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 fo
ur 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.”
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 103