"Code Duello" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

Chapter Three

They had little to go on, when the Half Moon set down on Firenze. In fact, had decided, in conference, that there was surprisingly little known about the workings of the subversive wracked world. After all, it had been a member of United Planets for the better part of a century. During that time, a considerable dossier should have accumulated, based on the reports of Section G and other U.P. personnel assigned there. However, after assimilating what reports Irene Kasansky had given them, immediately before departure, they realized how preciously scant the supposed inside information was.

“These people are really security conscious,” Dorn Horsten had muttered, frowning down at the thin sheaf of study material.

“We’ll have to play it by ear,” Helen said, as unhappy as her oversized partner.

Jerry said, “Well, it’s all rather simple. They’re plagued by an underground. Our job is to locate these subversives and do them in. With a little luck…”

They bent on him a simultaneous glower.

Jerry swallowed apologetically and shut up.

Zorro said, “We’d better destroy these papers. It wouldn’t do to try to land with anything connecting us to Section G.”

It turned out that their destination had exactly one spaceport. It was indicative of the restrictions Firenze’s situation had imposed. There were, throughout the United Planets Confederation, various worlds that minimized the amount of intercourse with fellow planets. But, invariably, these were the most reactionary, backward members of man’s far-flung league, worlds whose ruling classes could not afford to allow their populations to come in contact with peoples who had solved man’s immediate socioeconomic problems and had achieved to a high degree of freedom.

There were quite a number of such planets thrown up in the race’s chaotic populating of this sector of the galaxy. Usually, worlds based on one type of dictatorship or another, ranging from theocracies to technocracies, in few of which the ruling elite were actually elite—although when the politico-economic system had been originated, perhaps they had been.

Possibly, the least valid method of choosing a ruling class has been the most widely utilized by the human race: nepotism. In primitive society, it must have been unknown, or practically so. When representation was based on the sib, clan, or gens and chiefs were elected on their merit, there was little reason for such a tribal official to wish to hand down his office to his son. There was no profit motive, since the job was not remunerative, a chief being not better off materially than any other member of the tribe. However, as society evolved and the powers of the chiefs—and priests—of necessity expanded, they had little time to hunt their own game, or till their own fields, as Odysseus was found doing when Agamemnon, Menelaus, and Palamedes came to recruit him for the police action against Illium. It became necessary for society as a whole to provide for their elected rulers and in time the jobs became worth having, leisure being the ultimate luxury in a society where abundance is but a dream. And, shortly, such offices became no longer elective, as strongman and holyman subverted primitive institutions.

Be all this as it may, it was distressing for the operatives of Section G to see such indications of the police state as but one port of entry to a whole planet as advanced as Firenze. Among other things, it meant restrictions on commerce and exchange of technological knowledge, and this, above all, was what their department was interested in fostering.

Their small group were the only ones disembarking on Firenze. For that matter, they had been the only passengers aboard the Half Moon, which, although licensed to carry travelers, was so haphazardly scheduled that it was seldom practical. While the robos unloaded their luggage, and such freight as had been designated for this set down, the four of them, still pretending to be comparative strangers, took a spaceport ground vehicle to the administration building, the surly second officer accompanying them, to handle any red tape that might evolve.

By the half-puzzled looks he sometimes shot from the corner of his eyes at Jerry Rhodes, it could be seen that Helmut Drinker was still not quite clear on what had happened. In his memory, evidently, one moment he had been heading for the foppish Jerry, to wring from him either the credits Brinker considered he had coming to him, or his pound of flesh, from the other’s none too brawny frame. The next moment, black had become the color of the day, and when he had awakened, it was with an egg-sized bump on his chin and utter disbelief in his mind.

Helen, her small, chubby hands folded demurely in her lap, had been gazing at him in the unblinking quizzicalness of pre-adolescence, since they had first mounted the air-cushion cart.

Finally she blurted, “Mr. Second Officer Blinker, you got two chins.”

“Helen!” Dorn Horsten said.

She looked at her supposed father. “Well, he has, Daddy. Hasn’t he, Uncle Zorro? One of ’em’s blue. You got two chins, Mr. Blinker, and one of ’em’s blue.” She added, from accumulated wisdom, “Most people only got one chin.”

