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CHAPTER THREE

By the time Mauser called it a day and retired to his quarters, he was exhausted to the point where his occasional dissatisfaction with the trade he followed was heavily upon him. Such was the case increasingly often these days. He was no longer a kid. There was no longer romance in the calling—if there ever had been for Joe Mauser.

He had met his immediate senior officers, largely dilettante Uppers with precious little field experience, and been unimpressed. And he’d met his own junior officers and been shocked. By the looks of things at this stage, Captain Mauser’s squadron would be going into this fracas both undermanned and with junior officers composed largely of temporarily promoted noncoms. If this was typical of Baron Haer’s total force, then Balt Haer was right; unconditional surrender was to be considered, no matter how disastrous to the Haer family fortunes.

Mauser had no difficulty securing his uniforms. Kingston, as a city on the outskirts of the Catskill Reservation, was well populated by tailors who could turn out uniforms on a twenty-four-hour delivery basis. He had even been able to take immediate delivery of one kilted uniform. Now, inside his quarters, he began stripping out of his jacket. Somewhat to his surprise, Mainz, the small man he had selected earlier to be his batman, entered from an inner room, resplendent in the Haer uniform.

He helped his superior out of the jacket with an ease that held no subservience but at the same time was correctly respectful. You’d have thought him a batman specially trained.

Mauser grunted, “Max, isn’t it? I’d forgotten all about you. Glad you found our billet all right.”

Max said, “Yes, sir. Would the captain like a drink? I picked up a bottle of applejack. Applejack’s the drink around here, sir. Makes a topnotch highball with ginger ale and a twist of lemon.”

Mauser looked at him. Evidently his tapping this man for orderly was sheer fortune. Well, Joe Mauser could use some good luck on this job. He hoped it didn’t end with selecting a batman.

He said, “Sounds good, Max. Got ice?”

“Of course, sir.” Max left the small room.

Vacuum Tube’s officers were billeted in what had once been a group of resort cottages on the old road between Kingston and Woodstock. Each cottage featured full amenities, including a tiny kitchenette. That was one advantage to a fracas held in a civilized area where there were plenty of facilities. Such military reservations as the Little Big Horn in Montana and some of those in the Southwest and Mexico were another thing.

Mauser lowered himself into the room’s easy chair and bent down to untie his laces, then kicked his shoes off. He could use that drink. He began wondering all over again if his scheme for winning this fracas would come off. The more he saw of Baron Haer’s inadequate forces, the more he wondered. He simply hadn’t expected Vacuum Tube to be in this bad a shape. Baron Haer had been riding high for so long that one would have thought his reputation for victory would have lured at least a few freelance veterans to his colors. Evidently they hadn’t bitten. The word was out, all right.

Max Mainz returned with the drink.

Mauser said, “You had one yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, go get yourself one and come on back and sit down. Let’s get acquainted.”

“Yes, sir.” Max disappeared back into the kitchenette to return almost immediately. The little man slid into a chair, drink awkwardly in hand.

His superior sized him up all over again. Not much more than a kid, really. Surprisingly forward for a Lower who must have been raised from childhood in a trank-bemused, telly-entertained household. The fact that he’d broken away from that environment at all was to his credit. It was considerably easier to conform—but then it is always easier to conform, to run with the herd, as Mauser well knew. His own break hadn’t been an easy one.

He sipped at his drink. “Relax,” he said.

Max nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, this is my first day.”

“I know. And you’ve been seeing telly shows all your life showing how an orderly conducts himself in the presence of his superior.” Mauser took another pull and yawned. “Well, forget about it. I like to be on close terms with any man who goes into a fracas with me. When things pickle, I want him to be on my side, not nursing a grudge brought on by his officer trying to give him an inferiority complex.” The little man was eyeing him in surprise.

Mauser finished his drink and came to his feet to get another one. He said, “On two occasions I’ve had an orderly save my life. I’m not taking any chances but that there might be a third opportunity.”

