Mercenary

: Mercenary

Every status-quo-caste society in history

has left open two roads to rise above your

caste: The Priest and The Warrior. But in

a society of TV and tranquilizers--the

Warrior acquires a strange new meaning....





Joseph Mauser spotted the recruiting line-up from two or three blocks

down the street, shortly after driving into Kingston. The local offices

of Vacuum Tube Transport, ndoubtedly. Baron Haer would be doing his

recruiting for the fracas with Continental Hovercraft there if for no

other reason than to save on rents. The Baron was watching pennies on

this one and that was bad.



In fact, it was so bad that even as Joe Mauser let his sports hovercar

sink to a parking level and vaulted over its side he was still

questioning his decision to sign up with the Vacuum Tube outfit rather

than with their opponents. Joe was an old pro and old pros do not get to

be old pros in the Category Military without developing an instinct to

stay away from losing sides.



Fine enough for Low-Lowers and Mid-Lowers to sign up with this outfit,

as opposed to that, motivated by no other reasoning than the snappiness

of the uniform and the stock shares offered, but an old pro considered

carefully such matters as budget. Baron Haer was watching every expense,

was, it was rumored, figuring on commanding himself and calling upon

relatives and friends for his staff. Continental Hovercraft, on the

other hand, was heavy with variable capital and was in a position to

hire Stonewall Cogswell himself for their tactician.



However, the die was cast. You didn't run up a caste level, not to speak

of two at once, by playing it careful. Joe had planned this out; for

once, old pro or not, he was taking risks.



Recruiting line-ups were not for such as he. Not for many a year, many a

fracas. He strode rapidly along this one, heading for the offices ahead,

noting only in passing the quality of the men who were taking service

with Vacuum Tube Transport. These were the soldiers he'd be commanding

in the immediate future and the prospects looked grim. There were few

veterans among them. Their stance, their demeanor, their ... well, you

could tell a veteran even though he be Rank Private. You could tell a

veteran of even one fracas. It showed.



He knew the situation. The word had gone out. Baron Malcolm Haer was due

for a defeat. You weren't going to pick up any lush bonuses signing up

with him, and you definitely weren't going to jump a caste. In short, no

matter what Haer's past record, choose what was going to be the winning

side--Continental Hovercraft. Continental Hovercraft and old Stonewall

Cogswell who had lost so few fracases that many a Telly buff couldn't

remember a single one.



Individuals among these men showed promise, Joe Mauser estimated even as

he walked, but promise means little if you don't live long enough to

cash in on it.



Take that small man up ahead. He'd obviously got himself into a hassle

maintaining his place in line against two or three heftier would-be

soldiers. The little fellow wasn't backing down a step in spite of the

attempts of the other Lowers to usurp his place. Joe Mauser liked to see

such spirit. You could use it when you were in the dill.



As he drew abreast of the altercation, he snapped from the side of his

mouth, "Easy, lads. You'll get all the scrapping you want with

Hovercraft. Wait until then."



He'd expected his tone of authority to be enough, even though he was in

mufti. He wasn't particularly interested in the situation, beyond giving

the little man a hand. A veteran would have recognized him as an

old-timer and probable officer, and heeded, automatically.



These evidently weren't veterans.



"Says who?" one of the Lowers growled back at him. "You one of Baron

Haer's kids, or something?"



Joe Mauser came to a halt and faced the other. He was irritated, largely

with himself. He didn't want to be bothered. Nevertheless, there was no

alternative now.



The line of men, all Lowers so far as Joe could see, had fallen silent

in an expectant hush. They were bored with their long wait. Now

something would break the monotony.



By tomorrow, Joe Mauser would be in command of some of these men. In as

little as a week he would go into a full-fledged fracas with them. He

couldn't afford to lose face. Not even at this point when all, including

himself, were still civilian garbed. When matters pickled, in a fracas,

you wanted men with complete confidence in you.



* * * * *



The man who had grumbled the surly response was a near physical twin of

Joe Mauser which put him in his early thirties, gave him five foot

eleven of altitude and about one hundred and eighty pounds. His clothes

casted him Low-Lower--nothing to lose. As with many who have nothing to

lose, he was willing to risk all for principle. His face now registered

that ideal. Joe Mauser had no authority over him, nor his friends.



Joe's eyes flicked to the other two who had been pestering the little

fellow. They weren't quite so aggressive and as yet had come to no

conclusion about their stand. Probably the three had been unacquainted

before their bullying alliance to deprive the smaller man of his place.

However, a moment of hesitation and Joe would have a trio on his hands.



He went through no further verbal preliminaries. Joe Mauser stepped

closer. His right hand lanced forward, not doubled in a fist but fingers

close together and pointed, spear-like. He sank it into the other's

abdomen, immediately below the rib cage--the solar plexus.



He had misestimated the other two. Even as his opponent crumpled, they

were upon him, coming in from each side. And at least one of them, he

could see now, had been in hand-to-hand combat before. In short, another

pro, like Joe himself.



He took one blow, rolling with it, and his feet automatically went into

the shuffle of the trained fighter. He retreated slightly to erect

defenses, plan attack. They pressed him strongly, sensing victory in his

retreat.



The one mattered little to him. Joe Mauser could have polished off the

oaf in a matter of seconds, had he been allotted seconds to devote. But

the second, the experienced one, was the problem. He and Joe were well

matched and with the oaf as an ally really he had all the best of it.



Support came from a forgotten source, the little chap who had been the

reason for the whole hassle. He waded in now as big as the next man so

far as spirit was concerned, but a sorry fate gave him to attack the

wrong man, the veteran rather than the tyro. He took a crashing blow to

the side of his head which sent him sailing back into the recruiting

line, now composed of excited, shouting verbal participants of the fray.



However, the extinction of Joe Mauser's small ally had taken a moment or

two and time was what Joe needed most. For a double second he had the

oaf alone on his hands and that was sufficient. He caught a flailing

arm, turned his back and automatically went into the movements which

result in that spectacular hold of the wrestler, the Flying Mare. Just

in time he recalled that his opponent was a future comrade-in-arms and

twisted the arm so that it bent at the elbow, rather than breaking. He

hurled the other over his shoulder and as far as possible, to take the

scrap out of him, and twirled quickly to meet the further attack of his

sole remaining foe.



