The Fracas Factor

by Mack Reynolds

  Joe looked around at the hundreds of persons, ninety-five percent male, packed into the place, and then back to Jesus Zavala. He said. “Do you mean this is the quiet place where we can talk?”

  The other smiled. “My dear Señor Mauser, have you ever been anywhere more conducive to secret conversation than a popular businessman’s restaurant at lunch time? In this babble, no one will hear us, or bother to try. Over this babble, our voices could not be heard at the next table.”

  Joe grunted in acceptance. “I guess you’re right.”

  As they waited for their dishes, Zavala said, “Now, then, the purpose of your visit. You say that you come from national headquarters.”

  Joe Mauser nodded. “Evidently, you were contacted by one of our rank-and-file members here in Mexico City. He reported that you were one of the leaders of a loosely-organized local group which had independently come to much the same conclusions that our larger organization has.”

  Zavala looked at him. “That seems true. Have you ever drunk tequila?”

  “Yes,” Joe said, repressing an inner wince.

  “No,” Max said.

  The dentist snapped his fingers at a scurrying waiter, who hurried over.

  Their host ordered in Spanish, then said to his guests, “The tequila they have here is unlike anything that I know of in Mexico.”

  The waiter came scurrying back with a bottle of golden colored liqueur. From old and hard experience, so far as Joe Mauser was concerned, tequila was as white as vodka or gin. A plate of quartered limes and a shaker of salt came with it.

  Joe didn’t want to lose points with his host. He said to Max, “Now this is how you do it. You pour yourself a sizeable slug of the tequila. Then you take up the salt and sprinkle a bit of it on the back of your hand. You lick the salt and then take up your tequila and knock it back in one quick, stiff-wristed motion. Then, real quick, you pick up a quarter of the lime and bite into it-before you die.”

  Jesus Zavala laughed appreciatively. “With this tequila, you won’t die.”

  They went through the performance, and didn’t die. Zavala had been correct. This tequila must have been laid down in the stone age. Joe, in his experiences on the Mexican military reservations, had never tasted anything so smooth. It reminded him of French cognac.

  “Hey,” Max said. “You could build up a taste for this here guzzle.” He poured himself another.

  The dentist cleared his throat before saying, “Ah, the aging has made it smooth, but it is nevertheless potent.”

  “Yeah,” Max said happily. “And that’s what I need. Something potent. This morning me and Joe was out in the desert with five men shooting at us.”

  Jesus Zavala stiffened somewhat and looked at Joe.

  Joe Mauser said, “Evidently, the party is getting a little rough. Surely you didn’t expect it not to get rough. You don’t play at revolution.”

  “When my friends and I began to get together and discuss alternatives to People’s Capitalism we weren’t thinking in terms of violence,” Zavala said.

  “We aren’t either,” Joe told him, “if we can avoid it; But possibly we can’t. Somebody was pointing out to me just the other day that individuals among a ruling class, clique or caste, might be converted to a basic change. An extreme example is die fact that Karl Marx and Frederick Engels were both upper class: Engels, in particular, was a wealthy manufacturer. But the ruling class as a whole invariably refuses to step down to make way for a new socioeconomic system. A socioeconomic system like a living organism does not want to die and will do anything in its power to continue to live.”

  “Then your organization does advocate force and violence to overthrow People’s Capitalism, the Ultra-Welfare State?” Zavala said, somewhat coldly.

  Their food had arrived then and they held their peace until the waiter had served them and departed.

  When he was gone, Joe said, “Force, but not necessarily violence.”

  Jesus Zavala looked at him questioningly.

  Joe tasted the dish the dentist had recommended. It was the whitefish that grow only in Mexico’s Lake Patzcuaro. He decided it was the most delicate fish he had ever sampled.

  He said, “You can have force without violence. For instance, when a majority of the people vote for something they are exerting a force. Suppose you combine the two. You organize everybody in the country you can who still works and votes. You would have a lot of force to bring to bear, but you wouldn’t be advocating violence and consequently present laws couldn’t get to you.”