Helmut Brinker scowled at her. “Brinker,” he said.

“Brinker what?”

“My name’s Brinker, not Blinker,” he growled in disgust.

“That’s what I said,” she said with satisfaction. “And two chins.”

“Helen,” Dorn Horsten said in mild reproof, “Citizen Brinker is the same as everyone else. He has only one chin. Now, that will be all. Please be on your best behavior at the administration building.”

Helen looked skeptically at the second officer’s lower face. She turned her eyes to Zorro and then Jerry Rhodes, as though seeking corroboration. However, those two worthies looked away. Helen returned to observing the chin—or chins—in question and muttering to herself under her breath.

“That will be all, Helen,” her father said, and, evidently to take the conversation out of the hands of his disconcerting daughter, added to Helmut Brinker, “Are none of the crew to take, ah, port-leave here? I would think they would welcome the opportunity.” The second officer snorted. “On this planet? If the skipper let ten men off on an overnight pass, three’d get themselves shot in duels, as easy’s they’d get a black eye and a hangover on some good shore-leave world like, say, Shangri-La. And four of the others’d be in the brig for something subversive, like preferring vanilla to chocolate ice cream.” He snorted sourly again.

The driver of the spaceport runabout swiveled in his seat and looked at Helmut Brinker. He said evenly, “You an Engelist, or something?”

“Holy Jumpin’ Zen, no,” the Half Moon’s second officer blurted. “I was just kidding.”

The driver continued to look at him for a long moment, finally, after darting a glance back at the tarmac to check his course, he said, “Maybe you don’t like Firenze? Maybe you think you can toss insults around about the planet of my birth, right in front of me. I’m just a nobody, without enough guts to call you out.”

“Holy Ultimate,” the second muttered. “If I get myself skewered in some silly duel, the skipper’ll crucify me.” He looked earnestly at the Florentine. “Look, fella, I’m sorry. I apologize. I love this planet, uh, Firenze. I was just joking.”

The driver began to turn back to his task of piloting, when Jerry Rhodes began to laugh.

The Florentine’s face became a mask. “What’s funny Signore?”

But Helen was in there. She shook her finger at the transportation cart’s chauffeur. “Now, you stop turning around all the time and talking and all. You scare me. I never rode in one of these things afore, and you turn around all the time and get mad, and you scare me. And I don’t like it here. And”—she topped it—“I’ll tell my daddy!”

“Now, Helen,” her father said.

“I wanna go home!” Helen shrilled.

The driver turned back to his duties and hunched his shoulders.

Zorro Juarez cleared his throat and said to the Florentine, as though seeking a subject with which to clear the air, “What is an Engelist?”

It was evidently the wrong subject to have chosen.

The other said, “You don’t know what an Engelist is? What kind of world you come from?” And then in confused contradiction of himself, “You live on some sort of Engelist government world?”

Zorro said, in unwonted mildness, “I’m from Vacamundo. We don’t have any Engelists, or whatever you call them, there. What’s an Engelist?”

They were almost to the entry of the official building. However, the driver took Zorro in with a slow calculation. “How do I know you’re not some undercover police, trying to egg me into indicating I got unusual interest in the Engelists?”

Zorro shook his head at him in true puzzlement. “Come again on that?”

The driver turned his back abruptly, and did things with his cart controls.

They pulled up before the short flight of stairs which mounted to the building’s portals, and the driver dropped the lift lever and disembarked to open doors for them. His face was darkly suspicious and he spoke no further. Helen, when her father wasn’t looking, stuck her tongue out at him before tripping after the rest.

At the top of the stone stairway were three guards, two of them bearing muffle rifles. They came to the salute, eyes straight ahead. A trim sub-officer, a quick-draw holster at his hip, came forward, his face expressionless.

The second officer of the Half Moon had evidently been through Firenze routine before. He stepped out and presented a clipboard of papers.

“Four passengers from the Half Moon. Origin, Earth. Visas for Firenze entry in order.”

The sub-officer looked at Blinker carefully. He took the clipboard. Before looking at it, he weighed the four in question, one by one, with care. Finally, he looked down at the papers. He took his time perusing them.

He said at last, “Very well, follow me.” He turned and led the way to the entry. The party from the Half Moon trailed behind.

