Code duello, p.16
Code Duello, page 16
The Florentine leader said coldly, “I am afraid his ramblings will avail you little in that regard, Doctor.” The roulette table was now operative. He snapped his fingers at the half dozen aides and guards present and they scrambled.
“Well, well.” The First Signore rubbed his palms together briskly. “Who shall take the bank?”
Jerry Rhodes finished his drink, but his expression was blank. “Remember, I’ve never played.”
Horsten said, “The percentage is with the bank, Jerry.” He was ignored.
The First Signore took the younger man’s glass from his hand and turned to the bar. He began to refresh the drink. Inadvertently, his eyes went to the bottle from which he himself, had been drinking. He frowned slightly in puzzlement, put Jerry’s glass down and took up the bottle of Golden Chartreuse. He held it to the light, checking its level. He shook his head in bewildered disbelief, but then gave up his trend of thought and went back to mixing another portion for his guest, from a different bottle.
“Doctor,” he said. “A beverage for you, as well?” And, grudgingly, “Cesare, since you are here, if I will it or not…”
“I’ll make my own,” the Great Marconi said, and then, twisting the knife in the wound, “I have a predilection for that Betelgeuse drink of yours. I mix it with ginger beer and sugar.”
The First Signore repressed a groan of pure soul agony but returned with the tall glass to Jerry.
He stood in the croupier’s place at the head of the table and explained the game. “We have, here, this wheel and little ball. I spin the wheel and toss the ball in. There are thirty-eight slots, in all, into which it may fall; thirty-six of them numbers, one a zero, and one a double zero. Now then, on the table we have places to bet. One for each slot. If you bet on number eighteen, let us say, and the little ball drops into that slot”—he oozed charm—“then you win thirty-six times your bet.”
“Wow,” Jerry said. “Now, that’s something. None of this one-to-one wager. Thirty-six times what you bet. How can you lose? Fascinatin’.”
Antonio d’Arrezzo cleared his throat unctuously. “You can lose if the little ball drops into some other slot. Now, there are several other ways in which you can wager. For instance, you will note that half the numbers are red, and half black.”
Marconi and Horsten, both sighing, though through different motivation, drifted over to the bar. The Great Marconi took over the job of making them drinks, pouring them from the bottle of Golden Chartreuse. Its bouquet suffused the immediate vicinity.
“Do you really mix ginger beer with this stuff?” Horsten said.
“No. I’m just trying to give Antonio ulcers thinking about it. See here, can that friend of yours afford to lose?”
“He could sign a draft on any bank on Geneva to the extent of a billion interplanetary credits, and it wouldn’t faze him.”
The Great Marconi whistled softly. “Why didn’t I see him first?”
Horsten said, “But he’s not going to lose. Can your cousin afford a financial jolting?”
“Theoretically, as First Signore, he has in his name the possession of all nationalized industry on Firenze. Theoretically he could sign over their ownership.”
“What do you mean, theoretically?”
“Under interplanetary law, his signature would stand up in the Department of Interplanetary Trade on Mother Earth.”
“But…” Horsten prompted.
Cesare Marconi looked at him. “Isn’t it obvious? If he signed away, in his position as chief of state, the public property, his neck would be in a noose before the day was out.”
“Then why take the chance?”
The Great Marconi pulled at his glass glumly. “He’s not going to lose.”
The two, carrying their drinks, made their way back to the roulette table. The First Signore had just finished explaining the workings of the ages-old game. Jerry Rhodes stood at the table side, a stack of chips before him. Evidently, through the Tenth Signore, the two contestants had made some sort of financial arrangement so that they could wager.
Jerry took a sip from his glass, set it down and took up a chip. “We’ll start off slow,” he said, his voice slurring only slightly. “Hundred thousand interplanetary credits on the very number you mentioned—eighteen.”
“A…hundred…thousand…interplanetary…credits,” Cesare Marconi said.
Dorn Horsten had given up.
