Maggiore Verona continued, the heartiness in his voice fading somewhat. “His Eccellenza, Zorro Juarez, of the planet Vacamundo.”
The chief executive of Firenze said, “Ah yes, Signore. I understand that you have already had an unfortunate experience with our necessarily stringent regulations against dissident elements.”
Zorro said defensively, “I was simply trying to find out something about these Engelists everybody talks about.”
“Of course. Unfortunately you went about it in the wrong manner. One of my council heard of the matter and took care of it. I, personally, shall be happy to give you any information you may require, when opportunity permits.”
His eyes swept the four of them in hospitality, and he strode toward the bar, saying over his shoulder, “Maggiore, please explain the situation.” He took up a glass and let his eye run over the collection of bottles.
Maggiore Verona had followed him into the living room proper, leaving the other newcomers still in the entrada.
“Dr. Horsten, Signori,” he said. “There has been a change in the plans of His Zelenza. He has decided, after all, personally to attend the pseudo-election.”
Helen looked at Jerry from the side of her eyes and murmured softly, “Ha. The Rhodes luck. Tossed out on the street.”
“However,” the anti-subversion officer hastened to add, “His Zelenza insists that all efforts be made to secure other quarters for you.”
His Zelenza, not bothering to listen, was holding up to the light the bottle which Zorro and especially Helen had been drawing upon for refreshment. In his left hand was a tiny glass, on his face an expression of shock. He said, “My Betelgeuse Chartreuse!”
Horsten was exploring the situation with the un-happy Roberto Verona, assisted by Zorro Juarez. However, Jerry Rhodes was of more practical stuff. He approached the ultimate head of the Firenze state, nonchalantly flipping his French franc.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, Your Zelenza.”
“Yes, Signore?”
“It occurs to me that there are seven bedrooms in all in this suite.”
“Oh?” The other frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve ever counted. Seven, eh?”
“Seven,” Jerry said definitely. He flipped the coin, caught it. “It occurs to me that possibly you are a man not unaccustomed to taking a chance now and then.”
“A chance?”
“A bit of a gamble.”
The First Signore tore his eyes from his bottle. “You have touched on my weakness, Signore. But I am not sure I follow.”
Jerry flipped the coin again. “I am willing to wager a flat hundred thousand interplanetary credits against my being allowed to remain in my room, here in the suite, that I can call the flip of this coin.”
“A… hundred…
Jerry flipped the coin, caught it, flipped again, a great nonchalance in his air.
This time it was the First Signore who cleared his throat.
“I’ll flip the coin,” he said flatly. “You call it.”
“Right.” The coin changed hands.
His Zelenza looked at both sides. “This is heads, this is tails, eh? Very well.” He flipped it, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his left hand, covered it with his right.
Jerry said, “Heads.”
The other peered, scowled, shook his head. “You win.”
Jerry put his hands in his pockets. “Same bet,” he said. “This time for the right of Dr. Horsten and his daughter to remain in their rooms.”
“I say, you are a sportsman.”
“One hundred thousand interplanetary credits.” Jerry nodded.
“You’re on,” the First Signore said. He flipped, caught the coin again, peered at it suspiciously.
“Tails, this time,” Jerry said.
The scowl deepened. “You’ve won again.”
“And now…” Jerry began.
“Your Zelenza!” Roberto Verona blurted.
His Zelenza was scowling unhappily at the coin.
The maggiore said quickly to Zorro, “Unfortunately, the First Signore’s staff is such that additional room simply can’t be spared. Happily, there is, down in the basement, an emergency room vacated by an assistant janitor…”
“Oh, no,” Zorro protested.
The Firenze chief of state returned the coin, albeit reluctantly. He said to Jerry Rhodes, “Given time, I must introduce you to my own favorite game, poker.”
The two goons with their highly bemedaled superior had departed the entrada and now marched through the living room on what was obviously a security tour of inspection of the suite.
His Zelenza returned to his bottle, and drop by drop poured the thick golden liquid into his tiny liqueur glass. He half filled it, then carefully put it down. He returned the crystal stopper to the bottle, opened a small door set below in the bar, inserted the bottle on a shelf, closed the door, locked it with a small golden key, which he stashed away in a pocket of his jerkin. Muttering, he took the glass and made his way toward the living room’s throne-like, most comfortable chair—formerly, the usual domain of Helen.
To one side, the maggiore was explaining to an in-distant Zorro. To the rear of the penthouse suite, the bodyguards were making their room-to-room check. Dorn Horsten stood in owl-like magnificence, every inch the stolid, absent-minded scientist. Jerry, his accommodations taken care of, had sunk oafishly onto a couch.
His Zelenza began to lower himself into his comfort chair, a sigh of anticipated relaxation already on his lips.
“Hey,” Helen squeaked.
He caught himself in suspension, stuck there; turned to inspect his destination. There was approximately thirty-five pounds of femininity that hadn’t been there a moment ago immediately below his derriere. In his attempt to avert disaster, he jerked, spilling a portion of the contents of his carefully cherished glass.
His Zelenza came erect.
A score of feet away, Maggiore Verona, who had caught the action, froze, his shoulders hunched up as though in defense against dangerous developments.
However, a malady-laden smile struggled for existence on the First Signore’s face. He took an audible breath, then, in ultimate sacrifice, took his place on the same great couch occupied by Jerry Rhodes.
Helen, at her ease, crossed her plump legs and said, conversationally, “Whatcher name?”
His Zelenza blinked, looked around for minions to
Helen said confidentially, “Whatcher real name?”
The chief of state of Firenze let his eyes go from right to left, covering the vicinity. For the moment, there seemed none witnessing the conversation; Dorn Horsten was involved in a low talk with Jerry about moving their luggage to rooms which would conflict least with the First Signore’s staff; Maggiore Verona was still in verbal combat with
His Zelenza said condescendingly, “You mean, what does my mama call me?”
Helen looted at him in childlike flatness. She shook her head. “I don’t care what your old lady calls you. Whatcher name?”
Horsten, evidently not as absorbed in his conversation as all that, turned, and called, “Helen!”
Helen was wide-eyed innocence. “All I said was whatzis name. I can’t call him Uncle Hizelenza, if he’s gonna live with us.” All of a sudden she began to pucker up. “He’s gonna move into my
The massive scientist came over hurriedly. “Now, see here…” he began.