“Well, yessir. Does the captain want me to get him—”

“I’ll get it,” Mauser said.

When he’d returned to his chair, he said, “Why did you join up with Baron Haer, Max?”

The other shrugged. “Well, besides the fact that Continental Hovercraft’s recruit roster was full, the usual. The excitement. The idea of all those fans watching me on telly. The shares of common stock I’ll get. And, you never know, maybe a bounce in caste. I wouldn’t mind making Upper-Lower.”

Mauser said sourly, “One fracas and you’ll be over the desire to have the buffs watching you on telly while they sit around sucking trank. And you’ll probably be over the desire for the excitement, too. Of course, the share of stock is another thing.”

“You aren’t just countin’ down, Captain,” Max said, an almost surly overtone in his voice. “You don’t know what it’s like being born with no more common stock shares than a Mid-Lower.”

Mauser held his peace, nursing his drink. He was moderately fond of alcohol, but could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had really overindulged. And he never used trank, that government-approved and -promoted narcotic. An old pro in the Category Military doesn’t foul up his reflexes, certainly not on the eve of a fracas. He let his eyebrows rise to encourage the other to go on.

Max said doggedly, “Sure, they call it People’s Capitalism and everybody gets issued enough shares to insure him a basic living from the cradle to the grave, like they say. But let me tell you, you’re a Middle and you don’t realize just how basic the basic living of a Lower can be.”

Mauser yawned. If he hadn’t been so tired, he might have found more amusement in the situation. If nothing else, it was ironic.

He decided to let Mainz continue to think he was talking to one with no knowledge of life as a Lower. “Why don’t you work? A Lower can always add to his stock by working. ”

Max stirred, indignant. “Work? Listen, sir, mine’s just one more field that’s been automated right out of existence. Category Food Preparation, Sub-division Cooking, Branch Chef. I’m a junior chef, see? But cooking isn’t left in the hands of slobs who might drop a cake of soap into the soup.” That last was delivered with an angry sarcasm. “It’s done automatic. The only changes made in cooking are by real top experts, almost scientists, like. And most of them are Uppers.”

Mauser sighed inwardly. Mainz’s story was like that of millions of others. The man might have been born into the food preparation category from a long line of chefs, but he knew precious little about his field, Mauser might have suspected. He himself had been born into Clothing Category, Sub-division Shoes, Branch Repair. Cobbler—a meaningless trade, since shoes, like so many other items, were no longer repaired but discarded upon showing signs of wear. In an economy of complete abundance, there is little reason to repair basic commodities.

That was the result of social evolution. Decades of reckless experimentation during the previous century had led to this: a utopia in which almost no one had to work and in which—typical of such societies—a small fraction of the population held the true power and wealth. In an attempt to make everyone equal, inequality had been intensified. It was high time the government investigated category assignment and reshuffled and reassigned half the nation’s population. But there would still be the question of what to do with the technologically unemployed.

Max was saying, “The only way I could figure on a promotion to a higher caste, or the only way to earn stock shares, was by crossing categories. And you know what that means. Either Category Military or Category Religion, and I sure as Zen don’t know nothing about religion.”

Mauser chuckled at the unintentional humor in Max’s statement. “Theoretically, you can cross categories into any field you want, Max,” he said mildly.

Max snorted. “Theoretically is right…sir. But have you ever heard of a Lower, or even a Middle like yourself, crossing categories to, say, some Upper category like banking?”

Mauser chuckled again. He liked this peppery little fellow. If Max worked out as well as Joe thought he might, there was a possibility of taking him along to the next fracas. He had once had a batman for a period of almost three years, until the man had copped one that led to an amputation and retirement.

Max was saying, “I’m not saying anything against the old-time way of doing things, or talking against the government, but I’ll tell you, Captain, every year goes by it gets harder and harder for a man to raise his caste or earn some additional stock shares.”

The applejack had worked enough on Mauser to bring out one of his pet peeves. He said, “That term, ‘the old-time way,’ is strictly telly talk, Max. We don’t do things the old-time way. No nation in history ever has—with the possible exception of Egypt.