Antonio d’Arrezzo spun the wheel. He tossed the plastic ball so that it rolled, counter to the direction of the spin, about the edge of the bowl in which the wheel sat. All eyes were fascinated.
The ball lost momentum, slipped from the rim, hit into the numbered slots, bounced out, bounced in again, seemed to have found its place in slot number thirty, but then gave one last feeble bounce.
“Eighteen!” Jerry blurted happily.
The First Signore stared disbelief.
“Thirty-six to one,” Jerry said, grinning around at the small circle of them. “Tha’s what I call odds.” He looked to the Firenze strong-arm, pinch-hitting as croupier. “Let her roll.”
It was the jittery Tenth Signore who said, “Let her roll?”
Jerry Rhodes looked at the Florentine chief of state accusingly. “You said no limit, didn’t you?”
“Eh?” Antonio d’Arrezzo was still staring at the plastic ball, nestled in slot eighteen. “Oh. No limit. Why…yes, of course.” He had been in the process of shoving two stacks of chips, eighteen to the stack, in Jerry’s direction, with his croupier stick.
Jerry pushed them all over onto number eighteen.
Cesare Marconi shot Horsten an incredulous look. “You mean he’s going to wager thirty-seven hundred thousand interplanetary credits on one spin of the wheel? One chance in thirty-eight of it coming up?”
Horsten shook his massive head. “I told you he was lucky.”
“Nobody’s that lucky.”
The First Signore plucked the ball from the eighteen slot and looked at it. He hefted it. He seemed to shrug infinitesimally, then spun the wheel again. He tossed the ball as he had before.
Jerry said, “A bet of thirty-seven hundred thousand credits at odds of thirty-six to one. Why, I’d have to figure it out. Mother’ll be pleased. Mounts to a sizable chunk of that ’ranium industry. We’ll go to work on transportation, next.” He looked at the Tenth Signore. “Didn’t you say that was one of the nationalized industries?”
“Yes.”
Cesare Marconi glowered a look of disgust at the young man, turned and went back to refresh his glass. But he had returned by the time the ball was bouncing from slot to slot.
“Eighteen!” Jerry chortled. He looked at Dorn Horsten, as though soliciting approval. “Now isn’t that luck?” He turned his shining face to the Florentine Minister of Treasury. “How much of the ’ranium industry do I have now?”
“You own it,” the Tenth Signore moaned.
“Now look here…” Horsten began, and was completely ignored.
Jerry said, in a burst of enthusiasm, “Let ’er ride again!”
The First Signore shook his head. “But…but if you won again, I wouldn’t have the chips to…to pay off.”
Jerry upended his drink, tossed the empty glass over his shoulder. “Chips, snips,” he slurred. “All or nothin’. One more rolla the wheel. If it comes up eighteen, you lose. Everything. I own all the nationalized industry on Firenze.”
For long moments, silence reigned. The First Signore was breathing deeply. So deeply that he sounded as though he had but finished the climbing of a considerable peak.
“Your Zelenza!” The Tenth Signore groaned.
“Quiet!” d’Arrezzo ground out. He turned to his opponent and whispered, “You’re on.”
He picked up the plastic ball, stared at it for a long moment, hefted it slightly. He shook his head, and spun the wheel.
There was commotion at the entry. The door banged open.
The First Signore looked up to glare.
Zorro, in the hands of two of the brawniest of the Florentine guards, was being dragged along, in the trail of a gaudily uniformed officer of what the Section G representatives now recognized as the Ministry of Anti-Subversion. The officer held something in his right hand, and there was an air of triumph in his every move.
“What is the meaning of this!” d’Arrezzo barked.
“Your Zelenza!” the newcomer returned, completely uncowed. “They’re subversive spies! All spies. We captured this one sending a report to his superiors back on Earth. We were able to tape most of it.” He held up that which he had been carrying in his hand.
“Hey!” Helen bleated from across the room where she had retreated with her doll. “That’s my Gerturde’s Tri-Di Dolly Set. You give me that back!”
It was a good try, but without any response whatsoever.