  The dentist pursed his lips. “But suppose the other side, the ruling class which doesn’t want to step down, in short, the Uppers, resorted to violence?”

  Joe nodded. “Forming such organizations as the Nathan Hale Society. Then we’d have to take whatever steps seemed necessary. But keep in mind that the Uppers number less than one percent of the population. And even some of them will undoubtedly come over to us. In fact, some already have.” He took another bite of the delicious fish. “I’m a Low-Upper, for instance.”

  Zavala was surprised. “You are?” He scowled, then added, “I’m an Upper Middle.”

  Joe nodded again. “Actually, I was born a Lower and slowly worked my way up in the Category Military to Mid-Middle. After my court-martial I was chosen to go on a semi-espionage assignment to the Sov-world. To give me prestige in the eyes of the Sovs, who are even more status-symbol conscious than our Upper caste, I was bounced to Low-Upper.”

  Max said happily, “This is the best meat I ever laid a lip over.” He took another pull at his beer.

  The Mexican said to Joe, “How would you sum up your goals?”

  “It’s all in our passwords,” Joe answered. “Progress, it must be resumed. Our society is in a rut. The Uppers don’t want change. You start allowing changes and they’ll get out of hand. They don’t want to rock the boat, upset the applecart. So any changes at all are frowned upon. Projects such as the space program have been discontinued, along with practically all scientific research. However, automation and computerization have enabled us to solve the problems of production with a minimum of labor. In fact, nine out of ten of the population, largely Lowers, are unemployed and live on the Ultra-Welfare State. That’s got to end. A society that utilizes only one tenth of its labor power is obviously static and slated for the dust heap. Rome is a good example. The Roman proletariat was given free food and free circuses to keep them amused. They were in complete idleness while slaves did the work.”

  “And we have much the same situation today,” Zavala mused. “We give our people shares of Inalienable Basic Common Stock, which they cannot sell, even if they wish to. All their lives they collect their dividends from it Then we give them the drug trank, non-additive, non-physically harmful, to keep them in a continual happy daze. And on top of that we give them all the violence they want on telly.”

  “That’s right,” Joe said. “Unfortunately, among those tens of millions of largely uneducated Lowers are undoubtedly potential geniuses in science, the arts, and technology.”

  The other took off his glasses, brought forth a handkerchief, and polished them. He kept his eyes on Joe, questioningly. “And how are you coming, thus far in your program?”

  Joe Mauser shrugged. “At this point, the mass organization hasn’t begun to form as yet. What we’re doing is gathering cadres, getting together basic groups who will one day become teachers. That’s why I’ve been sent down here. Thus far, we’ve only got a few members in this city. If you have a group that will come over to us, then we’ve taken a good step in Mexico City.”

  The other nodded and took the last bite of the Pacific crayfish he had ordered. He said, “To go back a little. You pointed out that ninety percent of our people have been displaced by the automation and computerization of our industries. You pointed out that a progressive society must utilize its manpower. Very well, what work can you give them?”

  “There’s other work besides industry,” Joe told him. “We no lo
nger have to do much in the way of the old drudgery. But there are the arts, the sciences, advanced technology. Once again, things like space. We’re stagnating. We’ve got to get back under way again. There are still diseases that we haven’t licked as yet. We still have one helluva way to go to really beautify this continent. Given this new society we’re working for, the education program alone would be staggering. Under People’s Capitalism, the Lowers and even to a certain extent the Low-Middles and Mid-Middles have deliberately been uneducated. An educated man is a dangerous man. Of the lower castes, only the Upper-Middles have the opportunity to get a really adequate education. After all, somebody has to run the country, and most of the Uppers are too damn lazy or stupid to do it.”

  Max sighed in satisfaction and put down his knife and fork. “What’ve you two been talking about?” he said.

  Joe looked at him and shook his head in despair. “Women,” he said. “Mopsies.”