“Socio-economics are in a continual flux, and here in this country we no more do things in the way they did a hundred years ago than a hundred years ago they did them the way American Revolutionists outlined back in the 18th century.”

Max was staring at him, completely out of his depth. “I don’t get that, sir.”

Mauser said impatiently, “Max, the politico-economic system we have today is an outgrowth of what went earlier. The welfare state, the freezing of the status quo, the Frigid Fracas between the West-world and the Sov-world, industrial automation until useful employment is all but needless—all these things could be found in embryo more than a century ago.”

“Well, maybe the captain’s right, but you gotta admit, sir, that we mostly do things the old way. We still got the Constitution and the two-party system and—”

Joe was tiring of the conversation now. You seldom ran into anyone, even in the Middle caste—the traditionally professional class—interested enough in such subjects to be worth arguing with. He said, “The Constitution, Max, has reached the status of the Bible and other religious books. Interpret it the way you wish, and you can find anything. If not, you can always make a new amendment. That trend started in the middle of the 20th century, when the old U.S. Supreme Court took it upon itself to intervene in matters best settled by lower courts, or disputes that were already covered by existing laws. The idea of ‘equality’ got pushed to the limit, Max, and our ancestors tried to legislate equality among unequals. That is, they figured that if they said all people were equal, it would make it so. Didn’t work—just gave those who were at the bottom an excuse to stay there, while getting a free ride. And it paved the way for our current system.”

Max started to interrupt, but Joe ignored him. “So far as the two-party system is concerned, what effect does it have when the Uppers are in control of both? What is the difference if two men stand for exactly the same thing? It’s a farce.”

“A farce?” Max blurted, forgetting his servant status. “That means not so good, doesn’t it? Far as I’m concerned, election day is tops. The one day a Lower is just as good as an Upper. The one day when how many shares you got makes no difference. Everybody has everything.”

“Sure, sure, sure,” Mauser sighed. “Election day in the West-world, when no one is freer than anyone else. The modem equivalent of the Roman Baccanalia.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” The other was all but belligerent. “That’s the trouble with you Middles and Uppers, you don’t know how it is to be a Lower, and—”

Suddenly Mauser snapped, “I was born a Mid-Lower myself, Max. Don’t give me that nonsense.” Max gaped at him, utterly unbelieving.

Mauser’s irritation fell away. He held out his glass. “Get me another drink, Max, and I’ll tell you a story.”

By the time the fresh drink came, he was sorry he’d made the offer. He thought back. He hadn’t told anyone the Joe Mauser story in many a year. And, as he recalled, last time had been when he was well into his cups—on an election day at that—and his listener had been a Low-Upper, one of the hereditary aristocrats comprising the top one percent of the nation. Zen! How the man had laughed. He’d roared his amusement till the tears ran.

However, now he said, “Max, I was born into the same caste you were—average father, mother, sisters, and brothers. My family subsisted on basic income, sat and watched telly for an unbelievable number of hours each day, did trank to keep themselves happy. And thought I was crazy because I didn’t. Dad was the sort of man who’d take his belt off to a child of his who questioned such school-taught slogans as What was good enough for Daddy is good enough for me.

“They were all fracas fans, of course, even the girls. As far back as I can remember, they were gathered around the telly, screaming excitement as the lens zoomed in on some poor cloddy bleeding his life out on the ground.” Joe Mauser sneered, uncharacteristically. “That’s something the Roman arena never provided the mob, a close-up of the dying gladiator’s face.”

Max missed the reference to the ancestor of the modern-day fracas, but Mauser’s attitude was not lost on him. “You don’t sound much like you’re in favor of your trade, Captain,” Max said.

Mauser came to his feet, setting his half-full glass aside. “I’ll make this epic story short, Max. As you said, the only valid routes for rising above your caste are through the Military and Religious Categories. Like you, even I couldn’t stomach the latter.”

