Code Duello

“Undoubtedly, new representatives, uncontaminated by Engelist doctrine, will shortly be sent from Earth.”

“Yeah, but meanwhile Zorro’s in the jug,” Helen said.

The Florentine looked at her.

Horsten said hurriedly, “Helen, you spend too much time looking at the Tri-Di historical crime shows.”

“Look who’s talking,” Helen muttered. She went back to her box of toys.

Horsten said, “But what about Zorro’s lawyer?”

“I told you,” Maggiore Verona explained. “He’s accused of being an Engelist. Obviously, no reputable attorney would represent him.” He looked from Dorn Horsten to Jerry Rhodes, as nothing could be more obvious. “What would people think of a supposedly loyal Florentine who would represent an Engelist?”

“Not an Engelist,” Jerry blurted. “Somebody accused of being an Engelist.”

“Well,” the other said stiffly. “You must admit, there’s precious little difference. A mere technicality.”

Jerry slugged down his drink. “I don’t know,” he said, a wild element in his voice. “I continually get the impression on this planet that everybody’s kidding.” He looked at the Florentine anti- subversion officer. “You sure you don’t want a drink? Listen, something just occurred to me. You introduced yourself as attached to the Third Signore’s staff. What did you say the Third Signore is in charge of?”

“Anti-subversion.”

“What’s that got to do with us? Why’re you spending your time with us?”

The maggiore was a bit embarrassed, but still suave. “My dear Signore Rhodes. Surely it is the same on other worlds. Until evidence is presented to the contrary, we must operate on the, uh, possibility…” He let the sentence fade away.

Jerry grabbed up the bottle and poured himself another stiff one. “I’m beginning to think you people’ve been chasing these subversives so long you’ve gone drivel-happy.” He gave the bottle a half wave in illustration. “You know what I ran into today at that sidewalk cafe? A guy who…”

Helen came up with a little plastic gun from her hat box. She snarled at Jerry, pointing the gun, “Put down that bottle stranger. You had enough.”

The maggiore laughed condescendingly. “Ah, little ragazza, you should never point a loaded weapon, unless you mean to use it.”

Helen turned a beady eye on him. She swung the gun barrel in his direction. “Stick ’em up,” she ordered. “You put my Uncle Zorro in the jug.”

“Helen!” her father said in exasperation.

The Florentine was chuckling. He said in mock seriousness, “I refuse to stick ’em up. We loyal officers of the Third Signore never surrender.”

“You asked for it,” Helen said flatly and pulled the trigger.

“Helen!” her father blurted, rising from his chair in horror.

But the stream of water caught Maggiore Roberto Verona full in the face. He sat there frozen as it splattered over him. The water dribbled down over his lower face and onto his natty uniform.

Dr. Horsten was on his feet, a handkerchief in hand. He dabbed at the besoaked Verona, roaring over his shoulder, “Helen! Go to your room! Immediately!”

Helen dropped the water pistol and, wailing, headed for the back rooms of the suite.

Maggiore Verona took a deep breath and collected himself with effort. He stood, holding up a hand to restrain the good doctor’s efforts, and said shakily, “It is nothing. All apologies are accepted. She is but a little”—it took him an effort to bring out the last—“child.”

He cleared his throat. “I must go. I must go change.” He attempted a military bow, which didn’t come off. “Signori, if you will excuse me.” He headed for the door.

Dr. Horsten, continuing his chucking and incoherent apologies, saw him out, then returned to the oversized living room. There was storm in his expression.

“Where’s that witch?”

Helen stuck her head through the double door that led back to the master bedroom, which she had taken over as her own domain.

“Coast clear?”

“What in the name of the…” Horsten began in wrath.”

“Knock it,” she muttered. She went over to the bar and ungraciously gave Jerry’s leg a shove. She clambered up on a stool and reached for a bottle and glass.

“I had to shut him up some way,” she said defensively. She gestured with her head at Jerry, a motion which made her little-girl curls flare out winningly. “He was about to blab about an agent provocateur we ran into, in town today.”

Jerry, scowling, said, “What’s an agent, whatever-you-said?”

“Agent provocateur” Helen repeated, gurgling liquid into her glass until Horsten turned his head away to avoid the sight. “Have you ever heard the old Czarist Russian saying? When four men sit down to talk revolution, three are police spies and the other a fool.” Jerry just looked at her.

“Well,” she said. “Undoubtedly, that’s our Great Marconi. Although I’m beginning to wonder.”

“What are you talking about?” Horsten asked. She told him about the Great Marconi and he scowled. He said, “What did you mean, you’re beginning to wonder?”

Helen took a slug of her drink and sat down on the bar stool—she had been standing on it—and crossed her legs.

“Well, at first I figured he was secret police, trying to draw Jerry out, to see if he had any interest in Engelism.”

“But now?”

She said thoughtfully, “Now I’m beginning to wonder if possibly he wasn’t an Engelist pretending he was an Engelist.”

“You threw that one too fast,” Jerry protested.

Suddenly the front door of the penthouse suite opened and they turned to face it, all three frowning.

Zorro Juarez entered, his face as dark as when he had stormed out that morning.

He came up before them, his hands on his hips. “You know where I’ve just been?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Helen said.

“That’s what I thought. How’d you get me out?”

The three looked at him.

“We didn’t,” Jerry said. “If I got this straight, you weren’t eligible to have a lawyer because you were accused of being an Engelist. How come you were silly enough to stick your neck out like that?”

“Look who’s talking,” Helen said, taking another slug of her drink. “You’re hardly out of jail yourself.”

Zorro was mystified. “Well, somebody evidently cut a lot of red tape, somehow. They had me in a sort of community cell, in a concentration camp. Everybody accused of subversion.” He went over to the bar and without looking at the label of the bottle Helen had poured her drink from, upended it over a tall glass and let the golden, thickish beverage gush down.

“Engelists, eh?” Horsten nodded.

“No.”

“No? What other kind of subversives are there on Firenze?”

Zorro took back a slug of his drink, looked down into the glass appreciatively, took another. “I wouldn’t know. But my fellow jailbirds were the most unlikely candidates for membership in an underground organization you ever set eyes on.”

Jerry said plaintively, “I don’t know what there is about this evening. I don’t seem to follow any of the conversation. Were these people Engelists, or not?”

The dark complected cowman growled, “If they were, they sure hid it from me. I tried to sound them out, individually and in groups. None of them knew anything about Engelism.”

“Maybe they thought you were an agent provocateur,” Jerry said, in newfound wisdom.

“What’s that?”

Jerry looked at Helen from the side of his eyes. “A police spy stuck in with amateur revolutionists to draw