Space Gladiators, page 14
They were being approached by what were obviously Customs and Immigration officials, done up in costumes seemingly out
of the Iberia of the nineteenth century, but also by two civilians wearing clothing of the diplomats of the Victorian period.
“Here we go,” Pierre Lorans said. He puffed his cheeks up and went into his Gallic facial expression.
Helen said to Martha, her voice still low. “Look. Evidently, Ferd Zogbaum has been snagged by the local fuzz-yoke.”
Martha turned her eyes in the indicated direction. The young electronics engineer, or whatever he was, was being marched in the direction of some very military looking buildings at the far end of the field. The guards, in their Guardia Civil uniforms, complete with hard, black hats, were, however, carrying his bags.
Martha said, “Probably some minor technicality in his papers. He doesn’t seem particularly worried.”
Their own delegation was nearly to them. Martha’s voice changed in caliber. “Now sweetie, be quiet for a while. Mum-mie and Daddy have to talk to these nice gentlemen.”
“Curd,” Helen said under her breath.
The uniformed men after well executed bows and murmured politenesses, took over passports, interplanetary health cards and the rest of the red-tape documents involved in aliens landing upon the planet Falange. The civilians, it turned out, were members of the cultural affairs department of the Caudillo’s government.
While the papers were being perused and stamped, they made meaningless conversation and minor gushings of welcome. When the papers were obviously approved, the gushing became more pronounced.
Martha even got her hand kissed.
In a sudden childish burst of enthusiasm, Helen jumped up and put her arms around the neck of one of the Falangists, her sturdy little legs about his waist.
“Oh, isn’t he a nice man!”
Martha said, “Helen!”
The cultural aide blinked, smiled in attempted acceptance, and put his hands under the little girl’s bottom, as though to support her weight. The vaguest of incomprehensible expressions crossed his face momentarily.
Pierre Lorans grabbed Helen and pulled her away. “Don’t be so impulsive, chocolate drop,” he scolded.
Evidently, the Terran Embassy of Falange had forwarded full information on the highly noted Nouveau Cordon Bleu chef, Pierre Lorans. It was a pleasure to welcome such an artist of haute cuisine to Falange. It was thought possible that he would be invited to an audience with El Caudillo himself.
El Caudillo was extremely fond of Basque cuisine. Perhaps Senor Lorans …
Senor Lorans puffed out his cheeks. “Gentlemen, I am perhaps the most proficient preparer of bacalao a la vizcaina and angulas a la bilbaino in all the United Planets.”
The one who had introduced himself as Manola Camino, looked blank. “But Senor Lorans, we have neither codfish nor eels on Falange. These dishes we know of only through traditions and the writings brought with us from Earth.”
Lorans glared at him in indignation. “No bacalao, no angulas! Are you barbarians? How can your … ah … Caudillo, or whatever you call him, be a connoisseur of Basque food if you have no bacalao, no angulas?” He sneered openly. “Next you will tell me you have no beans for fabada
The Falangist winced, opened his mouth unhappily, closed it again.
The other cultural aide said hurriedly, “Perhaps we had better proceed to the Posada.”
They led the way, the Lorans trailing after.
Martha said from the side of her mouth, “Listen, you show-off cloddy, aren’t you overdoing it?”
“No,” he said back, “it’s all in character.”
Helen skipped as they went, singing, in her tinkle of a child’s voice, something about three little girls in blue.
Senor Manola Camino led the way to two of the horse-drawn carriages which seemed the local equivalent of taxis and they were shortly underway. There were comparatively few powered vehicles on the streets of Nuevo Madrid, and it came to them that these few must be imports and almost exclusively for police, military and, perhaps, the highest ranking authorities. The planet Falange lived in the day of the horse.
It came to them, also, that the Posada San Francisco was the only hotel in the city that catered to aliens. Either that, or it was the best hostelry in town and VIPs were automatically taken there. At any rate, they could see Dr. Horsten at the desk, still surrounded by his bevy of welcoming scientists. And while they went through their own routine of registering, they saw Ferdinand Zogbaum enter, still accompanied by his two police.
