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. “
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 fuming. “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.
Marconi looked back, “Go away,” he said. “I’m burglarizing Antonio’s quarters and don’t want to be bothered.”
The maggiore quivered but momentarily held his ground.
The relative of the Firenze chief of state said nastily, “I’ll get my mother to tell my aunt you were seen talking to an Engelist
“What Engelist? No member of the Marconi family-even you—would ever tell a deliberate falsehood.”
Cesare Marconi leered at him. “Me—that’s who. Do you deny you’re talking to me, right this minute? An admitted Engelist.”
The maggiore was indignant.
Helen said to him helpfully, “You go on. Me an’ Gertrude’ll keep an eye on him.”
Maggiore Verona came to unhappy decision, bowed, muttered, “Signorina, Signori,” and left.
The Great Marconi looked after him and sneered.
Jerry said to Zorro, “How’s the janitor accommodations in the cellar?”
Zorro glowered at him. “Shut up. You’re in luck, up here.”
“I’m always in luck,” Jerry said mildly. “And now I’m really in. I get the feeling the First Signore is going to try to sell me the local equivalent of the Brooklyn Bridge.”
The Florentine was looking at the two of them.
Horsten quickly changed the subject. “I don’t believe. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you, uh, Mr. Marconi.”
Jerry said, to Zorro, as well as to Horsten, “This is the Florentine I told you about. We met this morning at the Florida Cafe!”
“I had guessed. Tell me, Signore Marconi, why didn’t the maggiore, just now, challenge you? I thought that on this world challenges were exchanged on the lightest of excuse.”
“And run the chance of killing a member of the First Signore’s immediate relations?” He had given up his attempt to locate his cousin’s favorite potable, and returned with his oversized drink of whiskey to his seat.
“Frankly,” Horsten said, “I was somewhat surprised that His Zelenza himself didn’t challenge you.”
The Florentine was at his full ease. “Doctor—you are Dr. Horsten, of course? You were on Tri-Di, you know. The cameras were on you there at the university with Academician Udine. Doctor, an example is the Old West of
