nearer to the sidewalk cafe. The place was packed. Obviously, in view of the night curfew, the citizens of Firenze were forced to do their imbibing early in the day.

“No tables,” she said. “So you’ll do without, too.”

“Oh, we ought to be lucky enough to find something,” Jerry murmured, heading for the more preferable locations.

“With all these people standing around waiting for a table?” she said nastily.

However, at that split second, three Florentines came to their feet, one looking at his wrist chronometer apprehensively. They hurried off.

“Here we are,” Jerry beamed, pulling back a chair and then taking her up from behind by the elbows and sitting her down.

“Talk about luck …” she began, and then shut her mouth to glare at him.

He turned to take a chair of his own, only to find it occupied.

The stranger looked up. “I got here first,” he said.

Jerry took him in for a long moment, finally saying bitterly, “You want us to leave?”

The other waved a nonchalant hand. “Not at all, not at all. Strangers to Firenze?” He indicated the table’s third chair. “Be my guest.”

Jerry Rhodes sat down. “You have to be speedy in this town, don’t you?”

“Well, Signore, I’ll tell you…” But then the other, as though suddenly remembering the amenities, came to his feet, brought his heels together and bowed stiffly. “May I introduce myself? The Great Marconi.”

Helen had leaned her elbows on the tabletop, her chin in her cupped hands. She stared at him unblinkingly. “You don’t look so great,” she told him. “You oughta see my daddy.”

The Great Marconi put his right hand to his heart and bowed again, more sweepingly. “Signorina, you convince me. I am most certain your parent is even greater than the Great Marconi.”

“Betcha boots,” Helen informed him ungraciously.

Jerry Rhodes came to his feet in turn, clicked his heels and bowed. “The pleasure is ours,” he said. “And I am the Great Rhodes, and this is the Great Helen.”

The other sank back into his chair and looked at Jerry speculatively. “You condescend with me?” he said. “You jest?”

“Who me?” Jerry said in disgust. “Be condescending?

I wouldn’t dare. Although all sorts of puns and such come to mind. I could’ve introduced myself as Cross Rhodes, the guy who becomes slightly sore when somebody slips into his chair, right under him. And I could have pointed out Miss Horsten here”—he indicated Helen—“and said, ‘She looks like Helen Brown, but her real name is Horsten, and she looks cute in blue.’ ”

Helen’s face was pained. “I betcha I could think of a funnier one than that.”

The Great Marconi evidently couldn’t decide whether to laugh or mount higher into the saddle of dignity. He said evenly, “You are undoubtedly unacquainted with Firenze usage, Signore.”

“Undoubtedly,” Jerry said, looking about for a waiter, half a dozen of whom were scooting around amidst the tables.

Their unwelcome Florentine companion evidently couldn’t help putting in a dig. He said, “To get a waiter’s attention here at the Florida Cafe, you’d have to have, the luck of…”

He broke it off.

A waiter had magically materialized at the elbow of Jerry Rhodes.

“Hal” Helen said under her breath.

Jerry said, “One ice cream and—you do have ice cream on this planet? Nobody’s decided it’s subversive, or something?”

The waiter looked at him. “Are you criticizing the…”

But Jerry had held up a hand in horror. “Certainly not!” He looked at the self-named Great Marconi. “What’s a good morning pick-me-up on this planet?”

“Try a Grappa Sour,” the other said, and then to the waiter, “Two Grappa Sours.”

“Three,” Helen said.

Jerry and the Great Marconi looked at her. Jerry shook his head. “Ice cream,” he said.

The waiter left.

Helen and Jerry turned their eyes to their uninvited companion. He was possibly in his early thirties, lithe of build, quick of movement. His eyes were, if anything, overly bright in a face that fell into a drawn seriousness when relaxed, which was seldom. The Great Marconi was great for moues, smiles, animated grimaces; it was as though he wore a mask over a mask. His clothing, while not as seedy as that of many of his fellow Florentines, could have used a bit of spotting up. He hadn’t exactly slept in them, but…

He bore their scrutiny.

Helen said finally, “What makes you great, Mr. the Great Marconi?”

“Yeah,” Jerry said ungraciously. “You an unemployed magician, or something?” Then, without waiting for an answer, “What’re they doing with live waiters on Firenze? I thought the only place you ever saw waiters anymore were in the historical Tri-Di shows, or backward planets such as Goshen, where they’ve got a feudalistic socioeconomic system.”

“You seem to be somewhat critical of our institutions, Signore Rhodes. You’re fortunate someone hasn’t called you out, as a result. Florentines are touchy in matters of honor.”

“Jerry’s lucky,” Helen said flatly. “Anybody who called him out would probably wind up with laryngitis.”