That phase of the combat failed to materialize.



A voice of command bit out, "Hold it, you lads!"



The original situation which had precipitated the fight was being

duplicated. But while the three Lowers had failed to respond to Joe

Mauser's tone of authority, there was no similar failure now.



The owner of the voice, beautifully done up in the uniform of Vacuum

Tube Transport, complete to kilts and the swagger stick of the officer

of Rank Colonel or above, stood glaring at them. Age, Joe estimated,

even as he came to attention, somewhere in the late twenties--an Upper

in caste. Born to command. His face holding that arrogant, contemptuous

expression once common to the patricians of Rome, the Prussian Junkers,

the British ruling class of the Nineteenth Century. Joe knew the

expression well. How well he knew it. On more than one occasion, he had

dreamt of it.



Joe said, "Yes, sir."



"What in Zen goes on here? Are you lads overtranked?"



"No, sir," Joe's veteran opponent grumbled, his eyes on the ground, a

schoolboy before the principal.



Joe said, evenly, "A private disagreement, sir."



"Disagreement!" the Upper snorted. His eyes went to the three fallen

combatants, who were in various stages of reviving. "I'd hate to see you

lads in a real scrap."



That brought a response from the non-combatants in the recruiting line.

The bon mot wasn't that good but caste has its privileges and the

laughter was just short of uproarious.



Which seemed to placate the kilted officer. He tapped his swagger stick

against the side of his leg while he ran his eyes up and down Joe Mauser

and the others, as though memorizing them for future reference.



"All right," he said. "Get back into the line, and you trouble makers

quiet down. We're processing as quickly as we can." And at that point he

added insult to injury with an almost word for word repetition of what

Joe had said a few moments earlier. "You'll get all the fighting you

want from Hovercraft, if you can wait until then."



The four original participants of the rumpus resumed their places in

various stages of sheepishness. The little fellow, nursing an obviously

aching jaw, made a point of taking up his original position even while

darting a look of thanks to Joe Mauser who still stood where he had when

the fight was interrupted.



The Upper looked at Joe. "Well, lad, are you interested in signing up

with Vacuum Tube Transport or not?"



"Yes, sir," Joe said evenly. Then, "Joseph Mauser, sir. Category

Military, Rank Captain."



"Indeed." The officer looked him up and down all over again, his

nostrils high. "A Middle, I assume. And brawling with recruits." He held

a long silence. "Very well, come with me." He turned and marched off.



Joe inwardly shrugged. This was a fine start for his pitch--a fine

start. He had half a mind to give it all up, here and now, and head on

up to Catskill to enlist with Continental Hovercraft. His big scheme

would wait for another day. Nevertheless, he fell in behind the

aristocrat and followed him to the offices which had been his original

destination.



* * * * *



Two Rank Privates with 45-70 Springfields and wearing the Haer kilts in

such wise as to indicate permanent status in Vacuum Tube Transport came

to the salute as they approached. The Upper preceding Joe Mauser flicked

his swagger stick in an easy nonchalance. Joe felt envious amusement.

How long did it take to learn how to answer a salute with that degree of

arrogant ease?



There were desks in here, and typers humming, as Vacuum Tube Transport

office workers, mobilized for this special service, processed volunteers

for the company forces. Harried noncoms and junior-grade officers buzzed

everywhere, failing miserably to bring order to the chaos. To the right

was a door with a medical cross newly painted on it. When it

occasionally popped open to admit or emit a recruit, white-robed

doctors, male nurses and half nude men could be glimpsed beyond.



Joe followed the other through the press and to an inner office at which

door he didn't bother to knock. He pushed his way through, waved in

greeting with his swagger stick to the single occupant who looked up

from the paper- and tape-strewn desk at which he sat.



Joe Mauser had seen the face before on Telly though never so tired as

this and never with the element of defeat to be read in the expression.

Bullet-headed, barrel-figured Baron Malcolm Haer of Vacuum Tube

Transport. Category Transportation, Mid-Upper, and strong candidate for

Upper-Upper upon retirement. However, there would be few who expected

retirement in the immediate future. Hardly. Malcolm Haer found too

obvious a lusty enjoyment in the competition between Vacuum Tube

Transport and its stronger rivals.



* * *



Joe came to attention, bore the sharp scrutiny of his chosen

commander-to-be. The older man's eyes went to the kilted Upper officer

who had brought Joe along. "What is it, Balt?"



The other gestured with his stick at Joe. "Claims to be Rank Captain.

Looking for a commission with us, Dad. I wouldn't know why." The last

sentence was added lazily.



The older Haer shot an irritated glance at his son. "Possibly for the

same reason mercenaries usually enlist for a fracas, Balt." His eyes

came back to Joe.



Joe Mauser, still at attention even though in mufti, opened his mouth to

give his name, category and rank, but the older man waved a hand

negatively. "Captain Mauser, isn't it? I caught the fracas between

Carbonaceous Fuel and United Miners, down on the Panhandle Reservation.

Seems to me I've spotted you once or twice before, too."



"Yes, sir," Joe said. This was some improvement in the way things were

going.



The older Haer was scowling at him. "Confound it, what are you doing

with no more rank than captain? On the face of it, you're an old hand, a

highly experienced veteran."



An old pro, we call ourselves, Joe said to himself. Old pros, we call

ourselves, among ourselves.



Aloud, he said, "I was born a Mid-Lower, sir."



There was understanding in the old man's face, but Balt Haer said

loftily, "What's that got to do with it? Promotion is quick and based on

merit in Category Military."



At a certain point, if you are good combat officer material, you speak

your mind no matter the rank of the man you are addressing. On this

occasion, Joe Mauser needed few words. He let his eyes go up and down

Balt Haer's immaculate uniform, taking in the swagger stick of the Rank

Colonel or above. Joe said evenly, "Yes, sir."



Balt Haer flushed quick temper. "What do you mean by--"



But his father was chuckling. "You have spirit, captain. I need spirit

now. You are quite correct. My son, though a capable officer, I assure

you, has probably not participated in a fraction of the fracases you

have to your credit. However, there is something to be said for the

training available to we Uppers in the academies. For instance, captain,

have you ever commanded a body of lads larger than, well, a company?"



