‘I’ll work on it,’ Joe said. “Only remember that I have damn little background or experience except in the world of the fracases.”
“Okay,” Holland said. “I’ve got to get back to the office.” He smiled cynically. “And do the work of the Upper who is supposedly our Minister of Foreign Affairs.”
When he was gone, Nadine stood and came over to Joe. She took his hand and said impishly, “Come along.”
She seemed a different Nadine than the one he had known. Mystified, he came to his feet and let her lead him. She led him upstairs to what was obviously her bedroom. She closed the door behind her and faced him.
At this time of day? he thought. But then, who was he to argue? This was the woman he loved.
She said, demurely, “I told you that I wasn’t promiscuous, and not very experienced. But I’ve found out one thing that men seem to like.”
“So have I,” he told her, reaching for her.
“Not that, silly,” she said. “Something preliminary to that.”
And then she did something that couldn’t have surprised him more. She put her hand down to his trousers and, looking him full in the eyes, unzippered them and put her hand inside.
“Lets get to bed,” he said.
Still holding onto his penis, which was rapidly welling to full erection, she led him to the bed and sat him down.
“I know another preliminary trick,” she said.
“What?”
“Men like a bit of a show,” she told him. “You watch while I undress.”
He sat there, still exposed, his erection complete now, while she undressed. She undressed slowly, walking up and down the room a bit, gracefully, languidly, as she removed garment after garment. Finally, she was down to silk briefs and her fairly high-heeled Etruscan-revival shoes.
She turned her back and stepped out of her undergarment. He saw the pink roundness of her magnificent buttocks, the tapered wonder of her perfect legs. She turned around, her arms relaxed along her sides, her palms toward him, as though offering herself. She smiled simply. Her pubic hair was softly red, and she was well endowed with it. Her belly was only slighdy rounded, femininely so. Her breasts, as he knew from having seen her in a bathing suit, were full and set a bit wider apart than usual. The coral pink tips of the nipples had already begun to harden in anticipation of the mating to come.
“She said softly, “Do you still want me?”
He began to tear out of his own clothes, working around the hardened shaft which still protruded from his pants.
She laughed softly, stretched out on the bed. She looked absolutely wanton.
When he was as nude as she, he hurried to her side.
She smiled at him mischievously—this was most certainly a different creature from the intense, dedicated Nadine Haer he thought he knew.
She laughed and said, “Let me get on top the first time. I’m as excited as you are. Besides, I’m of the belief that early in a relationship between man and woman, the woman should assert her dominance.”
In this position, he could do little of the motion, but she performed enough for both of them. She came to her first orgasm almost immediately, rolled her eyes upward, and moaned in the ecstacy. Seeing her so almost brought him to his own climax, but he held it. In a moment, she increased her pace again.
Nadine came twice again. Then he could no longer hold it and began to writhe in his own agony of pleasure.
Chapter Seven
In the morning, they reluctantly separated temporarily to go about the tasks Philip Holland had set them. Nadine was going to locate Doctor Lawrence Mitfield of the Sons of Liberty, but Joe Mauser had someone else immediately in prospect. She took one of the Haer hoverlimousines into town, but Joe chose to utilize a vacuum-tube transport capsule and dial directly through to the apartment which was his destination.
He had dialed for the capsule at the terminal in Nadine’s living room, and when the small light had flickered on the door of the closet-like terminal, he opened it and wedged himself into the small two-seated vehicle. He pulled the canopy over him, buckled the belt, and then dropped the pressure lever. He dialed his destination after putting his universal credit card in the payment slot.
He could feel the sinking, elevator sensation that meant his capsule was dropping to tube level to be caught up by the computerized controls and shuttled back and forth through the mazes of a vacuum-tube transport labyrinth, before being shot to his basic destination. In a few moments the capsule came to a halt, and Joe closed his eyes in anticipation. He might be an old hand in combat but he hated that initial thrust in the vacuum-tube as much as the next man. He wondered if anybody ever got used to it.