He hesitated, then finished it off. “Max, there have been few societies evolved by man that didn’t allow in some manner for the competent or sly, the intelligent or the opportunist, the brave or the strong, to work his way to the top. I don’t know which of these categories I fit into, but I rebel against remaining in the lower categories of a stratified society. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well, no sir, not exactly.”

Mauser said flatly, “I’m going to fight my way to the top, and nothing is going to stand in the way. Is that clearer?”

“Yessir,” Max said, obviously taken aback by the vehemence in his superior’s voice.

Having worked himself into an unusual state of agitation with his lecture on the state of the world, Mauser found that he wasn’t quite ready for sleep. The applejack offered a cure for that problem, although he was loathe to use it. Still, by the time he went to bed, the bottle was long empty.

* * * *

After routine morning duties, Joe returned to his billet and mystified Max Mainz by not only changing into mufti himself but having Max do the same.

In fact, the new batman protested faintly. He hadn’t nearly gotten over the glory of wearing his kilts and was looking forward to parading around town in them. He had a point, of course. The appointed time for the fracas was getting closer, and buffs were beginning to stream into Kingston to bask in the atmosphere of pending death. Everybody knew what a military center on the outskirts of a fracas reservation was like immediately preceding a clash between rival corporations. The high-strung gaiety, the drinking, the overtranking, the relaxation of what mores existed. Even a Rank Private had it made. Admiring civilians to buy drinks and hang on your every word, and—more important still to Max—sensuous-eyed women, their faces slack in thinly suppressed passion. It was a recognized phenomenon, this desire on the part of certain female telly fans, to date a man and then watch him later, killing or being killed.

“Time enough to wear your fancy uniform later,” Joe told him. “In fact, tomorrow’s a local election day. Combine that with all the fracas fans gravitating into town and you’ll have a blowout the likes of nothing you’ve seen before.”

“Well, yes, sir,” Max begrudged. “Where’re we going now, Captain?”

“To the airport. Come along.”

Outside, Mauser led the way to his hovercraft. As soon as the two were settled into the bucket seats, he hit the lift lever with the butt of his left hand. Once they were air-cushion borne, he pressed down on the accelerator.

Max Mainz was impressed. “You know,” he said, “I never been in one of these swanky jobs before. The kinda car you can afford on the income of a Mid-Lower’s stock isn’t—”

“Oh, come off it, Max!” Mauser said wearily. “People are always griping, but in spite of all the beefing in every strata from Low-Lower to Upper-Middle, I’ve yet to see any signs of organized protest against our present politico-economic system.”

“Hey,” Max said. “Don’t get me wrong. What was good enough for Dad, is good enough for me. You won’t catch me talking against the government.”

“Hmm,” Joe murmured. “And all the other clichés taught to us to preserve the status quo, our People’s Capitalism.” They were reaching the outskirts of town, crossing the Esopus. The airport lay only a mile or so beyond.

The sarcasm was too deep for Max, and since he didn’t understand, he said, tolerantly, “Well, what’s wrong with People’s Capitalism? Everybody owns the corporations. Damn-sight better than what the Sovs have.”

Mauser said sourly, “We’ve got one optical illusion; they’ve got another. Over there they claim the proletariat owns the means of production, distribution, and communication. Great. But the Party members are the ones who control it, and as a result, they manage to do all right for themselves. The Party hierarchy over there is like the Uppers over here.”

“Yeah.” Max was being particularly dense. “I’ve seen a lot about it on telly. You know, when there isn’t a good fracas on, you tune to one of them educational shows, like.”

Joe winced at the term “educational,” but held his peace.

“It’s pretty rugged over there,” Max continued, “but here in the West-world the people own a corporation’s stock and they run it and get the benefit.”

“Makes a beautiful story,” Joe said dryly. “Look, Max. Suppose you have a corporation that has two hundred thousand shares out and they’re distributed among one hundred thousand and one persons. One hundred thousand of these own one share apiece, and the remaining stockholder owns the other hundred thousand.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Max said.