Zorro growled under his breath, “Some welcome for a bunch of newcomers.”

Dorn Horsten said, an edge of irritation in his voice, “See here, I expected someone from the University…”

The Florentine said, “After clearance.”

The big scientist pushed his pince-nez glasses back onto his nose. “Stuff and nonsense,” he muttered.

The sub-officer paused. “Are you criticizing the institutions of the Free Democracy of the Commonwealth of Firenze, or me, personally?”

But Helen was in there again. She pointed a finger at the Firenze official, her other small fist on her hip. “You leave my daddy alone,” she said in warning.

The sub-officer looked at her. He frowned puzzlement. He looked back at her father. Dorn Horsten stood there scowling, but evidently unrepentant.

The Florentine started over again. “I will brook no criticism of the institutions…”

Helen took a half skip forward and let him have it on the shins. “I told you to leave my daddy alone, you nasty thing. My daddy didn’t bother you.”

“Helen!” Horsten blurted.

Zorro Juarez scooped her up and held her under his left arm. He tapped his tranca against his trouser leg. “Let’s get on with it,” he said.

“Lemme go!” Helen shrilled.

The Florentine sub-officer stood there, either counting to himself or communicating with whatever gods he followed. He had closed his eyes in mental, rather than physical, anguish.

Finally, he opened them and said emotionlessly, “Follow me.”

Zorro kept his grip on the kicking Helen.

“I don’t like this place. I wanna go home,” she howled.

The sub-officer held the door open for them. Zorro, laden down with Helen, passed through last. The sub-officer closed his eyes again, when she went by. It was just as well; she was sticking her tongue out in impotent rage.

Immediately inside the door was a large desk, behind it an older and more elaborately uniformed Florentine. He took them all in, including the sub-officer, without speaking. When the sub-officer put the clipboard of entry papers before him, he scanned it very slowly. The four passengers from space lined up before the desk, the second officer of the Half Moon slightly ahead of them.

The official looked up finally and stared at Jerry Rhodes, who was at the far right of the lineup. Jerry, hands nonchalantly in his pockets, was looking about the large entry hall.

The Florentine rapped, “Are you, or have you ever been, an Engelist?”

Jerry Rhodes brought his eyes to him, in unfeigned lack of comprehension.

“Me? What’s an Engelist? Listen, how do I go about finding a deluxe hotel? The very best. Some place with decent food and some action.” He winked at the other, dropped his voice slightly and spoke from the side of his mouth. “You know, nice nightspot, vintage guzzle, pick up a good looking…”

The sub-officer clipped, “Answer the Tenente’s question!”

Jerry blinked. “Me? No. I don’t even know what a… whatever you said… is.”

The tenente went on down the line. And got the same response from Dorn Horsten and Zorro Juarez. That is, a denial that they were or had ever been, Engelists.

The tenente brought out papers and got their signatures to that effect. The papers were added to the clip-board. He handed the clipboard to the sub-officer, who saluted. The tenente returned the salute. He had one last word to say to the newcomers to Firenze.

“In landing upon this planet you foreswear recourse to your own world, or to the United Planets, insofar as political activities are concerned. That is, if it is found that you participate in Firenze internal affairs, such as Engelist subversion, you are subject to our laws and to the government of the First Signore. Is that understood and accepted? If not, you must return to the”—he looked down at the paper before him—“the Half Moon, and depart Firenze.”

Zorro Juarez said, “You mean, if we get in trouble, we can’t appeal to the United Planets Embassy?”

The tenente said, “Why should you get in trouble? You have declared that you are not an Engelist, haven’t you?”

Jerry Rhodes said, “Is that the only kind of trouble you can get into on this world?”

“Are you attempting to be amusing, Signore, uh… Rhodes?”

Jerry said plaintively, “So far, I haven’t found anything to be amusing about on this planet. All I want to know is where I can find some decent food and a little action. After a week of Tuesdays on that so-called passenger freighter, what I need is…”

Helen, who at long last had been set back on her own feet again, whined, “I don’t like this place, Daddy. I wanna go home.”

“Now, Helen, be a good girl.”

The sub-officer had closed his eyes again, when Helen opened her trap. The tenente said, “That will be all. Take them to customs.”

