“Industrial Feudalism,” she murmured.
“Call it what you will. I won’t be happy until I’m a member of that one per cent on top.”
She looked into his face. “Are you sure you will be then?”
“I don’t know,” he said angrily. “But I’ve heard the argument before. It’s been used down through the ages by apologists for the privileged classes. Pity the poor rich man. While the happy slaves are sitting down on the levee, strumming their banjos, the poor plantation owner is up in his mansion drowning his sorrows in mint juleps.”
She had an edge of anger, too. “All right,” she snapped. “But I’ll tell you this, Joe Mauser. The world is out of gear, but the answer isn’t for individuals to better their material lot by jumping their caste statuses.”
The waiter brought their wine, and, both angry, both held their peace until he had served it and left.
“What is the answer?” he said, mock in his voice. “It’s easy enough for you, on top, to tell me, below, that the answer isn’t in making my way to your level.”
She was interrupted in her hot reply by a rolling of the orchestra’s drums and the voice of a domineering M.C. who managed effectively to drown all vocal opposition at the tables.
* * * *
Grinning inanely, holding onto his portable, wireless mike, he babbled along about the wonderful people present tonight and the good time being had by all. The Exclusive Room being founded on pure snobbery, he made great todo about the celebrities present. This politician, that actress, this currently popular songstress, that baron of industry.
Joe and Nadine ignored most of his chatter, still glaring at each other, until he came to.…
“And those among us who are fracas buffs, and who isn’t a fracas buff these days, given the merest drop of red blood? Fracas buffs will be thrilled to know that they are spending the evening in the company of the intrepid Major Joseph Mauser.…”
Behind him, the orchestra broke into the quick strains of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
“… Whose most recent act of sheer military genius and derringdo combined resulted in his all but single-handed winning of the fracas between Continental Hovercraft and Vacuum Tube Transport, and thus inflicting defeat upon none other than Marshal Stonewall Cogswell for the first time in more than a decade.”
The M.C. babbled on, now about another present celebrity, a retired pugilist, once a champion.
Nadine looked into his face. “I think I understand now. You mentioned that in any society the…how did you put it?…the strong, intelligent, aggressive, cunning or ruthless could work their way to the top. You’ve tried strength, intelligence, and aggressiveness, haven’t you, Joe? They didn’t work. At least, not fast enough. So now you’re giving cunning a try. Will ruthlessness be next, Joe Mauser?”
He was saved an answer.
A hulking body in evening wear stood next to their table, swaying. Joe looked up into a face glazed by either trank or alcohol. He didn’t know the other man and for a moment failed to realize the other’s purpose. The man was mumbling something that didn’t come through.
Joe, irritated, said, “What in Zen do you want?”
The stranger shook his head, as though to clear it. He sneered, “The famous Joe Mauser, eh? The brave soldier-boy. Well, lemme tell you something, soldier-boy, you don’t look so tough to me with your cute little mustache and your fancy-pants uniform. You look like a molly to me.”
“That’s too bad,” Joe bit out. “And now, if you’ll just go away.” He turned his face from the other.
“Joe…!” Nadine said in an alarmed warning.
The other’s contemptuous cuff, unsuspected, nearly bowled Joe completely from his chair. As it was, he barely caught himself.
His attacker shuffled backward and Joe recognized the trained step of the professional boxer. The other’s identity now came to him, although he was no follower of pugilism, a sport largely out of favor since the rapid growth of Telly scanned fracases. Boxing at its top had never been more than an inadequate replacement of the games once held in the Roman area.
Joe was on his feet, instantly the fighting man under attack. The table that he and Nadine occupied was a ringside one, and in open view of half the room, but that meant nothing. He was under attack and for the nonce surprised, on the defensive.
“How’d you like them apples, soldier-boy?” the professional pugilist chuckled nastily. His left flicked forward and Joe barely avoided its connecting with his face.
He threw aside, for the time, any attempt to explain the other’s uncalled for aggression. Unless he did something, and quick, he was going to be a laughing stock, rather than the hero into which Freddy Soligen was trying to build him.