Joe said flatly, "In the Douglas-Boeing versus Lockheed-Cessna fracas we

took a high loss of officers when the Douglas-Boeing outfit rang in some

fast-firing French mitrailleuse we didn't know they had. As my

superiors took casualties I was field promoted to acting battalion

commander, to acting regimental commander, to acting brigadier. For

three days I held the rank of acting commander of brigade. We won."



Balt Haer snapped his fingers. "I remember that. Read quite a paper on

it." He eyed Joe Mauser, almost respectfully. "Stonewall Cogswell got

the credit for the victory and received his marshal's baton as a

result."



"He was one of the few other officers that survived," Joe said dryly.



"But, Zen! You mean you got no promotion at all?"



Joe said, "I was upped to Low-Middle from High-Lower, sir. At my age, at

the time, quite a promotion."



* * * * *



Baron Haer was remembering, too. "That was the fracas that brought on

the howl from the Sovs. They claimed those mitrailleuse were post-1900

and violated the Universal Disarmament Pact. Yes, I recall that.

Douglas-Boeing was able to prove that the weapon was used by the French

as far back as the Franco-Prussian War." He eyed Joe with new interest

now. "Sit down, captain. You too, Balt. Do you realize that Captain

Mauser is the only recruit of officer rank we've had today?"



"Yes," the younger Haer said dryly. "However, it's too late to call the

fracas off now. Hovercraft wouldn't stand for it, and the Category

Military Department would back them. Our only alternative is

unconditional surrender, and you know what that means."



"It means our family would probably be forced from control of the firm,"

the older man growled. "But nobody has suggested surrender on any terms.

Nobody, thus far." He glared at his officer son who took it with an easy

shrug and swung a leg over the edge of his father's desk in the way of a

seat.



Joe Mauser found a chair and lowered himself into it. Evidently, the

foppish Balt Haer had no illusions about the spot his father had got the

family corporation into. And the younger man was right, of course.



But the Baron wasn't blind to reality any more than he was a coward. He

dismissed Balt Haer's defeatism from his mind and came back to Joe

Mauser. "As I say, you're the only officer recruit today. Why?"



Joe said evenly, "I wouldn't know, sir. Perhaps freelance Category

Military men are occupied elsewhere. There's always a shortage of

trained officers."



Baron Haer was waggling a finger negatively. "That's not what I mean,

captain. You are an old hand. This is your category and you must know it

well. Then why are you signing up with Vacuum Tube Transport rather

than Hovercraft?"



Joe Mauser looked at him for a moment without speaking.



"Come, come, captain. I am an old hand too, in my category, and not a

fool. I realize there is scarcely a soul in the West-world that expects

anything but disaster for my colors. Pay rates have been widely posted.

I can offer only five common shares of Vacuum Tube for a Rank Captain,

win or lose. Hovercraft is doubling that, and can pick and choose among

the best officers in the hemisphere."



Joe said softly, "I have all the shares I need."



Balt Haer had been looking back and forth between his father and the

newcomer and becoming obviously more puzzled. He put in, "Well, what in

Zen motivates you if it isn't the stock we offer?"



Joe glanced at the younger Haer to acknowledge the question but he spoke

to the Baron. "Sir, like you said, you're no fool. However, you've been

sucked in, this time. When you took on Hovercraft, you were thinking in

terms of a regional dispute. You wanted to run one of your vacuum tube

deals up to Fairbanks from Edmonton. You were expecting a minor fracas,

involving possibly five thousand men. You never expected Hovercraft to

parlay it up, through their connections in the Category Military

Department, to a divisional magnitude fracas which you simply aren't

large enough to afford. But Hovercraft was getting sick of your

corporation. You've been nicking away at them too long. So they decided

to do you in. They've hired Marshal Cogswell and the best combat

officers in North America, and they're hiring the most competent

veterans they can find. Every fracas buff who watches Telly, figures

you've had it. They've been watching you come up the aggressive way, the

hard way, for a long time, but now they're all going to be sitting on

the edges of their sofas waiting for you to get it."



Baron Haer's heavy face had hardened as Joe Mauser went on relentlessly.

He growled, "Is this what everyone thinks?"



"Yes. Everyone intelligent enough to have an opinion." Joe made a motion

of his head to the outer offices where the recruiting was proceeding.

"Those men out there are rejects from Catskill, where old Baron

Zwerdling is recruiting. Either that or they're inexperienced

Low-Lowers, too stupid to realize they're sticking their necks out. Not

one man in ten is a veteran. And when things begin to pickle, you want

veterans."



Baron Malcolm Haer sat back in his chair and stared coldly at Captain

Joe Mauser. He said, "At first I was moderately surprised that an old

time mercenary like yourself should choose my uniform, rather than

Zwerdling's. Now I am increasingly mystified about motivation. So all

over again I ask you, captain: Why are you requesting a commission in my

forces which you seem convinced will meet disaster?"



Joe wet his lips carefully. "I think I know a way you can win."









II





His permanent military rank the Haers had no way to alter, but they were

short enough of competent officers that they gave him an acting rating

and pay scale of major and command of a squadron of cavalry. Joe Mauser

wasn't interested in a cavalry command this fracas, but he said nothing.

Immediately, he had to size up the situation; it wasn't time as yet to

reveal the big scheme. And, meanwhile, they could use him to whip the

Rank Privates into shape.



He had left the offices of Baron Haer to go through the red tape

involved in being signed up on a temporary basis in the Vacuum Tube

Transport forces, and reentered the confusion of the outer offices where

the Lowers were being processed and given medicals. He reentered in time

to run into a Telly team which was doing a live broadcast.



Joe Mauser remembered the news reporter who headed the team. He'd run

into him two or three times in fracases. As a matter of fact, although

Joe held the standard Military Category prejudices against Telly, he had

a basic respect for this particular newsman. On the occasions he'd seen

him before, the fellow was hot in the midst of the action even when

things were in the dill. He took as many chances as did the average

combatant, and you can't ask for more than that.



