“Landing in about a minute. Dad. Thought you would like to know.” “And right you are, James,” I said, snapping my eyelids open and yawning. I did some muscle stretching and tensing as we floated over the outskirts of a good-sized city and down towards the white strip of a heliport. Just beyond it was an ancient city wall, penetrated now by modern roads. It all looked quiet. Perhaps too quiet.

“Full power-nou]\” de Torres called out, and the pilot kicked in the throttle.

We arched up over the wall, skidded across the rooftops and whipped about in a sharp turn around a great and gloomy fortress. Obviously our target. The few pedestrians in Freedom Square fled in panic from the downblast of our jets. We hit and bounced and my boys bailed out, one to each side. They helped the old folks down, slammed the doors-and the copter was up and away almost before the locals knew we had arrived. Then, with the marquez leading the parade, we quick-marched across the square towards the entrance to the Presidio.

Our first problem was so slight that we scarcely noticed it. A beribboned junior officer popped out from between the gates and barred our way.

“It is illegal to land in the square. Do you realize...” “I realize I want you out of my way, little man,” de Torres said in the coldest of tones, hundreds of generations of noble lineage vibrating from every word. The officer gasped and paled and practically wilted aside. We marched on. Up the steps and into the entrance hall. The official behind the desk there leapt to his feet at our approach.

“Where is the registration for the presidency election taking place?” de Torres demanded.

“I do not know, excellency,” the man gasped.

“Then find out,” de Torres said, picking the man’s phone off the desk and handing it to him. He had no choice other than to obey. Beneath the blaze of the marquez’s gaze he even managed to get the right answer.

“The third floor, excellency. The lift is there ..,” “The stairs are here,” I broke in, pointing the way. “There could be an accident, the power cut perhaps.” “Perhaps.” The marquez nodded agreement and off we stamped.

We had actually penetrated to the right office and obtained the correct registration forms before the opposition arrived in strength. I was already scratching away at the forms when the door crashed open and a crowd of nasties pushed in. They wore black uniforms, black caps and black glasses. Their fat fingers were close to the butts of their long black pistols. I had no doubt at all that I had finally met the dreaded Ultimados, the dictator’s personal murder squad. They opened their ranks and a potbellied officer in full dress uniform pushed his way through. His wrinkled face was livid with rage, his ancient, yellowed fingers scratched at his holstered pistol. The opposition had arrived.

“Cease what you are doing at once!” he ordered. The marqu6z turned slowly towards him, cold lips at full sneer. “Who are you?” he asked with an insulting mixture of boredom and superiority.

“You know who I am, de Torres,” Zapilote screeched, the frog mouth drawn into an angry line. “What is that bearded moron attempting to do?” “That gentleman is my grandnephew Sir Hector Harapo, Knight of the Beeday, and he is filling out the application form as a candidate for the presidency of this republic. Is there any reason that he shouldn’t?” General-President Julio Zapilote had not ruled this planet for all the years by accident, I watched as he opened his mouth-then closed it again and took control of his temper. The color faded from his cheeks to be replaced by a far more dangerous icy calculation.

“Every reason,” he said, his control matching that of de Torres. “Registration does not open until tomorrow. He can return then.” “Really?” There was no warmth in de Torres’s smile. “You should pay closer attention to the operation of the congress. They amended the law this morning so that registration not only opened today-but closed today as well. Would you like to see a copy of the legislation?” He moved his hand towards his breast pocket. Pure bluff and masterfully done. Zapilote shook his head sharply.

“Who would doubt the word of a man of your rank? But Sir Hector cannot register without a birth record, doctor’s certificate, voting registration...” “Alt in here,” I said, holding up the case and smiling.

I could almost see the thoughts being ordered in that evil brain. The silence lengthened. His first legal plan was now in ruins since the registration was being made. That left violence as his only remaining option. By the look in that serpentine eye I could see that he was actively considering it. If he could have eliminated us all instantly on the spot, without there being any public knowledge of the deed, I am sure he would have done it. But there had been too many witnesses to our arrival; the marquez was too public a figure for him to get away with that. Only the nobodies vanish in secrecy in a police state. The silence stretched and stretched-and then he waved his hand in dismissal.

“Complete the application,” he ordered me, then turned to de Torres. “And what is vour interest in this matter. Gonzales?

Does your grandnephew need his hand held and his nose wiped?” The marqu6z made no mention of the obvious insult of the use of his first name. His calm matched that of the dictator’s. “Neither hand-holding nor nose-wiping, Julito.” He used the diminutive as a deliberate slap in the face to Zapilote. “I come as his partner. I am standing for the office of vicepresident. In due course both of us will be elected, after which we will see to it that your filthy administration is brought low at last.” “No man talks to me like that!” “The artificial calm was gone, and Zapilote was quavering with rage, his fingers clutching tightly onto his gun butt. ~ “I talk to you like that because I am here to see to your destruction, little man.” The marquez was as angry as Zapilote now, despite the calmness of his tones. Neither of them was going to back down, that was obvious. Death and destruction were in the air.

“Perhaps you can aid me with this application,” I said, stepping between them and waving the sheets of paper before Zapilote’s face. “Since you are President you should know ., .” “Step aside, fool,” he screeched, pushing at my arm which, however, didn’t push too well. We swayed and stumbled and the papers flew up into the air. Raging, he struck me with his fist-full in the face.

With no effect, of course. I rocked with the feeble blow, and was obviously unharmed by it. I looked down at him in bewilderment, then shrugged and bent to pick up the papers.

“Well if you don’t know I’ll just have to ask someone else,” I said as I shambled off.

This bit of nonsense had cleared the air, Zapilote had been distracted, while de Torres had the intelligence to realize what I had done. He turned his back and returned with me to the counter.

“I shall not forget that, Jim,” he said, so quietly that only I could hear. “You have saved me from myself.” Then aloud, “Let me aid you. Sir Hector, these government forms can be tortuous.” Zapilote might very well have shot us in the back. But I counted upon my sons to handle that possibility if it should arise. He didn’t try. Instead there was a mutter of orders being issued and I looked around to see that the confirontation was over and that he was leaving. As the door closed behind the last of his Ultimados I let out the breath that I had not realized I was holding.

“You are right,” de Torres said. “Politics can be fascinating. Now let us complete these boring forms and leave.” There were no more interruptions. We scratched away at the applications until they were done, had them stamped and endorsed and took our copies for safekeeping. The first step had been completed. We walked slowly away and back down the stairs with the boys strolling behind as rearguards.