Nadine said, Anxiously, “Joe…please…the waiters will deal with—”.
He didn’t hear her.
Joe Mauser, with all his hospital studies, had never heard of the Marquis of Queensbury. But even if he had, it would never have occurred to him to be bound by that arbiter of fisticuffs. In fact, he had no intention even of being restricted to the use of his hands as fists. The Japanese, long centuries before, had proven the fist less than the most effective manner in which to pursue hand-to-hand combat.
Joe Mauser, working coolly, fast and ruthlessly, now, a trained combat man exercising his profession, moved in for the kill, his shoulders hunched slightly forward, his hands forward and to the sides, choppers rather than sledges.
Joe stepped closer, as quick as a jungle cat. His left hand leapt forward to the other’s neck, hacked, came back into another blurring swing, hacked again. His opponent grunted agony.
But a man does not become heavyweight champion without being able to take as well as give punishment. Joe’s attacker tucked his chin into his shoulder, fighter style, and moved in throwing off the effects of the karate blows. Somehow, he seemed considerably less drunk or over-tranked than he had short moments before, and there was rage in his face, rather than glaze.
One of the blows caught Joe on a shoulder and sent him reeling back. At the same time, behind the other, Joe could see the maître d’hôtel flanked by three waiters, hurrying up. He was going to have to do something, and do it quickly, or be branded a boorish Middle who had intruded into a domain of the Uppers only to participate in a brawl and have to be expelled by the establishment’s servants.
The former champ, his eyes narrowed in confidence of victory, came boring in, on his toes, quick for all of his bulk. Joe turned sideways, his movements lithe. He lashed out with his right foot, at this angle getting double the leverage he would have otherwise, and caught the other on the kneecap. The pugilist bent forward in agony, his mouth opening as though in protest.
Joe stepped forward, quickly, efficiently. His hands were now knitted together in a huge double fist. He brought them upward, crushingly, into his opponent’s face, with all the force he could achieve, and felt bone and cartilage crush. Before even waiting for the other to fall, he turned, righted his chair, and resumed his seat facing Nadine, his breath coming only inconsiderably faster than before.
Her eyes were wide, but she hadn’t organized herself as yet to the point of either protest or praise.
The maître d’ was at their table. “Sir——” he began.
Joe said curtly, “This barroom brawler attacked me. I’m surprised you allow your patrons to get into the shape he is. Please bring our bill.”
The head waiter stuttered, his eyes going about in despair, even as his assistants were lifting the fallen champion to his feet and hustling him away.
An occupant of one of the nearby tables spoke up, collaborating Joe’s words. The action had been fast, though brief, and had won the fascinated attention of that half of the patrons of the Exclusive Room near enough to see. Somebody else called out, too. And it came to Joe cynically, that a brawl in an establishment exclusive to Uppers, differed little from on of Middle or even Lower caste.
But it was impossible that they remain. He had loo
ked forward to this evening with Nadine Haer, had planned to lay the foundations for a future campaign, when, as a newly created Upper, he would be in the position to mention marriage. He fumed, inwardly, even as he helped her with her wrap, preparatory to leaving.
Nadine, now that she had recovered composure, said coldly, “I suppose you realize you broke that man’s nose and injured his eye to an extent I’d have to examine him to evaluate?”
Behind her, he rolled his eyes upward in mute protest. He said, “What was I supposed to do, hand him a rose from our table bouquet?”
“Violence is the resort of the incompetent.”
“You must tell that, some time, to a jungle animal being attacked by a lion.”
“Oh, you’re impossible!”
III
When Freddy Soligen entered his living room, he automatically switched off the Telly screen which was the entire north wall. The room’s lights automatically went brighter.
His perpetual air of sour cynicism was absent as he chuckled to the room’s sole inhabitant, “What! A son of mine gawking at Telly? Next I’ll be finding tranks by the bowl full, sitting on the tea table.”