The other knew him, too, of course. It was part of his job to be able to

spot the celebrities and near celebrities. He zeroed in on Joe now,

making flicks of his hand to direct the cameras. Joe, of course, was

fully aware of the value of Telly and was glad to co-operate.



"Captain! Captain Mauser, isn't it? Joe Mauser who held out for four

days in the swamps of Louisiana with a single company while his ranking

officers reformed behind him."



That was one way of putting it, but both Joe and the newscaster who had

covered the debacle knew the reality of the situation. When the front

had collapsed, his commanders--of Upper caste, of course--had hauled

out, leaving him to fight a delaying action while they mended their

fences with the enemy, coming to the best terms possible. Yes, that had

been the United Oil versus Allied Petroleum fracas, and Joe had emerged

with little either in glory or pelf.



The average fracas fan wasn't on an intellectual level to appreciate

anything other than victory. The good guys win, the bad guys

lose--that's obvious, isn't it? Not one out of ten Telly followers of

the fracases was interested in a well-conducted retreat or holding

action. They wanted blood, lots of it, and they identified with the

winning side.



Joe Mauser wasn't particularly bitter about this aspect. It was part of

his way of life. In fact, his pet peeve was the real buff. The type,

man or woman, who could remember every fracas you'd ever been in, every

time you'd copped one, and how long you'd been in the hospital. Fans who

could remember, even better than you could, every time the situation had

pickled on you and you'd had to fight your way out as best you could.

They'd tell you about it, their eyes gleaming, sometimes a slightest

trickle of spittle at the sides of their mouths. They usually wanted an

autograph, or a souvenir such as a uniform button.



Now Joe said to the Telly reporter, "That's right, Captain Mauser.

Acting major, in this fracas, ah--"



"Freddy. Freddy Soligen. You remember me, captain--"



"Of course I do, Freddy. We've been in the dill, side by side, more than

once, and even when I was too scared to use my side arm, you'd be

scanning away with your camera."



"Ha ha, listen to the captain, folks. I hope my boss is tuned in. But

seriously, Captain Mauser, what do you think the chances of Vacuum Tube

Transport are in this fracas?"



Joe looked into the camera lens, earnestly. "The best, of course, or I

wouldn't have signed up with Baron Haer, Freddy. Justice triumphs, and

anybody who is familiar with the issues in this fracas, knows that Baron

Haer is on the side of true right."



Freddy said, holding any sarcasm he must have felt, "What would you say

the issues were, captain?"



"The basic North American free enterprise right to compete. Hovercraft

has held a near monopoly in transport to Fairbanks. Vacuum Tube

Transport wishes to lower costs and bring the consumers of Fairbanks

better service through running a vacuum tube to that area. What could be

more in the traditions of the West-world? Continental Hovercraft stands

in the way and it is they who have demanded of the Category Military

Department a trial by arms. On the face of it, justice is on the side of

Baron Haer."



Freddy Soligen said into the camera, "Well, all you good people of the

Telly world, that's an able summation the captain has made, but it

certainly doesn't jibe with the words of Baron Zwerdling we heard this

morning, does it? However, justice triumphs and we'll see what the field

of combat will have to offer. Thank you, thank you very much, Captain

Mauser. All of us, all of us tuned in today, hope that you personally

will run into no dill in this fracas."



"Thanks, Freddy. Thanks all," Joe said into the camera, before turning

away. He wasn't particularly keen about this part of the job, but you

couldn't underrate the importance of pleasing the buffs. In the long run

it was your career, your chances for promotion both in military rank and

ultimately in caste. It was the way the fans took you up, boosted you,

idolized you, worshipped you if you really made it. He, Joe Mauser, was

only a minor celebrity, he appreciated every chance he had to be

interviewed by such a popular reporter as Freddy Soligen.



* * * * *



Even as he turned, he spotted the four men with whom he'd had his spat

earlier. The little fellow was still to the fore. Evidently, the others

had decided the one place extra that he represented wasn't worth the

trouble he'd put in their way defending it.



On an impulse he stepped up to the small man who began a grin of

recognition, a grin that transformed his feisty face. A revelation of

an inner warmth beyond average in a world which had lost much of its

human warmth.






Joe said, "Like a job, soldier?"



"Name's Max. Max Mainz. Sure I want a job. That's why I'm in this

everlasting line."



Joe said, "First fracas for you, isn't it?"



"Yeah, but I had basic training in school."



"What do you weigh, Max?"



Max's face soured. "About one twenty."



"Did you check out on semaphore in school?"



"Well, sure. I'm Category Food, Sub-division Cooking, Branch Chef, but,

like I say, I took basic military training, like most everybody else."



"I'm Captain Joe Mauser. How'd you like to be my batman?"



Max screwed up his already not overly handsome face. "Gee, I don't know.

I kinda joined up to see some action. Get into the dill. You know what I

mean."



Joe said dryly, "See here, Mainz, you'll probably find more pickled

situations next to me than you'll want--and you'll come out alive."



The recruiting sergeant looked up from the desk. It was Max Mainz's turn

to be processed. The sergeant said, "Lad, take a good opportunity when

it drops in your lap. The captain is one of the best in the field.

You'll learn more, get better chances for promotion, if you stick with

him."



Joe couldn't remember ever having run into the sergeant before, but he

said, "Thanks, sergeant."



The other said, evidently realizing Joe didn't recognize him, "We were

together on the Chihuahua Reservation, on the jurisdictional fracas

between the United Miners and the Teamsters, sir."



It had been almost fifteen years ago. About all that Joe Mauser

remembered of that fracas was the abnormal number of casualties they'd

taken. His side had lost, but from this distance in time Joe couldn't

even remember what force he'd been with. But now he said, "That's right.

I thought I recognized you, sergeant."



"It was my first fracas, sir." The sergeant went businesslike. "If you

want I should hustle this lad though, captain--"



"Please do, sergeant." Joe added to Max, "I'm not sure where my billet

will be. When you're through all this, locate the officer's mess and

wait there for me."



"Well, O.K.," Max said doubtfully, still scowling but evidently a

servant of an officer, if he wanted to be or not.