Joe sighed. “Briefly,” he said, “we are given the illusion that this is a People’s Capitalism, an improvement over democracy, with all stock in the hands of the people—evenly distributed. Actually, the stock is in the hands of the Uppers, all except a mere dribble. They own the country and then run it for their own benefit.

“True democracy—and true freedom—was allowed to die at the end of the 20th century, thanks in large part to so-called Socialists who, it was largely thought, gained no little support from the Communist world.” Max shot a less than military glance at him. “Hey, you’re not one of these Sovs yourself, are you?” They were coming into the parking area near the airport’s Administration Building. “No,” Mauser said, so softly that Max could hardly hear his words. “Only a Mid-Middle on the make.”

Followed by Max, he strode quickly to the Administration Building, presented his credit identification at the desk, and requested a light aircraft for a period of three hours. He made it clear that he required a specific type of aircraft. The clerk, hardly looking up, began going through motions, keying codes into a terminal and speaking into a telescreen.

The clerk said finally, “You might have a short wait, sir. Quite a few of the officers involved in this fracas have been renting out taxi-planes as fast as they’re available.” He paused as the terminal spat out a printed slip, then handed it over along with Mauser’s credit card. “And I don’t know whether you’ll get the kind of deal you’re after; it’s first come, first served today. You’ll be paged when your aircraft is ready.”

The delay didn’t surprise him. Any competent officer made a point of conducting an aerial survey of the battle reservation before going into a fracas. Aircraft, of course, couldn’t be used during the fray, since they postdated the turn of the century and hence were regulated to the cemetery of military devices—along with such items as nuclear weapons, tanks, and even powered vehicles of sufficient size to be useful.

Use an aircraft in a fracas, or even build an aircraft for military use, and you’d have a howl go up from the military attaches of the Sov-world that would be heard all the way to Budapest. Not a fracas went by but there were scores if not hundreds of foreign military observers, keen-eyed to check whether or not any really modern tools of war were being illegally utilized. He sometimes wondered if the Sov-world armies were as strict in their adherence to the rules of the Universal Disarmament Pact. Probably, since West-world observers were breathing down their necks, as well. But they didn’t have the same system of fighting fracases over there. The Neut-world, of course, didn’t figure into the equation, and Common Europe was another matter entirely. Still, observers from those blocs were to be found at every major fracas, as well.

Mauser and Max took seats while they waited, and both thumbed through the ubiquitous fracas fan magazines. Joe sometimes found his own face in such publications, probably more as a result of having been around so long than anything else. He was a third-rate celebrity; luck hadn’t been with him as far as the buffs were concerned. They wanted spectacular victories, murderous situations in which they could lose themselves in vicarious thrills. Mauser, unfortunately, had reached most of his peaks while either in retreat or while commanding a holding action. His fellow officers and superiors appreciated him, as did a few ultra-knowledgeable fracas buffs, but he was all but unknown to the average dimwit whose life was devoted to blood and gore.

On the various occasions when matters had pickled and Mauser had fought his way out against difficult odds, he was almost always off camera. Purely bad luck. On top of skill, determination, experience, and courage, you had to have luck to get anywhere in Category Military. But then, that was true of life in general.

This time, Mauser reminded himself, he was going to make his own luck.

A voice said, “Ah, Captain Mauser.”

Joe looked up, then came to his feet quickly. He started to salute out of sheer reflex, then caught himself; he was not in uniform. He said stiffly, “My compliments, Marshal Cogswell.”

The other was a smallish man, but strongly built, with a strikingly narrow face. His voice was clipped and clear, the air of command etched into it. He, like Mauser, wore mufti. He now extended his hand to be shaken.