He sank back into the pressure seat, then slowly forward again, straining against the safety belt. He was headed for the section of Greater Washington that had formerly been known as Baltimore. He arrived in minutes. The shuttling began again and he had to go through a few small traversing shots, which meant nothing so far as strain was concerned. Finally, he felt the capsule rising, and shortly a green light flashed on the dash. He undid the belt, killed the pressurizer, slid the canopy back, and said into the terminal’s identity screen, “Joe Mauser, calling on Freddy Soligen.”
The door opened almost immediately and Joe Mauser walked into the living room of the telly cameraman.
Freddy was heading for him, his usually cynical news broadcasters face twisted in pleasure. He was a small man, as small and as feisty as Max Mainz. He was a Low-Middle, Category Communications, Subdivision Telly, Branch Fracas News, Rank Senior Reporter. It had been through Joe that he had gotten his bounce up from Upper-Lower to Low-Middle. He had been with Joe in the glider, covering the fracas which had led to Joe’s court martial. As a reporter, not a combatant, he had won kudos while Joe had been clobbered.
He shook hands, saying, “Joel Zen, it’s good to see you. I caught that duel you had with the Hungarian. For awhile there you were really in the dill. I thought the bulletproof Joe Mauser was going to finally cop his last one.”
Joe had to laugh, even as he shook. “Bulletproof,” he said. “I’ve got so many holes in me I look like an open door. How’s it going, Freddy?”
The other led him back to the king-size telly screen in one corner, saying, “I don’t know, Joe. I’m thinking of switching out of Branch Fracas News.”
Joe looked at him in surprise. Freddy Soligen was the best man in his field. While the other telly cameramen were crouched in their cement pillboxes, covering a fracas in safety, Freddy was usually out there in the thick of it, getting authentic closeups right in the middle of a pickled situation. Largely, mercenaries were contemptuous of the telly cameramen, but Freddy was respected by all. When they got into the dill, Freddy was in there with them and in his time he had copped one several times. Even top men like former Field Marshal Stonewall Cogswell and General Jack Altshuler respected him.
As they approached the telly set, and Joe had been surprised to find Freddy watching it, a man in uniform stood up from the comfort chair in which he had been hidden. He was in the uniform of an unassigned Rank Private of the Category Military. Calling him a man was stretching a point. He was about seventeen, bright of eye, toothy of smile, gawky as only a teenager can be gawky. It was Sam Soligen, Freddy’s son.
He said, “Hello, Major Mauser,” and held out his hand somewhat hesitantly, as though an old pro like Joe Mauser might think it beneath him to shake with a tyro such as Sam Soligen in the Category Military.
“Nice to see you again, Sam,” Joe said warmly. He had met the boy twice before. Joe had gone into the Category Military at the same age himself.
Freddy said, “Sit down, Joe. Could I get you a beer or something?”
“No thanks.”
Joe Mauser looked at the boy. He said, “How’d it go?” He was relieved to see Sam at all. In the mercenary trade, if you lasted six months, you had a chance. Many, if not most, didn’t. It was the tyros who copped their final ones, often the first
time out. The veterans knew how to protect themselves, how to stay out of the dill. The longer you stayed in the Category Military, the better chance you had of surviving. You learned the ropes. Besides that, the older hands took care of each other. When the situation pickled, you sent some of the young lads in, not your old buddies. It wasn’t fair, perhaps, but it was reality.
Sam said, “Aw, it was nothing. I wasn’t in the dill at all. All I did was march and dig entrenchments for the whole fracas. I never did get close enough to the enemy lads to shoot at them or be shot at. I’ve never done so much digging in my life. And as soon as we’d get one trench dug, the fighting would move to some other part of the military reservation, and they’d march us off and put us to digging again. Some fracas.”
Both Joe and the boy’s father laughed.
Freddy said, “Sam, you don’t know when you’re lucky. You got your pay, didn’t you?”
“Sure, one share of Variable Basic and a bonus because our side won. But I didn’t join the Category Military to dig holes.”