His son grinned at him. Already, at the ago of sixteen, Samuel Soligen was a good three inches taller than his father, at least ten pounds heavier. The boy was bright of eye, toothy of smile, gawky as only a teen-ager can be gawky, and obviously the proverbial apple of his father’s eye.
Sam said, the faintest note of apology in his tone, “Just finished my assignments, Papa. Thought I’d see if there was anything worthwhile on the air.”
“An incurable optimist,” Freddy chuckled. “You take after your mother. Believe me, Sam. There’s never anything worthwhile on Telly.”
“Not even when you’re casting?”
“Especially when I’m casting, boy. What’ve you been getting at the Temple school these days? Zen! I’ve been so busy on a special project I’ve been working on, I haven’t had time to keep check on whether or not you’re even still living here.”
The boy shrugged, picked up an apple from the sideboard and began to munch. His voice was disinterested. “Aw, Comparative Religion, mostly. We gotta go way back and study about the Greeks and the Triple-Goddess, and then the Olympians, and all that curd.”
“Hey, watch your language, Sam. Remember, you’re going to wind up a priest.”
“Yeah,” the boy grumbled, “that’ll be the day. You ever heard of a Lower becoming a full priest? I’ll be lucky if I ever get to monk.”
Freddy Soligen sat down suddenly, across from his son, and his voice lost its edge of good-natured humor and became deadly serious. “Listen, son. You were born a High-Lower, just like your father. Unfortunately, I wasn’t jumped to Low-Middle until after your birth. But you’re not going to stay a High-Lower, any more than I’m going to stay a Low-Middle.”
The boy shrugged, his expression almost surly, now. “Aw, what difference does it make? High-Lower isn’t too bad. It’s sure better than Low-Lower. I got enough stock issued me for anything I’ll ever need. Or, if not, I can work a while, just like you’ve done, and earn a few more shares.”
Freddy Soligen’s face worked, in alarm. “Hey, Sam, listen here. We’ve been over this before, but may be not as thoroughly as we should’ve. Sure, this is People’s Capitalism and on top of that the Welfare State; they got all sorts of fancy names to call it. You’ve got cradle to the grave security. Instead of waiting for old age, or thirty years of service, or something, to get your pension, it starts at birth. At long last, the jerks have inherited the earth.”
The boy said plaintively, as though in objection to his father’s sneering words. “You aren’t talking against the government, or the old time way of doing things, are you Papa? What’s wrong with what we got? Everybody’s got it made. Nobody hasta—”.
His father was impatiently waving a hand at him in negation. “No, everybody doesn’t have it made. Almost everybody’s bogged down. That’s the trouble Sam. The guts have been taken out of us. And ninety-nine people out of a hundred don’t care. They’ve got bread and butter security. They’ve got trank to keep them happy. And they’ve got the fracases to watch, the sadistic, gory death of others to keep them amused, and their minds off what’s really being done to them. We’re not part of that ninety-nine out of a hundred, Sam. We’re two of those who aren’t jerks. We’re on our way up out of the mob, to where life can be full. Got it, son? A full life. Doing things worth doing. Thinking things worth thinking. Associating with people who have it on the ball.”
He had come to his feet in his excitement and was pacing before the boy who sat now, mouth slightly agape at his father’s emphasis.
“Sam, listen. I’m getting along. Already in my forties, and I never did get much education back when I was your age. Maybe I’ll never make it. But you can. That’s why I insisted you switch categories. You were born into Communications, like me, but you’ve switched to Religion. Why’d you think I wanted that?”
“Aw, I don’t know, Papa. I thought maybe—”.
His father snorted. “Look, son, I haven’t spent as much time with you as I should. Especially since your mother left us. She just couldn’t stand what she called my being against everything. She was one of the jerks, Sam—”.
“You oughtn’ta talk about my mother that way,” Sam said sullenly.
“All right, all right. I just meant that she was willing to spend her life sucking on trank, watching Telly, and living on the pittance income from the unalienable stock shares issued her at birth. But let’s get to this religious curd. Son, whatever con man first thought up the idea of gods put practically the whole human race on the sucker list. You say they’re giving you comparative religion in your classes at the Temple now, eh? O.K., have you ever heard of a major religion where the priests didn’t do just fine for themselves?”