"Sir," the sergeant added ominously. "If you've had basic, you know

enough how to address an officer."



"Well, yessir," Max said hurriedly.



Joe began to turn away, but then spotted the man immediately behind Max

Mainz. He was one of the three with whom Joe had tangled earlier, the

one who'd obviously had previous combat experience. He pointed the man

out to the sergeant. "You'd better give this lad at least temporary rank

of corporal. He's a veteran and we're short of veterans."



The sergeant said, "Yes, sir. We sure are." Joe's former foe looked

properly thankful.



* * * * *



Joe Mauser finished off his own red tape and headed for the street to

locate a military tailor who could do him up a set of the Haer kilts and

fill his other dress requirements. As he went, he wondered vaguely just

how many different uniforms he had worn in his time.



In a career as long as his own from time to time you took semi-permanent

positions in bodyguards, company police, or possibly the permanent

combat troops of this corporation or that. But largely, if you were

ambitious, you signed up for the fracases and that meant into a uniform

and out of it again in as short a period as a couple of weeks.



At the door he tried to move aside but was too slow for the quick moving

young woman who caromed off him. He caught her arm to prevent her from

stumbling. She looked at him with less than thanks.



Joe took the blame for the collision. "Sorry," he said. "I'm afraid I

didn't see you, Miss."



"Obviously," she said coldly. Her eyes went up and down him, and for a

moment he wondered where he had seen her before. Somewhere, he was sure.



She was dressed as they dress who have never considered cost and she had

an elusive beauty which would have been even the more hadn't her face

projected quite such a serious outlook. Her features were more delicate

than those to which he was usually attracted. Her lips were less full,

but still-- He was reminded of the classic ideal of the British Romantic

Period, the women sung of by Byron and Keats, Shelly and Moore.



She said, "Is there any particular reason why you should be staring at

me, Mr.--"



"Captain Mauser," Joe said hurriedly. "I'm afraid I've been rude,

Miss--Well, I thought I recognized you."



She took in his civilian dress, typed it automatically, and came to an

erroneous conclusion. She said, "Captain? You mean that with everyone

else I know drawing down ranks from Lieutenant Colonel to Brigadier

General, you can't make anything better than Captain?"



Joe winced. He said carefully, "I came up from the ranks, Miss. Captain

is quite an achievement, believe me."



"Up from the ranks!" She took in his clothes again. "You mean you're a

Middle? You neither talk nor look like a Middle, captain." She used the

caste rating as though it was not quite a derogatory term.



Not that she meant to be deliberately insulting, Joe knew, wearily. How

well he knew. It was simply born in her. As once a well-educated

aristocracy had, not necessarily unkindly, named their status inferiors

niggers; or other aristocrats, in another area of the country, had

named theirs greasers. Yes, how well he knew.



He said very evenly, "Mid-Middle now, Miss. However, I was born in the

Lower castes."



An eyebrow went up. "Zen! You must have put in many an hour studying.

You talk like an Upper, captain." She dropped all interest in him and

turned to resume her journey.



"Just a moment," Joe said. "You can't go in there, Miss--"



Her eyebrows went up again. "The name is Haer," she said. "Why can't I

go in here, captain?"



Now it came to him why he had thought he recognized her. She had basic

features similar to those of that overbred poppycock, Balt Haer.



"Sorry," Joe said. "I suppose under the circumstances, you can. I was

about to tell you that they're recruiting with lads running around half

clothed. Medical inspections, that sort of thing."



She made a noise through her nose and said over her shoulder, even as

she sailed on. "Besides being a Haer, I'm an M.D., captain. At the

ludicrous sight of a man shuffling about in his shorts, I seldom blush."



She was gone.



Joe Mauser looked after her. "I'll bet you don't," he muttered.



Had she waited a few minutes he could have explained his Upper accent

and his unlikely education. When you'd copped one you had plenty of

opportunity in hospital beds to read, to study, to contemplate--and to

fester away in your own schemes of rebellion against fate. And Joe had

copped many in his time.









III





By the time Joe Mauser called it a day and retired to his quarters he

was exhausted to the point where his basic dissatisfaction with the

trade he followed was heavily upon him.



He had met his immediate senior officers, largely dilettante Uppers with

precious little field experience, and was unimpressed. And he'd met his

own junior officers and was shocked. By the looks of things at this

stage, Captain Mauser's squadron would be going into this fracas both

undermanned with Rank Privates and with junior officers composed largely

of temporarily promoted noncoms. If this was typical of Baron Haer's

total force, then Balt Haer had been correct; unconditional surrender

was to be considered, no matter how disastrous to Haer family fortunes.



Joe had 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, the small man he had selected earlier in the day to be his

batman entered from an inner room, also resplendent in the Haer uniform

and obviously happily so.



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.



Joe grunted, "Max, isn't it? I'd forgotten 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."



Joe Mauser looked at him. Evidently his tapping this man for orderly had

been sheer fortune. Well, Joe Mauser could use some good luck on this

job. He hoped it didn't end with selecting a batman.



Joe said, "An applejack highball sounds wonderful, Max. Got ice?"



"Of course, sir." Max left the small room.



Joe Mauser and his officers were billeted in what had once been a motel

on the old road between Kingston and Woodstock. There was a shower and a

tiny kitchenette in each cottage. That was one advantage in a fracas

held in an area where there were plenty of facilities. Such military

reservations as that of the Little Big Horn in Montana and particularly

some of those in the South West and Mexico, were another thing.



Joe lowered himself into the room's easy-chair and bent down to untie

his laces. He kicked his shoes off. He could use that drink. He began

wondering all over again if his scheme for winning this Vacuum Tube

Transport versus Continental Hovercraft fracas would come off. The more

he saw of Baron Haer's inadequate forces, the more he wondered. He

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 many a veteran to his colors. Evidently

they hadn't bitten. The word was out all right.



Max Mainz returned with the drink.



Joe said, "You had one yourself?"



"No, sir."



Joe said, "Well, Zen, go get yourself one and come on back and sit down.

Let's get acquainted."



"Well, yessir." 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 aggressive 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 Joe well knew. His own break hadn't

been an easy one. "Relax," he said now.