Joe said earnestly, “Sam, if you’re going to survive in your category you’ve got to do everything you can to stay out of pickled situations. The world is full of dead heroes, or would-be heroes. When you sign up for a fracas, try to get a job behind the lines, in logistics, in an office, or, at worst, as an officer’s orderly, or even a messenger.”
The boy frowned. “But you’d never get a promotion or a bounce in caste that way.”
“No, but you’d stay alive.”
Sam said, “Well, gee, Major, that’s not the way you did it. I used to watch the fracases you were in, especially when Popper was casting them. You were getting into the dill all the time. And you got promoted all the way up to major and to Upper paste.”
Joe nodded and said, “Yes, that’s true, although I didn’t make Low-Upper until after I was thrown out of Category Military. You see, Sam, I was ambitious. The big thing I wanted in life was to become a member of the Upper caste. For fifteen years I fought my way up, taking chances. When I finally got to the top, I found it wasn’t worth it. And along the way, one by one, my closest friends copped one, the final one. I can’t think of a single friend remaining since the days when I first joined up. They’re either dead or retired as a result of their wounds. No, lad, if you must remain in the category, play it safe. Perhaps you won’t reap much glory, whatever that is, but at least you’ll live, and share by share you’ll accumulate Variable stock.”
“It’s good advice, Son,” Freddy Soligen said. “I was the same as the Major, here. I was ambitious to get bounces in caste. So I’d get right out there in the middle of a fracas and give the buffs real coverage with my camera. It’s a miracle that I’m still alive. And after all these years, where am I? A Low-Middle—and it’s unlikely I’ll ever get any higher.” He looked at Joe. “That’s why I told you I was thinking of getting out of the Branch Fracas News.”
Joe said, “A job’s a job these days, Freddy, and with your reputation you must pull down pretty good pay. Why don’t you just take it easy and stay in the pillboxes like the other reporters? You’d have your work cut out getting a position in any other field. There just aren’t any jobs any more, since practically everything’s become automated.”
“That’s part of it, too,” Freddy told him. “I want to get in on the ground floor of another branch of Category Communications before half of the telly reporters in the country make the same decision. Joe, the fracas is on its way out.”
Joe eyed him. “What’re you talking about?”
“That last one you and I were in together with Marshal Stonewall Cogswell. I wouldn’t be surprised if that wasn’t the last divisional magnitude fracas ever to be fought. Haven’t you noticed? Most of even the largest ones these days are usually no more than regimental magnitude, and usually smaller. A lot of them are fought between only companies of lads. The fact of the matter is that the corporations and unions who fight them are bleeding themselves white. They’re too damned expensive. A king-size fracas costs tens of millions of dollars to mount. Get yourself into two or three a year, and you’re bankrupt.”
Joe said, “Wizard, but the people, especially the Lowers, demand their bread and circuses—their dividends from their Inalienable Basic Stock and their telly fracases. They’d be up in arms if either of them were restricted.”
Freddy looked at his wrist chronometer and said, “Yeah, but I didn’t say they’d eliminate gore on telly, just that they’re cutting back on the fracases.”
Joe scowled at him in puzzlement.
The telly cameraman said, “Have you ever watched any of these new gladiator meets?” He reached out and switched on the telly set.
“Hell, no,” Joe Mauser said in disgust. “And I’m not about to begin. I’ve seen enough blood and guts to last me the rest of my life.”
“I watch them,” Sam said. “They’re wizard. They fight with the old weapons, like the Romans used to use.”
As the scene faded in, Freddy said, “Watch this one, Joe, just for the experience. I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, later.”
Joe shrugged and resigned himself. He wanted to watch a couple of present day gladiators hack each other apart about as much as he wanted to have his left ear shot off.