“But Papa.… Well, shucks, there’s always been—”
“Certainly, certainly, individuals. Crackpots, usually, out of tune with the rest of the priesthood. But the rank and file do pretty well for themselves. Didn’t you point out earlier that a Lower, in our society, never makes full priest? Not to speak of bishop, or ultra-bishop. They’re Uppers, part of the ruling hierarchy.”
“Well, what’s all this got to do with me getting into Category Religion? I’d think it’d be more fun in Communications, like you. Gee, Papa, going around meeting all those famous—”
Freddy Soligen’s face worked. “Look, son. Sure, I meet lots of people on top. But the thing is, eventually you’re going to become one of those people, not just interview them.” He began pacing again in nervous irritation.
“Sam, those on top want to stay there. Like always. They freeze things so they, and their kids, will remain on top. In our case, they’ve made it all but impossible for anybody to progress from the caste they were born in. Not impossible, but almost. They’ve got to allow for the man with extraordinary ability, like, to bust out to the top, if he’s got it on the ball. Otherwise, there’d be an explosion.”
“That’s not the way they say in school.”
“It sure isn’t. The story is that anybody can make Upper-Upper if he has the ability. But the thing is, Sam, you can’t make a jerk realize he’s a jerk. If he sees somebody else rise in caste, he can’t see why he shouldn’t. That’s why real rising has been restricted to Category Military and Category Religion. In the military, a man gives up his security, obviously, and if he’s a jerk he dies.
“In Category Religion they’ve got another way to sort out the jerks and make sure they never get further than monk and beyond the caste of High-Lower. Gods always work in mysterious ways and anybody in Category Religion who doesn’t have faith in the wisdom of the God’s mysterious choices of who to ordain and who to reject, obviously shows that he’s not really got the true faith which is, of course, essential to a priest, not to speak of bishop or ultra-bishop. So obviously, the Gods were wise in rejecting him. In simpler words, the would-be priest who sim
ply hasn’t got what it takes, can be given the heave-ho without it being necessary for him, or his family or friends, to understand why. It’s all very simple; he lacked the humility essential in a priest of the Gods, as proven by his rebellious reaction.”
Sam said, unhappily, “I don’t get all this.”
Freddy Soligen came to a pause before the boy, sat down again abruptly and patted his son’s knee. “You’re young, Sam. Too young to understand some of it. Trust your father. Stick to your studies now. You have to get the basic gobbledygook. But you’re on your way up the ladder, son. I’ve got a deal cooking that’s going to give us an in. Can’t tell you about it now, but it’s going to mean an important break for us.”
It was then that the door announced, “Major Joseph Mauser, calling on Fredric Soligen.”
IV
Joe Mauser shook hands with the Telly reporter in an abrupt, impatient manner.
Freddy said, “Major, I’d like to introduce my son, Samuel. Sam, this is Major Joe Mauser. You don’t follow the fracases, but the major’s one of the best mercenaries in the field.”
Sam scrambled to his feet and shook hands. “Gee, Joe Mauser.”
Joe looked at him questioningly. “I thought you didn’t follow the fracases.”
Sam grinned awkwardly. “Well, gee, you can’t miss picking up some stuff about the fighting. All the other guys are buffs.”
Joe said to Freddy, “Could I speak to you alone?”
“Certainly, certainly. Sam, run along the major and I have business.”
When the boy was gone, Joe sank into a chair and looked up at the Telly reporter accusingly. He said, “This fancy uniform, I stood still for. That idea of picking a song to identify me with and bribing the orchestra leaders to swing into it whenever I enter some restaurant or nightclub, might have its advantages. Getting me all sorts of Telly interviews, between fracases, and all those write-ups in the fracas buff magazines, I can see the need for, in spite of what it’s costing. But what in Zen”—his voice went dangerous—“was the idea of sticking that punch-drunk prizefighter on me in the most respectable nightclub in Greater Washington?”
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 87