Max said, "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." Joe took

another pull and yawned. "Well, forget about it. With any man who goes

into a fracas with me, I like to be on close terms. When things pickle,

I want him to be on my side, not nursing some peeve brought on by his

officer trying to give him an inferiority complex."



The little man was eying him in surprise.



Joe finished his highball 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," Joe said.



When he'd returned to his chair, he said, "Why did you join up with

Baron Haer, Max?"



The other shrugged it off. "The usual. The excitement. The idea of all

those fans watching me on Telly. The share of common stock I'll get.

And, you never know, maybe a promotion in caste. I wouldn't mind making

Upper-Lower."



Joe said sourly, "One fracas and you'll be over that desire to have the

buffs watching you on Telly while they sit around in their front rooms

sucking on tranks. 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."



Joe held his peace, sipping at his drink, taking this one more slowly.

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 all the way from

the cradle to the grave, like they say. But let me tell you, you're a

Middle and you don't realize how basic the basic living of a Lower can

be."



Joe yawned. If he hadn't been so tired, there would have been more

amusement in the situation.



Max was still dogged. "Unless you can add to those shares of stock, it's

pretty drab, captain. You wouldn't know."



Joe said, "Why don't you work? A Lower can always add to his stock by

working."



Max stirred in indignity. "Work? Listen, sir, that's just one more field

that's been automated right out of existence. Category Food Preparation,

Sub-division Cooking, Branch Chef. Cooking isn't left in the hands of

slobs who might drop a cake of soap into the soup. It's done automatic.

The only new changes made in cooking are by real top experts, almost

scientists like. And most of them are Uppers, mind you."



Joe Mauser sighed inwardly. So his find in batmen wasn't going to be as

wonderful as all that, after all. The man might have been born into the

food preparation category from a long line of chefs, but evidently he

knew precious little about his field. Joe might have suspected. He

himself had been born into Clothing Category, Sub-division Shoes, Branch

Repair--Cobbler--a meaningless trade since shoes were no longer

repaired but discarded upon showing signs of wear. In an economy of

complete abundance, there is little reason for repair of basic

commodities. It was high time the government investigated category

assignment and reshuffled and reassigned half the nation's population.

But then, of course, was 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."



Joe said mildly, "Theoretically, you can cross categories into any field

you want, Max."



Max snorted. "Theoretically is right ... sir. You ever heard about

anybody born a Lower, or even a Middle like yourself, cross categories

to, say, some Upper category like banking?"



Joe chuckled. 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.



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 to earn some additional stock shares."



The applejack had worked enough on Joe for him to rise against 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 fifty years ago, than fifty years ago they did them the way the

American Revolutionists outlined back in the Eighteenth Century."



Max was staring at him. "I don't get that, sir."



Joe 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 were to be found in embryo more than fifty

years ago."



"Well, maybe the captain's right, but you gotta admit, sir, that mostly

we do things the old way. We still got the Constitution and the

two-party system and--"



Joe was wearying of the conversation now. You seldom ran into anyone,

even in Middle caste, the traditionally professional class, interested

enough in such subjects to be worth arguing with. He said, "The

Constitution, Max, has got to the point of the Bible. Interpret it the

way you wish, and you can find anything. If not, you can always make a

new amendment. So far as the two-party system is concerned, what effect

does it have when there are no differences between the two parties? That

phase of pseudo-democracy was beginning as far back as the 1930s when

they began passing State laws hindering the emerging of new political

parties. By the time they were insured against a third party working its

way through the maze of election laws, the two parties had become so

similar that elections became almost as big a farce as over in the

Sov-world."



"A farce?" Max ejaculated indignantly, 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

how many shares you got makes no difference. Everybody has everything."



"Sure, sure, sure," Joe sighed. "The modern equivalent of the Roman

Bacchanalia. Election day in the West-world when no one, for just that

one day, is freer than anyone else."



"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--"



Joe snapped suddenly, "I was born a Mid-Lower myself, Max. Don't give me

that nonsense."



Max gaped at him, utterly unbelieving.



Joe's irritation fell away. He held out his glass. "Get us a couple of

more drinks, Max, and I'll tell you a story."



By the time the fresh drink came, Joe Mauser 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, the 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, a hereditary aristocrat, one of the one per cent of

the upper strata of the nation. Zen! How the man had laughed. He'd

roared his amusement till the tears ran.



However, Joe said, "Max, I was born in the same caste you were--average

father, mother, sisters and brothers. They subsisted on the basic income

guaranteed from birth, sat and watched Telly for an unbelievable number

of hours each day, took 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. As far back as I can remember the

picture is there of them gathered around the Telly, screaming

excitement." Joe Mauser sneered, uncharacteristically.



"You don't sound much like you're in favor of your trade, captain," Max

said.



Joe came to his feet, putting down his still half-full glass. "I'll make

this epic story short, Max. As you said, the two actually valid methods

of rising above the level in which you were born are in the Military and

Religious Categories. Like you, even I couldn't stomach the latter."



Joe Mauser hesitated, then finished it off. "Max, there have been few

societies that man has evolved 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 I

personally 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."



Joe 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, taken aback.









IV





After routine morning duties, Joe Mauser 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, as yet, got

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

town to bask in the atmosphere of threatened death. Everybody knew what

a military center, on the outskirts of a fracas reservation such as the

Catskills, was like immediately preceding a clash between rival

corporations. The high-strung gaiety, the drinking, the overtranking,

the relaxation of mores. Even a Rank Private had it made. Admiring

civilians to buy drinks and hang on your every word, and more important

still, sensuous-eyed women, their faces slack in thinly suppressed

passion. It was a recognized phenomenon, even Max Mainz knew--this

desire on the part of women Telly fans to date a man, and then watch him

later, killing or being killed.



"Time enough to wear your fancy uniform," Joe Mauser growled at him. "In

fact, tomorrow's a local election day. Parlay that up on top of all the

fracas fans gravitating into town and you'll have a wingding the likes

of nothing you've seen before."



"Well yessir," Max begrudged. "Where're we going now, captain?"



"To the airport. Come along."



Joe Mauser led the way to his sports hovercar and as soon as the two

were settled into the bucket seats, hit the lift lever with the butt of

his left hand. Aircushion-borne, he trod down on the accelerator.