Their schedule didn’t begin until the next day, when Lorans was to have a tour of the leading restaurants of Nuevo Madrid. As soon as they were delivered to their suite, and their guides had bowed their way out, they began to make the usual sounds of unpacking.
The rooms were monstrous in size. A living room, two bedrooms and a rather antiquated bath. The antiquated quality prevailed in general, giving the impression it was deliberately laid on. Even the furniture was Victorian in design. The ceilings were more than thrice as high as could have been expected in population packed Earth and there was a wood-burning fireplace.
While Martha and Helen did the unpacking, Pierre made a tour of the suite, jabbering along as he went.
“Now dear,” Martha said shrilly, “please stay out of Mother’s way.”
Helen snarled softly at her.
Pierre said, “Did you hear that drivel? Do they think me a dunderhead? How can one cook in the fashion of the Basques without bacalao?”
“Now dear, you know perfectly well they were very pleasant. And it was nice to meet us out there on that terrible expanse of cement and all.”
Helen shrilled, “Three little girls in blue, tra la. Three little girls in blue!”
Pierre spotted what he was looking for. At the very top of the chain from which the chandelier was suspended. Right at the ceiling, a good twenty feet above them. He pointed and they looked up.
There was no apparent way in which any of them could reach the bug. No combination of furniture piled atop each other. Martha nodded to Pierre.
Pierre Lorans took a ballbearing from his pocket. Seconds later, he said with satisfaction, “I doubt if there’s any more.”
Helen said, “Look, for a day or two, we’re going to be safe. They won’t get around to suspecting a thing, not even a broken bug. And until tomorrow, when you’ll have your time monopolized, we’re free. We better get busy tonight.”
“At what?” Martha said. “They didn’t give us a clue on how we were to begin this big subversion fling, back on Earth. You’d think Jakes would have something for us to start with. Somebody to see.”
Helen snapped chubby fingers. “That’s it. We’ve got to find the local underground.”
Pierre Lorans looked at her. “Wonderful. How do we go about that? What local underground?”
“There must be one. Given any government at all and there’s some opposition. It might be large or it might be small, but somewhere on Falange there’s an underground.”
Martha said slowly, “You’re probably right, but how to get in touch is another thing. If the Policía Secreta can’t find them, how can we?”
Something came to Helen. “Those former three agents from Section G. What was it Sid Jakes said happened to them?” Martha’s eyes took on their empty look. She recited, “In each case they were unmasked, in one manner or the other, and brought to trial on trumped-up charges. One was accused of murder; one of subversion; and the other disrespect of the Caudillo; all capital offenses. ’ ’
“O.K.,” Helen said, an edge of excitement in her voice. “That’s it. One of them was charged with subversion. A man doesn’t commit subversion on his own. He works with a group, a party, an underground organization of some sort or other.” “So,” Lorans scowled.
“So that Section G operative wasn’t tried alone. There had to be others involved. Others captured at the same time. It’s almost sure to be.”
“Perhaps,” Martha said. “But, if so, what of it? Surely they’ve all been executed by now.”
“Not necessarily,” Helen insisted. “They would execute the Section G agent quickly before United Planets took some measures to free him. But their own citizens they might keep alive in hopes of squeezing information out of them.”
“Hm-m-m,” Lorans said.
Martha said, “But what of it?”
“Don’t you see? Somewhere there are trial records. If we can get hold of them, we can locate where these companions of our Section G agent are. What prison they’re in.”
Martha and Pierre Lorans were both unhappy now. They thought about it.
“We don’t even know where the court records might be—if any,” Lorans objected. “For all we know, the trial was secret.”
Helen said decisively, “That’s for you to find out. This afternoon take a guided tour. Those culture department aides are just dying to show you the sights. Among them will be the Caudillo’s palace, the post office, the museum and city hall. If you can, worm out of them just where the archives are. It shouldn’t be too hard if you blather along like usual sightseers. And the Holy Ultimate knows, no two persons in United Planets can blather like you two.”
