“I
“Who is Gertrude?” The First Signore said to nobody in particular, and was ignored, probably for the first time in his memory.
The suite was being invaded by additional uniformed, faceless Florentines, some bearing personal luggage of their ultimate superior, some of his immediate staff, complete with briefcase and office equipment, all carrying the air of competence inevitable in those connected with supreme authority. Zorro’s luggage passed in the opposite direction, in the hands of two of the goons, a deflated Zorro following.
The maggiore came up hurriedly. “Doctor,” he said in despair, “His Zelenza has been most gracious…”
The First Signore was evidently reaching some sort of an edge under the impetus of Helen’s keening. He had come to his feet again, his glass, containing what was evidently his idea of the ultima thule of potables, temporarily abandoned on a cocktail table.
He said, between his teeth, “Not at all, Maggiore. The little Principessa is our guest. How charming that her father allowed her the master bedroom. She shall retain it. Who is Gertrude, a nurse?”
“A nurse?” Helen said, immediately turning off the temperament, in view of victory. “Gertrude’s a boy. Gertrude’s an Engelist.”
“An Engelist!” the First Signore uttered. By this time, his face had surrendered its air of supreme command of the local situation; in fact, there was an element of being lost in bedlam.
The maggiore said hurriedly, “Gertrude is her doll, Your Zelenza. The little girl has heard others speaking of the subversives since her arrival. She… she doesn’t understand.”
“Ha!” Helen said darkly.
Two aides approached, each, evidently, with messages for their chief.
At long last, he had someone at whom to roar.
He roared.
The aides disappeared magically.
The First Signore, now well shaken, turned to the liqueur glass of his treasured Golden Chartreuse. He took it up, began its journey to his lips, came to a bewildered halt, stared unbelievingly into the empty crystal. His expression clearly reflected that he couldn’t remember finishing the drink and that he couldn’t quite believe that he had. For the briefest of moments he looked at Helen, who stood nearest the short table upon which the glass had rested, but then he shook his head in inner disbelief.
He turned and made his way to the bar. It took him a moment to recall that he had put the bottle under lock. He fumbled for the tiny golden key, finally located it and acquired the bottle. He made an initial motion toward refilling the small liqueur glass, but then, shaking his head again, put it to one side and reached for a tumbler.
Maggiore Roberto Verona was staring at his superior; on the face of it, he had never seen the First Signore in this condition. He shook his head and turned back to his duties.
The hustle and bustle was beginning to subside somewhat, the efficiency of the underlings not being affected by the contretemps to which their chief was being subjected.
Jerry Rhodes, who had gone through this slumped on his couch, hands in pockets, said to his host, “What’s a pseudo-election?”
The First Signore had regained control. He made his way back to his recently evacuated position, tumbler firm in his grasp. He suddenly became aware of the fact that in the background not only Maggiore Verona, but several others of his staff were eyeing him in untoward wise.
He snapped, “Out Everybody, out. I suddenly find myself weary.”
“Undoubtedly, the trip down…” the maggiore began smoothly.
“Whatever,” the First Signore snapped. “Oat! I… I wish to have a relaxed few moments with my. new… uh, friends from overspace. Anything for a…” He cut himself off in mid-sentence and finished with simply, “Everybody out!”
They scooted.
The chief executive of Firenze sank back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes. He muttered, loud enough to be heard, “I must be getting old,” but then, he cleared his throat, popped his eyes open, sat more erect and brought himself under control.
That is—what was the question?”
“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