At this point Helmut Brinker called it quits. His duties, evidently, took him no further. He shook hands, even with Jerry Rhodes, patted Helen carefully on the head, as though half suspicious that she might bite him, and set off for the spaceport cart.

Helen held on to Zorro’s hand on the way to the next stop. He growled at her from the side of his mouth, “Aren’t you overdoing this?”

She looked up at him balefully and snarled in a low voice, “The way I look at it, so far I’ve stopped two duels. And if you three overgrown clods don’t keep your traps shut, I doubt if we’ll ever get to the hotel without one of you getting ventilated, or whatever they do in the way of dueling here.”

He snorted, but let it go.

The natty sub-officer pushed through another door and led the way to customs inspection where the robos had obviously piled their luggage. On their appearance, three inspectors, under what was obviously a customs official, began opening bags and trunks.

“Hey,” Jerry said in mild protest at their indifferent handling of his luxurious trappings.

The sub-officer handed the clipboard to the customs man, who looked at Jerry Rhodes in speculation. “You have something to hide?”

“Who me?”

“Do you swear that you have no Engelist propaganda either in your luggage or on your person?”

“Propaganda?” Jerry said blankly.

Dorn Horsten said to him, “An old Amer-English word derived from ‘to propagate.’ It merely meant the particular doctrines or principles promulgated by an organization, with no suggestion of whether or not the teachings were correct or false. Later, however, the word gained an unsavory connotation and grew synonymous with political lies.”

The customs official looked coldly at the scientist. “All Engelist propaganda is composed of lies. Are you suggesting otherwise?”

“But I’ve never even read or heard any,” Horsten protested.

“You haven’t answered my question!” the other snapped. “Do you deny all Engelist propaganda is composed of subversive lies?”

“Well, now…”

Helen began to cry. “I gotta go to the baaathroom.”

Dorn Horsten looked at the customs inspector plaintively.

The sub-officer sighed in resignation and said, “This way, Dr. Horsten.”

Horsten took Helen’s hand and they followed the Florentine to a side door and out. The inspector looked after them for a moment, then turned back to his duties.

He had gotten to a rather outsized hatbox a few minutes later and had begun to activate its opening mechanisms, when a voice squealed from behind him, “Don’t you bother my dolly!” He winced and his shoulders hunched up under the attack of the eight-year-old.

Helen stomped up indignantly and snatched the hatbox from the other’s hands.

The chief inspector looked at the harassed Horsten.

Dr. Horsten said, “She’s tired.”

The inspector said, “All baggage must be thoroughly examined.”

Helen had turned her back defiantly and sat down on the floor, the hatbox between her chubby legs.

Zorro said, “I’ll help.”

He hunkered down on his heels before her and said, “Let’s see your dolly.”

The inspector and the sub-officer who had been accompanying the travelers since first they had entered the administration building, stood looking down in frustration.

Helen looked suspiciously at Zorro Juarez, as though wondering if she was being betrayed to the enemy by, this former ally. However, she touched the box’s stud and the top slid open.

“This is Gertrude,” she said. And then, proudly, “Gertrude’s a boy.”

The sub-officer muttered something and the inspector looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m getting back to my post before…”

“Before what?” the chief inspector said accusingly.

“Nothing.” The sub-officer left as though in a hurry.

Helen was saying, “And this is his potty.”

Zorro, still squatted on his heels, began to say, “How does it work?” But then, quickly, “Never mind. What is this?” He reached the potty up in the direction of the inspector for examination, but that official winced and put his hands slightly behind his back.

A quiet technician on the far side of the room, stationed behind a battery of switches and dials, said, “I get an electronic buzz.”

The three customs men, who had been bent over the various bags, straightened and looked at him. The inspection chief spun, his eyebrows high.

“Get a level on it!”

Helen was saying, “And this is the washin’ machine. You wanna see me wash his jerkin?”

“No,” Zorro said.

“You put it in here,” she said.

The technician, registering disbelief, had come to his feet and approached Helen. Zorro stood up.

The technician pointed at the hatbox. “It comes from there.”

The inspector’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Horsten.

“Oh, good heavens,” Dr. Horsten said. He pushed his pince-nez glasses back, as though preparatory to a lengthy discussion.