“Report?” the First Signore snapped. His glare encompassed the otherworldlings.
“Yes, Your Zelenza. Most of it is unintelligible. Something about Dawnworld planets. However, we have enough to prove that these”—with a sweeping hand he indicated Jerry, the disgruntled Zorro and Dorn Horsten—“are all operatives of Section G, evidently some espionage agency of the Octagon.”
“I see,” the First Signore said.
Helen had come up to take her stance next to Horsten, at the roulette table, her doll under her arm.
Gertrude began to go Beep, beep, beep.
CHAPTER XII
The sound was audible enough for all to hear. The Florentines were not the only ones to scowl.
Of a sudden, Dorn Horsten moved. He took two lumbering steps, grasped hold of the gigantic roulette wheel, and heaved. It came up in his huge hands, and he rested it on one side on the floor. As all watched, taken aback, he pulled away the metal sheathing which covered the bottom. Beneath was a bed of wires and miniature power packs.
“Ah ha,” the doctor snorted.
Cesare Marconi whinnied amusement. “Why Cousin Antonio, a rigged wheel? No wonder you were surprised when you didn’t win, and no wonder you won so often before at your parties to raise campaign funds.”
But the First Signore, in his rage, was having none. He whirled on Jerry Rhodes, now completely sober.
“An agent of Section G! I have heard rumors of this Section G and its subverting of member worlds of the United Planets. All a farce! You have no unlimited wealth on Geneva. You would have cheated me!”
“Ha!” Helen snorted. “Look who’s talking.”
The open palm of Antonio d’Arrezzo lashed out across the face of the younger man. Jerry Rhodes, off guard, staggered back.
“We will meet on the field of honor!” the First Signore snapped. “Name your weapon!” He turned his glare on the scientist and then went on to Zorro Juarez. “And when I have finished with this make-believe interplanetary tycoon, then you, and you!”
The Firenze chief of state turned his glare on Cesare Marconi. “And then, perhaps you. I am not amused by you befriending these enemies of the State, nor, for that matter your professed adherence to the Engelists.” He turned back to Jerry, still fuming. “Your choice of weapons, Signore.” The term “signore” came out a sneer.
Jerry blinked at him, still not quite accommodated to the last few moments of developments.
“Uh, Sten guns,” he said. “Sten guns at five paces.”
Antonio d’Arrezzo whirled to his guard officer. “He has chosen. Make immediate arrangements!” Stiff-legged, he strode for the entry and the doorway, the Tenth Signore bustling along behind him.
The suite had emptied save for the Section G operatives and Cesare Marconi. The latter was eyeing Jerry Rhodes laconically. He turned to the bar, began making himself another drink with his cousin’s precious Betelgeuse Chartreuse. “What,” he said, “is a Sten gun?”
Jerry, rubbing his face where he had been slapped, in the classical challenge to duel, laughed in self-deprecation. “That’ll stop him,” he said.
Zorro, Helen and Horsten all looked at him, even as they gathered themselves.
He said, in rueful explanation, “I took a page from the Doc’s book, when that university scientist challenged him. I named an impossible weapon.”
Marconi bent an eye on him, even as he poured. “Impossible?”
Jerry allowed himself a chuckle. “A Sten gun. I saw one in a Tri-Di historical show once. Second or Third World War, back on Earth. Anyway, they used to drop them to the partisans behind the lines. Very simply constructed submachine gun.”
The Florentine said, in interest, “What’s impossible about it?”
Jerry scowled. “Why, it’s almost as ancient as Dorn’s Macedonian pike. There are no such things any more.”
Cesare Marconi looked at him. “I have unfortunate news for you. Way-out weapons are quite a fad on the Firenze field of honor. There is an amazingly complete library on them in the archives of the College of the Code Duello.”
Zorro said, speaking for the first time since he had been hauled so unceremoniously into the room. “You mean they’d make up a couple, to order, just for this one duel?”
“Yes. In practically no time at all.”
Jerry flinched. “But…but the ammunition, and so forth.”