“I hear you have signed up with Baron Haer, Captain. I was rather expecting you to come in with me. Had a place for a good aide-de-camp. Liked your work in that last fracas we went through together. ”

“Thank you, sir,” Mauser said. Stonewall Cogswell was as good a tactician as ever free-lanced, and more. He was an excellent judge of men and a stickler for detail. And right now, if Joe Mauser knew Marshal Cogswell as well as he thought he did, Cogswell was smelling a rat. There was no reason why an old pro should sign up with a sure loser like Vacuum Tube when he could have earned more shares taking a commission with Hovercraft, especially in view of the fact that as an aide-de-camp it was unlikely he would run much chance of getting into the dill.

He was looking at Mauser brightly, the question in his eyes. Three or four of his staff stood a few paces back, looking polite, but Cogswell didn’t bring them into the conversation. Mauser knew most by sight. Good men all. Old pros all. He felt another twinge of doubt.

He had to cover. At last he said, “I was offered a particularly good contract, sir. Too good to resist.”

The other nodded, as though inwardly coming to a satisfactory conclusion. “Baron Haer’s connections, eh? He’s probably offered to back you for a bounce in caste. Is that it, Joe?”

Mauser avoided the marshal’s eyes, but Stonewall Cogswell knew what he was talking about. He’d been born into Middle status himself and made it to Upper the hard way. His path wasn’t as long as Mauser’s was going to be, but long enough and he well knew how rocky the climb was.

Mauser said stiffly, “I’m afraid I’m in no position to discuss my commander’s military contracts, Marshal. We’re in mufti, but after all…”

Cogswell’s lean face registered one of his infrequent grimaces of humor. “I understand, Joe. Well, good luck. I hope things don’t pickle for you in the coming fracas. Possibly we’ll find ourselves allied again at some future time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mauser said, once more having to catch himself to prevent an automatic salute.

Cogswell and his staff strolled off toward the reservation desk, and Mauser looked after them thoughtfully. Even the marshal’s staff members were top men, any one of whom could have conducted a divisional magnitude fracas. Joe felt the coldness in his stomach again.

Even though the fracas must have looked like a cinch, the enemy wasn’t taking any chances. Cogswell and his officers were here at the airport for the same reason as Mauser. They wanted a thorough aerial reconnaissance of the battlefield before the issue was joined.

Max was standing at his elbow. “Who was that, sir? Looks like a real tough one.”

“He is a real tough one,” Joe said sourly. “That’s Stonewall Cogswell, the best field commander in North America.”

Max pursed his lips. “I never seen him out of uniform before. Lots of times on telly, but never out of uniform. I thought he was taller than that; he’s no bigger than me.”

“He fights with his brains,” Mauser said, still looking after the craggy field marshal. “He doesn’t have to be any taller.”

Max scowled. “Where’d he get that nickname, sir?”

“Stonewall?” Mauser was turning to resume his chair. “He’s supposed to be quite a student of a top general back in the American Civil War—Stonewall Jackson. Uses some of the original Stonewall’s tactics.”

Max was again out of his depth. “American Civil War? Was that much of a fracas, Captain? It musta been before my time.”

“It was quite a fracas,” Mauser said dryly. “Lots of good lads died. A hundred years after it was fought, the reasons behind it seemed about as valid as those we fight fracases for today. Personally, I—”

The public address system blared his name. His aircraft was ready.

Max in tow, Mauser crossed the administration building’s concourse and exited via a small door through which, Joe noted, Cogswell and his men had disappeared earlier. Rank hath its privileges, he reminded himself; doubtless Cogswell had phoned ahead and someone had been bumped off the reservation lists in his favor.

They exited into bright sunlight and followed a concrete walkway to the hanger area, where Mauser quickly spotted what had to be the aircraft assigned him—a small two-seater. He crossed the tarmac, hailed an attendant, and quickly took care of the necessary formalities of handing over his reservation slip and identifying himself.

As he and Max climbed into the cockpit of the single-engine mini-jet, Joe chuckled inwardly at how surprised old Stonewall would be to know just what Joe Mauser was looking for on this flight. Even greater would be his surprise when he was presented, so to speak, with the results of Mauser’s research.