  They had finished eating. The restaurant’s customers were beginning to thin out. Their host motioned to a waiter and requested cigars. Another waiter cleared the table.

  Max said expansively, “I’m an authority. You shoulda consulted me.”

  Zavala looked over at him and said, “You mentioned being shot at by five men in the desert. What happened?”

  “Damned if I know,” Max said plaintively. “It happened too confusing for me to ever figure it all out. Joe, here, finished them off.”

  The Mexican looked at Joe Mauser in awe. He said, “All of them? Five?”

  Joe said, “It was pure luck. Rattlesnakes took some of them. By the way, they didn’t look like Mexicans. The best way I can figure it, they were sent from Greater Washington to finish me-and Max, of course. Which would indicate an organization opposed to ours. And, to be frank, that indicates in turn that there is danger in belonging to our outfit. You should consider…”

  “We Mexicans are not cowards, Señor Mauser,” Zavala said stiffly. “The fact that gunmen might be sent against us will not alter our decision whether or not to join you.”

  “Of course not,” Joe said hurriedly. “By the way, how many are there in your organization?”

  “We started as an informal discussion group of about ten of my friends and colleagues.”

  “Only ten?” Joe said in disappointment.

  “But our number has now swollen to over two hundred.”

  “Two hundred!”

  “Yes. All are of Middle caste, except one. Since we are a democratic organization, it will be necessary that you meet and address them, and that we put to a vote whether or not to amalgamate with you.”

  “Meet two hundred? I’m in a hurry to get back to Greater Washington to report that my hovercar is missing. It was destroyed in the fight. I want it to seem that it was stolen. It is impractical for it to come out that I’ve been in Mexico City.”

  “It’s no problem,” the dentist told him, scratching his little beard. “I mentioned that all of us are Middles save one. He is a Mid-Upper and owns an extensive hacienda. The banquet hall is sufficient in size to contain us all. You can address us, and then we will take our vote.”

  “Wizard,” Joe said. “Now, here’s a problem. I want to refrain from using my, or Max’s, universal credit card. But we must have quarters tonight and somebody to buy us airline tickets for Greater Washington tomorrow. Under assumed names, obviously.”

  “That, my friend, is no problem,” the dentist said. “One of us is a travel agent and can handle all the red tape.” He came to his feet. “Shall we return to my office? I will take the steps to call the meeting for tonight and will then drive you to our Mid-Upper’s mansion. Without doubt, he will gladly put you up tonight, after the meeting.”

  He put his credit card in the table’s payment slot, while Joe and Max also tossed their napkins to the table and stood.

  Max took one last look at the Pancho Villa mural as they left. He said, admiringly, “They musta really had fracases in them days.”

  Chapter Five

  The meeting in the hacienda of the Mexican Mid-Upper had been a roaring success. Joe had talked for about two hours, in all, and then had a question period that extended well into the night. The fact was that they had already come to most of the conclusions that Joe’s organization had. He had only to clear them up on a few points.

  Jesus Zavala, obviously well respected in the group, had explained it to Joe after the others had left, save for their host, of course.

  He had said, “When a basic politico-economic change is needed, it isn’t just one group that comes along and advocates the change. A dozen, a score, of individuals and groups of varying sizes suddenly materialize, each independently of the others. If there is a truth, it will come to more than one, or more than a few. There will be student groups, possibly women’s groups, all spontaneously heading in the same direction. As things come to a head, obviously they will unite and achieve victory together. That is what happened here in Mexico City. We had never even heard of your organization based in Greater Washington, but we arrived at the same conclusions you had a bit earlier. The only thing that makes sense is for our two groups to amalgamate.”

  Yes, the meeting was a roaring success and the Mexicans had voted unanimously to align themselves with Hodgson’s and Holland’s underground movement. Joe hadn’t revealed the names of the two ultimate leaders; contact would be made by lower-echelon members, such as Joe Mauser. The fewer who knew the identity of the two men who had worked their way up to the highest levels of the government of the United States of the Americas, the better.