It was all new to Joe Mauser. He had heard about these mushrooming gladiator amphitheaters, but had been contemptuous of the whole idea. In his time, he had followed a full-scale fracas on telly, usually because some close friend was involved and he was agonizing over the other’s safety. He had also watched some of the major fracases simply because he wished to study the tactics of some commanding officer whom he was going to be up against in the future. He had never in his life watched one for pleasure. Joe Mauser, who had for so many years dealt in death, found no pleasure in it. But he knew no one in these gladiator “games” and had no connection with them whatsoever. And he had no interest in them whatsoever. Let the drooling telly watchers follow them. It wasn’t for Joe.
Onto the screen faded the arena, which turned out to be approximately the size of a bullring in a smaller Mexican or Spanish city. By the looks of the stands, Joe estimated that the amphitheater would seat about five thousand, so that all could be near enough to the combat to get a good view. Joe could make out five telly camera crews on the arena barrera. That would mean six in all, counting the camera they were now utilizing on Freddy’s set. Joe imagined that there was a director in charge of deciding what camera to use at any given time. Freddy was obviously knowledgeable about the whole thing and gave a running description of what was going on. The stands were packed with yelling, cheering fans. In the sand-strewn arena were three pairs of fighters, just about to go into action.
“Secutors and Retiarius,” Freddy explained. “The Retiarius are the ones with the nets. The whole thing goes back to Roman days.”
The Retiarius wore no armor and carried only a tridents as a weapon. The Secutors wore helmets, carried swords and shields, and wore breastplates, and their right arms and left legs were protected with armor.
Joe said, “I wouldn’t think those netmen would have much of a chance.”
“It’s the other way,” Freddy said. “The odds are five to three against the Secutors. They’re too clumsy in all that armor. They can’t move fast enough to avoid getting netted. Then the Retiarius steps in with his three pronged spear and finishes him off before he can get untangled.”
The camera zoomed in on two of the contestants, who were beginning to square off.
Freddy said, “The netman is a celebrity. Name’s Jones. The gladiator buffs love him, because he puts on a show. They call him Speedy. The other cloddy’s a newcomer. Name’s Rykov, I believe. He hasn’t got much of a chance.”
Joe took in the net. It was fringed with small lead weights, so that when it was thrown it would open to form a circle, which was very similar to a fisherman’s net.
Jones, the Retiarius, waved his trident at the cheering crowd. He obviously liked his moment in the
limelight. Then he came in, making tentative casts with his net. He was obviously an expert with it. Then he pretended to slip and fall, undoubtedly hoping that the swordsman would come running clumsily in, and put himself off balance.
But Rykov wasn’t having any of that, thank you. He had his feet firmly planted and waited for the more active gladiator to come at him.
Jones danced around him, holding his net by one end and slinging it at the swordsman’s feet, evidently hoping to have it wrap around the other’s feet and legs and trip him. Then he suddenly changed his tactics and threw the net in a cast. Rykov turned it with his shield, but one of the lead pellets hit him in the left eye, partially blinding him. The Retiaruis saw his chance and, rushing in, knocked the sword out of his opponent’s hand with his trident.
Both of the men ran for the sword, but the lighter Retiarius got to it first, scooped it up, and tossed it into the stands. Then he returned to finish off his unarmed opponent.
The crowd roared approval.
“Rykov’s had it,” Freddy said.
“Holy Jumping Zen, what a way to go,” Joe Mauser muttered in disgust.
But Jones made the mistake of first showing off with some fancy net casts. Rykov managed to give the trident a kick that sent it flying across the arena. The suddenly frightened Retiarius turned to run after it, but before he could get away Rykov grabbed him by his tunic. As the Retiarius went down on his knees, Rykov gave him a rabbit punch with the edge of his shield and Jones, his neck obviously broken, sank to the sands.
The mob in the stands, shocked by the sudden turnabout and the death of their champion, fell silent. Rykov looked up at them contemptuously. They began to boo him.
Joe said, “Turn the damn thing off.”
“Well, there you are, Major,” Freddy said. “That’s what’s going to take the place of the fracas. And I figure on switching over to handling one of those telly crews. Obviously, it’s a damned sight safer for me than being right in the middle of the combat.”
The Fracas Factor Page 7