Max Mainz was impressed. "You know," he said. "I never been in one of

these swanky sports jobs before. The kinda car you can afford on the

income of a Mid-Lower's stock aren't--"



"Knock it off," Joe said wearily. "Carping we'll always have with us

evidently, 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."



"Hm-m-m," Joe murmured. "And all the other cliches 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.



It was obviously too deep for Max, and since he didn't understand, he

assumed his superior didn't know what he was talking about. He said,

tolerantly, "Well, what's wrong with People's Capitalism? Everybody

owns the corporations. Damnsight better than the Sovs have."



Joe said sourly. "We've got one optical illusion, they've got another,

Max. Over there they claim the proletariat owns the means of production.

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 are like our 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. But in the West-world, the people own a

corporation's stock and they run it and get the benefit."



"At least it 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, but the remaining

stockholder owns the other hundred thousand."



"I don't know what you're getting at," Max said.



Joe Mauser was tired of the discussion. "Briefly," he said, "we have the

illusion that this is a People's Capitalism, with all stock in the hands

of the People. Actually, as ever before, the stock is in the hands of

the Uppers, all except a mere dribble. They own the country and they run

it for their own benefit."



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 Administration Building

of the airport. "No," Joe 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. The clerk, hardly looking up,

began going through motions, speaking into telescreens.



The clerk said finally, "You might have a small wait, sir. Quite a few

of the officers involved in this fracas have been renting out

taxi-planes almost as fast as they're available."



That didn't surprise Joe Mauser. Any competent officer made a point of

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 relegated to the

cemetery of military devices along with such items as nuclear weapons,

tanks, and even gasoline-propelled vehicles of size to be useful.



Use an aircraft in a fracas, or even build an aircraft for military

usage and you'd have a howl go up from the military attaches from 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 military observers,

keen-eyed to check whether or not any really modern tools of war were

being illegally utilized. Joe Mauser sometimes wondered if the

West-world observers, over in the Sov-world, were as hair fine in their

living up to the rules of the Universal Disarmament Pact. Probably. But,

for that matter, they didn't have the same system of fighting fracases

over there, as in the West.



Joe took a chair while he waited and thumbed through a fan magazine.

From time to time he found his own face in such publications. He was a

third-rate celebrity, really. Luck hadn't been with him so far as the

buffs were concerned. They wanted spectacular victories, murderous

situations in which they could lose themselves in vicarious sadistic

thrills. Joe had reached most of his peaks while in retreat, or

commanding a holding action. His officers appreciated him and so did the

ultra-knowledgeable fracas buffs--but he was all but an unknown to the

average dim wit who spent most of his life glued to the Telly set,

watching men butcher each other.



On the various occasions when matters had pickled and Joe had to fight

his way out against difficult odds, using spectacular tactics in

desperation, he was almost always off camera. Purely luck. On top of

skill, determination, experience and courage, you had to have luck in

the Military Category to get anywhere.



This time Joe was going to manufacture his own.



A voice said, "Ah, Captain Mauser."



Joe looked up, then came to his feet quickly. In automatic reflex, he

began to come to the salute but then caught himself. He said stiffly,

"My compliments, Marshal Cogswell."



The other was a smallish man, but strikingly strong of face and strongly

built. His voice was clipped, clear and had the air of command as though

born with it. He, like Joe, wore mufti and now extended his hand to be

shaken.



"I hear you've 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," Joe said. Stonewall Cogswell was as good a tactician

as freelanced and he was more than that. He was a judge of men and a

stickler for detail. And right now, if Joe Mauser knew Marshal Stonewall

Cogswell as well as he thought, Cogswell was smelling a rat. There was

no reason why old pro Joe Mauser should sign up with a sure loser like

Vacuum Tube when he could have earned more shares taking a commission

with Hovercraft.



He was looking at Joe brightly, the question in his eyes. Three or four

of his staff were behind a few paces, looking polite, but Cogswell

didn't bring them into the conversation. Joe knew most by sight. Good

men all. Old pros all. He felt another twinge of doubt.



Joe had to cover. 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?"



Joe Mauser flushed. Stonewall Cogswell knew what he was talking about.

He'd been born into Middle status himself and had become an Upper the

hard way. His path wasn't as long as Joe's was going to be, but long

enough and he knew how rocky the climb was. How very rocky.



Joe 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 and I hope things don't pickle for

you in the coming fracas. Possibly we'll find ourselves aligned together

again at some future time."



"Thank you, sir," Joe said, once more having to catch himself to prevent

an automatic salute.



Cogswell and his staff went off, leaving Joe looking after them. Even

the marshal's staff members were top men, any of whom could have

conducted a divisional magnitude fracas. Joe felt the coldness in his

stomach again. Although it must have looked like a cinch, the enemy

wasn't taking any chances whatsoever. Cogswell and his officers were

undoubtedly here at the airport for the same reason as Joe. They wanted

a thorough aerial reconnaissance of the battlefield-to-be, 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 fights with his brains," Joe said, still looking after the craggy

field marshal. "He doesn't have to be any taller."



Max scowled. "Where'd he ever get that nickname, sir?"



"Stonewall?" Joe was turning to resume his chair and magazine. "He's

supposed to be a student of a top general back in the American Civil

War. Uses some of the original Stonewall's tactics."



Max was 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," Joe said dryly. "Lot of good lads died. A

hundred years after it was fought, the reasons it was fought seemed

about as valid as those we fight fracases for today. Personally I--"



He had to cut it short. They were calling him on the address system. His

aircraft was ready. Joe made his way to the hangars, followed by Max

Mainz. He was going to pilot the airplane himself and old Stonewall

Cogswell would have been surprised at what Joe Mauser was looking for.









V





By the time they had returned to quarters, there was a message waiting

for Captain Mauser. He was to report to the officer commanding

reconnaissance.



Joe redressed in the Haer kilts and proceeded to headquarters.



The officer commanding reconnaissance turned out to be none other than

Balt Haer, natty as ever, and, as ever, arrogantly tapping his swagger

stick against his leg.