Pierre Lorans aimed a backhanded swipe at her, knowing perfectly well it would never connect.
Helen bounced back, tinkling laughter.
Martha said, “How about you?”
“Tell them I’m tired and don’t want to leave the hotel. You might even hint it’s a relief to get away from me, after the long trip. Meanwhile, I’ll see Dorn and tell him what’s up.”
Martha and Pierre Lorans looked at each other. “I can’t think of anything else,” he admitted.
Helen was already out of the room and on her way down to the lobby.
She met Ferdinand Zogbaum coming up the wide stairway, the two police and several bellhops with luggage trailing him.
She grabbed him about the waist. “Uncle Ferd, why are those nasty policemen always following you!”
Martha had been right. Ferdinand Zogbaum looked nothing so much as the youthful Lincoln, cut down almost half in stature. Now he was flushing. He looked apologetically over his shoulder at the two Guardia Civil. The whole party had ground to a halt under the child’s assault.
He patted her on the head. “Now, now, Helen. I’m not being arrested. They’re friends.”
“They’re policemen,” Helen shrilled. “Mommy told me they were policemen. Why are they following you, Uncle Ferd?”
One of the guards was grinning his amusement, the other was only bored.
Ferd Zogbaum cleared his throat unhappily, and patted her head again. “They’re guarding me, honey. Don’t you worry. Your Uncle Ferd is a very important man brought all the way from Terra for a special job, so he had to have these big policemen guard him so he can’t come to any harm.” “Is that straight?” she said under her breath into his ear.
He blinked. “What?” he said, unbelievingly.
“I love you, Uncle Ferd,” she said, her voice high again. “You be sure you say good-bye to me before you go anywhere away from the hotel. Or I’ll go run to the United Planets Embassy and tell everybody you’ve been kidnapped. I can lie real good.”
The bored guard became animated enough to scowl.
Ferd said, “Don’t worry. If I leave here, I’ll say good-bye to you first.”
She pressed her full, cupid bow lips to his cheek and released him and headed down the steps again. For a moment, he looked after her, a strange look on his face. But then he shook his head unbelievingly and resumed his way to his suite, followed by his entourage.
III
Helen skipped into the lobby and up to the desk of the concierge.
“Where’s Uncle Dorn?” she trilled.
He looked over the desk and down at her. “Who, Senorita?”
“Uncle Dorn!”
An inconspicuous type who had been standing at a nearby pillar next to a potted fern, strolled over and murmured to the hotel employee.
“Ah, the Senor Doctor. He has retired to his room, little Senorita.”
Helen cocked her blond head to one side and eyed him speculatively. Finally she said in her childish treble, “What’s all this Senorita and Senor jetsam?”
He looked a bit startled. “Jetsam?”
She looked at him as unblinkingly as only a child can look.
The concierge cleared his throat. “Little girl, when our people came from Earth, long, long ago, EarthBasic was already the language all spoke. However, as a concession to our traditions we have maintained a few words of the old tongue. Do you understand?”
“No,” Helen said flatly. “Where is Uncle Dorn?”
The concierge maintained his official aplomb. “He is in Suite
A, little Senorita, but I do not think he would wish to be disturbed.”
She snorted at that opinion. “He is my Uncle Dorn,” she informed him and headed for the stairs. The concierge shrugged and looked at the inconspicuous representative of the Policía Secreta who shrugged as well and obviously forgot about it.
Helen located Suite A and pounded a tiny fist on the door. It was answered by one of the Falange scientists who had met the visiting celebrity at the spaceport. Helen slipped under his arm before he had actually seen her.
Dom Horsten was seated in a Victorian style easy chair, evidently in the midst of earnest conversation with two of the other local biochemists.
“Ah, the little Princess. Are you also stopping at this hotel, my dear? How are your good parents?”