“They’ll make that too. Do you know what a Sten gun fires?”
“I…I think they fire bullets. A clip of twenty or so.”
“At five paces?” the Florentine said. “Holy Ultimate, you’ll both be hamburger. No, only you. I have no great respect for my highly placed cousin, but he has perhaps the fastest reflexes on the planet Firenze. It is no mistake he is the First Signore.”
Helen said, “Look. While you’re over there, make me one of those king-size drinks too, will you?”
They used the heavy table, which a few moments past had been utilized for the roulette layout, for their conference. The wheel lay to one side, where Dorn Horsten had let it drop upon revealing its crooked nature. Zorro had swept the felt layout board to the floor as well, and all had brought up seats, save Helen who remained in the comfort chair she had made her own.
Cesare Marconi, somehow, had automatically become a member of the group. He said to Dorn Horsten, “What’s this Section G? My friend, Bulchand, just before he was killed in a put-up duel, revealed he belonged to it, and that undoubtedly new representatives would be coming to replace him from Earth, if he was killed. It’s why I contacted you. You seemed unlikely, but you were the only travelers from Earth in some time.”
The scientist looked at him quizzically. Finally, he said, “All I can tell you is that its purpose, so far as Firenze is concerned, is to get this planet back on the road to progress.”
“That sounds good enough to me.”
Helen said, “I’m beginning to think I know the answer to this already, but just for the record, if you’re in favor of progress on Firenze, what’re you doing in the ranks of the Engelists?”
Marconi eyed her in speculation. “I’m beginning to think I know the answer to this question already too, but you’re an adult, aren’t you?”
Helen snorted and looked at Zorro and Jerry. “Evidently more so than my two colleagues, here.” She looked Marconi full in the face. “What’re you doing in the ranks of the Engelists?”
“Ranks of the Engelist? I am the Engelists.”
Dorn Horsten was scowling at him. “What in the name of the Holy Ultimate is that supposed to mean?”
Helen looked at her large partner. “Isn’t is obvious? What he’s saying is, there are no Engelists on this crackpot planet. There are none, never were any.” A speculative look came to her face. “I was about to add, and never will be.”
“Nothing’s making sense around here!” Zorro complained. “What do you mean, there are no Engelists? We were sent here, all the way from Earth to…”
Helen overrode him. “Get stute, love. It’s all phony. The powers that be on this zany world maintain themselves with a police state camouflaged as a democratic regime that has to curtail all liberties, civil and otherwise, in the supposed fight against subversion. It’s not the first time witch hunting has been resorted to, when there were precious few witches, in order to maintain the status quo. This is just the most complete example known in history.”
Jerry said, “You mean everybody on Firenze spends practically all their time looking for subversives that aren’t there? How about that leaflet Maggiore Verona showed us?”
Horsten grunted. “Obviously, the government itself printed them up. Which explains how stupidly it was worded. No, Helen’s right. It’s a sort of reverse of the old Roman adage. When confronted with possible revolt from your people at home, stir up trouble abroad. In this case, the powers that be pretend the need to unite the country against subversives when their real interest is to preserve themselves in control. Only those on the very highest levels are in on the secret. Not even that colonel in the Anti-Subversion Ministry, whom Helen and I interrogated, knew the real situation.”
Zorro growled, “What gets me is that when you arrive at the top, the First Signore—not to mention that silly little member of his council, the Tenth Signore—you draw a small-time crook, and not a particularly smart one, at that.”
Dorn Horsten said, “That’s one of the mistakes the man in the street has made down through the ages. He simply can’t realize that those in ultimate power are not, necessarily, competent to exercise power. And that applies to the most highly evolved societies as well as the backward.” He snorted. “Take the first Caesars, following the founders of the Empire, Julius and Augustus. From Tiberius, through Caligula and Claudius to Nero. Sex deviates, sadistic monsters, playboys, mass murderers. Caligula was actually quite mad. The end of the Julain line? Nero, who fiddled around until the Empire burned and they were heading to lynch him when he committed suicide.