"Zen! Captain," he complained. "Where have you been? Off on a trank

kick? We've got to get organized."



Joe Mauser snapped him a salute. "No, sir. I rented an aircraft to scout

out the terrain over which we'll be fighting."



"Indeed. And what were your impressions, captain?" There was an overtone

which suggested that it made little difference what impressions a

captain of cavalry might have gained.



Joe shrugged. "Largely mountains, hills, woods. Good reconnaissance is

going to make the difference in this one. And in the fracas itself

cavalry is going to be more important than either artillery or infantry.

A Nathan Forrest fracas, sir. A matter of getting there fustest with the

mostest."



Balt Haer said amusedly. "Thanks for your opinion, captain. Fortunately,

our staff has already come largely to the same conclusions. Undoubtedly,

they'll be glad to hear your wide experience bears them out."



Joe said evenly, "It's a rather obvious conclusion, of course." He took

this as it came, having been through it before. The dilettante amateur's

dislike of the old pro. The amateur in command who knew full well he was

less capable than many of those below him in rank.



"Of course, captain," Balt Haer flicked his swagger stick against his

leg. "But to the point. Your squadron is to be deployed as scouts under

my overall command. You've had cavalry experience, I assume."



"Yes, sir. In various fracases over the past fifteen years."



"Very well. Now then, to get to the reason I have summoned you.

Yesterday in my father's office you intimated that you had some

grandiose scheme which would bring victory to the Haer colors. But then,

on some thin excuse, refused to divulge just what the scheme might be."



Joe Mauser looked at him unblinkingly.



Balt Haer said: "Now I'd like to have your opinion on just how Vacuum

Tube Transport can extract itself from what would seem a poor position

at best."



In all there were four others in the office, two women clerks

fluttering away at typers, and two of Balt Haer's junior officers. They

seemed only mildly interested in the conversation between Balt and Joe.



Joe wet his lips carefully. The Haer scion was his commanding officer.

He said, "Sir, what I had in mind is a new gimmick. At this stage, if I

told anybody and it leaked, it'd never be effective, not even this first

time."



Haer observed him coldly. "And you think me incapable of keeping your

secret, ah, gimmick, I believe is the idiomatic term you used."



Joe Mauser's eyes shifted around the room, taking in the other four, who

were now looking at him.



Bait Haer rapped, "These members of my staff are all trusted Haer

employees, Captain Mauser. They are not fly-by-night freelancers hired

for a week or two."



Joe said, "Yes, sir. But it's been my experience that one person can

hold a secret. It's twice as hard for two, and from there on it's a

decreasing probability in a geometric ratio."



The younger Haer's stick rapped the side of his leg, impatiently.

"Suppose I inform you that this is a command, captain? I have little

confidence in a supposed gimmick that will rescue our forces from

disaster and I rather dislike the idea of a captain of one of my

squadrons dashing about with such a bee in his bonnet when he should be

obeying my commands."



Joe kept his voice respectful. "Then, sir, I'd request that we take the

matter to the Commander in Chief, your father."



"Indeed!"



Joe said, "Sir, I've been working on this a long time. I can't afford to

risk throwing the idea away."



Bait Haer glared at him. "Very well, captain. I'll call your bluff, come

along." He turned on his heel and headed from the room.



Joe Mauser shrugged in resignation and followed him.



* * * * *



The old Baron wasn't much happier about Joe Mauser's secrets than was

his son. It had only been the day before that he had taken Joe on, but

already he had seemed to have aged in appearance. Evidently, each hour

that went by made it increasingly clear just how perilous a position he

had assumed. Vacuum Tube Transport had elbowed, buffaloed, bluffed and

edged itself up to the outskirts of the really big time. The Baron's

ability, his aggressiveness, his flair, his political pull, had all

helped, but now the chips were down. He was up against one of the

biggies, and this particular biggy was tired of ambitious little Vacuum

Tube Transport.



He listened to his son's words, listened to Joe's defense.



He said, looking at Joe, "If I understand this, you have some scheme

which you think will bring victory in spite of what seems a disastrous

situation."



"Yes, sir."



The two Haers looked at him, one impatiently, the other in weariness.



Joe said, "I'm gambling everything on this, sir. I'm no Rank Private in

his first fracas. I deserve to be given some leeway."



Balt Haer snorted. "Gambling everything! What in Zen would you have to

gamble, captain? The whole Haer family fortunes are tied up. Hovercraft

is out for blood. They won't be satisfied with a token victory and a

negotiated compromise. They'll devastate us. Thousands of mercenaries

killed, with all that means in indemnities; millions upon million in

expensive military equipment, most of which we've had to hire and will

have to recompensate for. Can you imagine the value of our stock after

Stonewall Cogswell has finished with us? Why, every two by four trucking

outfit in North America will be challenging us, and we won't have the

forces to meet a minor skirmish."



Joe reached into an inner pocket and laid a sheaf of documents on the

desk of Baron Malcolm Haer. The Baron scowled down at them.



Joe said simply, "I've been accumulating stock since before I was

eighteen and I've taken good care of my portfolio in spite of taxes and

the various other pitfalls which make the accumulation of capital

practically impossible. Yesterday, I sold all of my portfolio I was

legally allowed to sell and converted to Vacuum Tube Transport." He

added, dryly, "Getting it at an excellent rate, by the way."



Balt Haer mulled through the papers, unbelievingly. "Zen!" he

ejaculated. "The fool really did it. He's sunk a small fortune into our

stock."



Baron Haer growled at his son, "You seem considerably more convinced of

our defeat than the captain, here. Perhaps I should reverse your

positions of command."



His son grunted, but said nothing.



Old Malcolm Haer's eyes came back to Joe. "Admittedly, I thought you on

the romantic side yesterday, with your hints of some scheme which would

lead us out of the wilderness, so to speak. Now I wonder if you might

not really have something. Very well, I respect your claimed need for

secrecy. Espionage is not exactly an antiquated military field."



"Thank you, sir."



But the Baron was still staring at him. "However, there's more to it

than that. Why not take this great scheme to Marshal Cogswell? And

yesterday you mentioned that the Telly sets of the nation would be tuned

in on this fracas, and obviously you are correct. The questio