The technician stooped and came up with a gadget that neatly fit into his hand. He stared at it.

“Hey,” Helen said in indignation. “That’s my Gertrude’s stove.”

The technician flicked a stud with the nail of his little finger, then shifted his grip on the toy hurriedly as he obviously burned himself. He looked at the inspector in awe. “See that little thing, there?” He indicated. “That must be the smallest powerpack I’ve ever seen.”

The inspector glared at him. “Put it back,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” The technician put it back and returned to his post.

Dr. Horsten said to Helen, “Put your toys away, dear. You can play when we get to the hotel.”

“I don’t wanna go to the hotel. I wanna go home. I hate this place. This place is…” She thought about it, then finished definitely, “… a dump.”

The inspector gave up on this front. He turned on Zorro. “What’s that you have in your hand, a weapon? Let me see it.”

“Weapon?” Zorro said. “This is my tranca.” He held up the leather swagger stick.

“What is a tranca?” the inspector said in suspicion.

“Why…” Zorro looked down at it, as though that was the last question he had ever expected to hear. “How could one tell a gentleman gaucho from a vaquero unless he carried a tranca?”

The inspector looked at him sarcastically and took the leather object in question. He stared down at it, hefted it. Finally, he took it over to the technician and held it before a screen.

“Take a reading on this.”

“It reads clean. Some very hard leather, maybe some rubber. Not enough metal to make any difference.”

The inspector took it back to Zorro, puzzled. “What do you do with it?”

Zorro returned the puzzlement. “Do with it? I carry it. I’m a gaucho.” His voice went stiff. “Do you doubt my word that I am a gaucho?”

The inspector straightened and his face went expressionless. “It was not my desire to question your veracity, Signore. However, if honor is involved…”

Two of his men stepped forward and stood at his side at attention. One of them said, “If the Inspector requires seconds…”

Dr. Horsten said hurriedly, “Gentlemen, gentlemen. You are of different worlds and do not understand each other’s institutions. Certainly, you are both men of honor. All a misunderstanding…”

Jerry Rhodes suddenly broke into laughter.

All eyes went to him. All coldly, save those of Dr. Horsten, who expressed anguish.

The inspector said, “Yes, Signore, uh, Rhodes?”

Helen said shrilly, “Uncle Jerry, you stop laughing at the way I change Gertrude’s diddies.”

Jerry was looking at the other men, his eyes slightly wide. He looked down at Helen quickly. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “You change them very nicely.”

The inspector turned back to Zorro Juarez. “I am at your service, if you feel need of satisfaction. Undoubtedly, these gentlemen, your fellow travelers, will act for you.”

“Now…” Dorn Horsten began hurriedly.

There was a small clatter.

All eyes went to the floor.

There was a badge laying there.

It was a simple bronze badge, and the standing men could read of its inscription only, SECTION G, and less clearly, part of the smaller lettering, Interplanetary Department of Justice .

The chief inspector was bug-eyed.

“What’s that ?” he snapped.

Helen reached. “You can’t have my Junior Section G badge,” she howled, grabbing for it.

But one of the customs men was staring at Jerry Rhodes. “That badge dropped from…” he began.

From the open doorway, through which they had entered the room, Dorn Horsten roared, ” Earthquake! Everybody get under something! Helen, quick!”

Zorro Juarez was not slow on the uptake. He waved his arms frantically. “Under the doorway, or a desk. If the roof falls in, you’re safer!”

Dr. Horsten was swaying desperately, his arms holding onto the doorjamb, one on each side. “Earthquake!” he roared again. “Helen!”

The room was shaking. A picture on the wall of a stern faced, uniformed personage of obviously high rank was swaying pendulum-like back and forth.

The faces of the Florentines registered shock. They froze momentarily.

“Under something!” Zorro yelled. “If the roof gives way…”

Helen had darted a look of comprehension at her supposed father, then, screaming, flew to the customs officer who had, a moment earlier, begun to accuse Jerry Rhodes of something. She jumped up against him, throwing her chubby legs around his waist, holding onto him for dear life. “Save me! Save me!” And even as she screamed at that confused worthy, one of her deft tiny hands was extracting what seemed a safety pin from her little girl playsuit.