  He and Max spent the night at the hacienda, and in the morning they took the two airline tickets that were secured for them, in assumed names, and were driven to the airport. After high sounding tributes from their host and Jesus Zavala, they took their places in the shuttle rocket to Greater Washington.

  “Zen!” Max said. “I never been on one of these before. All I been in is jets and not too very often.”

  “They’re faster,” Joe said laconically. “You get there in a few minutes. In fact, you get there before your heart comes down from out of your throat.”

  At the shuttle-port in Greater Washington they took a double-seater vacuum-tube transport capsule and emerged in the closet-like terminal in their own apartment.

  Joe and Max were living together in a two-bedroom apartment superior to anything either of them had ever called home before. Joe had only recently been raised to the rarified altitudes of being a Low-Upper and had hence had his Inalienable Basic stock augumented considerably. And even Max’s had been increased somewhat upon his reaching Mid-Lower status. But on top of this, Hodgson and Holland had seen that they acquired additional shares of Variable Basic, supposedly as a result of their trip to Budapest. What they had really done there, the higher ups would never know. Phil Holland had cooked up an entirely fictitious report.

  At any rate, they split the costs of the apartment, two-thirds from Joe, who had it to splurge, and one-third from Max. In actuality, they had never figured out why. Max had started as Joes batman in the Vacuum Tube Transport versus Continental Hovercraft affair, and then continued on with him after that fracas was over. But now that Joe Mauser was no longer in the Category Military, Max remained on. In a way he performed like a servant, but in other ways he seemed more a companion, an assistant, a friend. Neither of them attempted to define their relationship.

  Joe went into the living room and to the autobar and dialed himself a Cooler.

  He said to Max, over his shoulder, “Drink?”

  “Sure. You think they got any of that there tequila, up here?”

  “I would imagine so. Straight, or a Margarita?”

  “What’s a Margarita?”

  “Mixed drink. Tequila, Cointreau, lime juice, salt on the rim of the glass. Makes a good cocktail.”

  “I’ll take it straight, like we had in the restaurant in Mexico City yesterday.”

  Joe dialed for him and when the drinks had arrived, he went o
ver to a comfort chair and sat down, after bringing his transceiver from his pocket. He dialed Doctor Nadine Haer, his fiancée.

  Her face lit up on the small screen of the portable tellyphone and she said, “Darling! I thought that you were out of town.”

  “I was,” he told her. “We just got back. I’ve got quite a report to make.”

  She said, “FH is up in New York but PH is due at my house this evening. You could meet him there.”

  “Good. I don’t like to go to either of their offices too often. Might begin to raise comment.”

  She said, “Look darling. You caught me driving along in a hovercab. I’m quite near your place. Why don’t you go downstairs to the curb and wait for me and we’ll go to lunch together at the Swank Room? We’ll work up an appetite walking over. It’s a lovely day.”

  “My arm has been twisted. I’m always forgetting that now that I’m an Upper, I’m eligible to enter the Swank Room. However, I’m a little on the grimy side. Wait for me in the lobby. I’ll take a quick shower and get a change of clothes and be right down.”

  “Wizard. See you, darling.” Her face faded.

  Max was scowling into his glass. He grumbled, “This isn’t as good as the stuff the doc bought us in Mexico City.”

  Joe Mauser went into his bedroom and cleaned up in record time.

  Back in the living room he said to Max, “I’m going to lunch with Nadine. Why don’t you take the balance of the day off?”

  “Sure, Boss.”

  In the lobby, Joe came up on Nadine Haer while she was watching a broadcast of the news. It came to him, all over again, how unbelievably pretty she was. In the past, he had thought that her features were more delicate than those to whom he was usually attracted and that her lips were less full. But he had changed that opinion after falling in love with her. She was dressed beautifully, which was understandable in view of the fact that she held a sizeable chunk of the stock of Vacuum Tube Transport, currently one of the hottest transport corporations in the country. Not to speak of her dividends from Inalienable Basic issued to a Mid-Upper.