Helen bent a blue eye on him. Obviously, both questions were of too little importance to require answer. She said, “Uncle Dom, I want a bedtime story.”
“A bedtime story?” He looked at his colleagues in apology, and then out the window. “But, little Princess, it is still only afternoon.”
“Mommy and Daddy have gone off to look at the buildings or something and left me all alone to take a nap and I want a story.”
“But, Helen, I am busy with these gentlemen.”
She began to pucker up.
Dom Horsten cleared his throat and came to his feet. “Now … now …” he began.
“I don’t like it here,” she wailed. “I wanna go home’.”
“Now, now, Helen. Your mother and father will . .
“I wanna bedtime story!” she wailed.
Dom Horsten looked apologetically at the Falangists. “Se-nores, if you will pardon me. In actuality, I am a bit weary myself. Perhaps we could postpone our discussion on the phylum Thallophyta until tomorrow.”
They had all come to feet before his first three words were out. In moments they were gone.
Horsten glared down at the diminutive agent and began to say, “What in the …”
She had a finger to her lips.
“ … World kind of bedtime story did you have in mind, little Princess?”
She sneered at him, held her peace for a moment while her baby blue eyes searched the room. Finally, she located the bug. It was in approximately the same position as the one in the Lorans suite which Pierre had broken with his ball bearing. She pointed it out to him with a chubby finger.
Horsten took off his pince-nez glasses and wiped them, his eyebrows up.
“Would you like the story about Allez oop?” he said in the tone one uses with an eight-year-old.
“No, no, Uncle Dorn. That’s the one you always tell. I want a different one. You come to our place and tell me a different one.”
He sighed deeply. “All right, all right, little Princess.”
“I’m not so little, Uncle Dorn.” As though to prove it, she went over to the table bearing the bottle of cognac, poured herself a hefty slug and knocked it back.
He followed her to the door and down the hall toward the Lorans suite.
“There was one in our place, too,” she said lowly. “Pierre broke it. It would be too much of a good thing if we broke the one in your suite as well.”
He grunted concern. “I don’t like this. Rooms bugged already. You think they suspect us?”
She shrugged tiny shoulders. They were proceeding down the hall, hand in hand, a pretty picture of an oversized man and a trusting child. “They probably keep a twenty-four hour watch on every alien on Falange. They didn’t particularly pick on us.”
He growled, “That’ll mean we’ll have tails, too. Restrict our movements.”
They reached the door of the Lorans suite and entered.
Helen told him where Pierre and Martha had gone and he thought about it a while and nodded acceptance. “It’ll probably come to nothing, but I admit I can’t think of anything else.” He walked over to the window and stared out as though unseeing, and she joined him, standing at his side, her head barely high enough to see over the sill.
She said, “It’s not an unattractive city, Dorn. It’s like, well, a Tri-Di historical set.”
He said, “It looks like prints I’ve seen of nineteenth century
Madrid. See that area down there? It’s almost a replica of the Plaza Mayor.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said with unwonted softness.
“Yes, perhaps. The original Plaza Mayor is where the Inquisition held its famed autos de fé. I wonder what the equivalent is here?”
She looked up at him. “Does there have to be an equivalent?”
“I’m afraid yes. For centuries this culture hasn’t moved an iota, either up or down. It’s not a natural trait in civilized man. There’s only one answer. When someone attempts to move it, he’s clobbered. They’ve built up an efficient machine to do the clobbering. It was no mistake that the Policía Secreta detected our first three agents and eliminated them. Section G operatives are supposedly the most effective in United Planets but thus far it’s been unable to make a dent in this throwback society.”
She sighed. “But still it’s a beautiful city, something like a museum.”
Dorn Horsten grunted and his eyes went up to the sky. “Out there,” he said, “are the Dawn Planets. Frighteningly near. Sooner or later, man will be face to face with that alien race. As things stand now, we know only that they are megayears in advance of us. The longer we can put off the confrontation, the better, but it is a matter of time.”
