The Fracas Factor

by Mack Reynolds

  “Our cover is really tops, Freddy,” Joe said, finishing his coffee.

  “Who?” Freddy said flatly.

  “That’s top secret,” Joe said reasonably. “Take my word for it. I’m going to see them this morning and tell them about you. They’ll put things to work. I think that you’ll be a telly Rank Commentator before the week is out.”

  Freddy said, “Listen, Joe, I’m not a kid. Before I stick my neck out before the Bureau of Investigation and Category Security, I want to know it’s safe.”

  Joe Mauser made a decision. “Freddy,” he said. “The head of the Bureau of Investigation is one of your covers.”

  Freddy Soligen gaped at him. “You’re drivel-happy, Joe. The head of the Bureau of Investigation is Wallace Pepper. He’s a drunken bum.”

  “Don’t be naive,” Joe sighed. “The real head of the North American Bureau of Investigation is Frank Hodgson. He’s no more than an Upper-Middle, or something like that, but he’s the one who runs the Bureau. Pepper is only an Upper figurehead. The same thing applies to some of our other top members. Philip Holland, for instance, the man behind Harlow Mannerheim, supposedly our Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

  “You mean that you people have infiltrated that far up in the government?” Freddy said in disbelief.

  “Yes,” Joe told him patiently. “How do you think I got to be an Upper? That was a two-caste bounce.”

  Freddy Soligen made a motion of acceptance with his right hand after putting down his cup. “Okay,” he said. “You swing the promotion, Joe, and I’m with you.”

  Joe stood to accompany him to the door. “You look a bit preoccupied, Freddy.”

  Freddy nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Sam has joined up with Stonewall Cogswell’s side in that new fracas between him and Bitter Dave.”

  “Oh?” Joe looked worried. “That’s not so good. I have a feeling those two will really have it out this time. Over the years that grudge between them has been getting worse and worse, not better.”

  “Stonewall will lick him again,” Freddy said, at the door. “He’s licked him four times and he’ll do it again.” He hesitated momentarily before adding, “But not without taking plenty of casualties. Sam’s still a greenhorn as far as the fracases are concerned.”

  Inwardly, Joe agreed with him, but didn’t want to add to the little man’s worries.

  When Freddy Soligen was gone, Joe went over to his transport terminal and dialed for a vacuum-tube capsule. He hoped that he wasn’t holding up the meeting at Nadine’s place but Freddy hadn’t been with him very long. When the two-seater capsule arrived, he got in and dialed directly through to the Haer mansion.

  He emerged in the living room and Nadine came over to welcome him, her lips raised for a kiss. Joe did his best.

  “Hello, darling,” she said.

  Frank Hodgson and Philip Holland were seated side by side on one of the couches. Both rose and shook hands.

  Phil Holland said, “How’d that thing with your man Mainz and the Nathan Hale Society work out? Did I get those changes in his Security dossier worked out in time?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Joe said worriedly. “Max was scheduled to go to their headquarters last night. If you didn’t get the changes done in time, he probably got himself into the soup. Is there any way we can check?”

  “Not that I know of,” Holland said. “Long since, I suppose, we should have planted some of our membership in the Nathan Hale Society, but we didn’t. For one thing, it’s composed almost entirely of Lowers, except for those at the head. And we draw a blank when it comes to Lowers among our membership.”

  The three men reseated themselves.

  “Coffee, anybody?” Nadine said.

  “I just had coffee,” Joe said, but the other two accepted and Nadine left to get it.

  “A complete blank?” Joe said.

  Hodgson said, disgust in his voice, “We don’t have a single Low-Lower in our ranks. We have a few Upper-Lowers, largely men and women who should be Middles, but have been passed over by the Department of Categories when it came to bounces. There’s more and more of that, by the way. It’s getting much more difficult by the month to up your caste. Phil and I can sometimes swing it, as we did in your case, but we can’t stick our necks out too often, or it would become noted.”

  Nadine had returned with a tray of coffee things and put it on the coffee table before them.

  As Hodgson poured, he looked up at her and said, “How did you do with that group on the West Coast, my dear?”

  Nadine shook her head in despair and sank into a chair. “I drew a blank. They were composed largely of Upper-Lowers and especially Middles. They were another group of reformists, not potential revolutionists. What they want most is an easier system of bouncing up in caste level and more Inalienable Basic shares. They’d be more likely to join the Sons of Liberty than our organization.”

  Frank Hodgson looked over at Joe. “It was the same with the Sons of Liberty?”

  “Yes,” Joe told him “It’s evidently composed almost entirely of Middles who want to reform Peoples Capitalism, not overthrow it. They give lip-service to wanting to better the condition of the Lowers as well, but in actuality they’re ambitious Middles wanting to make Upper.”

  Holland said in disgust, “It’s the same old story. The slob element, the Low-Lowers, join the Nathan Hale Society and sing the praises of the Ultra-Welfare State, mainly for the free booze and the opportunity to sadistically club anybody over the head who disagrees with them. The Middles, when they join anything at all, go to some reform outfit in hopes of patching up a socioeconomic system that’s beyond reform. So where is the recruit material? They are Uppers, approximately one percent of the population. But our program is to overthrow them. Some chance of gaining recruits!”

  Joe was as depressed as the others at the defeatest atmosphere. He said, “Somebody mentioned the other day the need for us to recruit members of the mass media. I contacted Freddy Soligen, one of the most veteran of telly reporters. In the past he was Branch Fracas News, but he’s been thinking of switching. When I propositioned him he agreed to come over to us if we get him promoted to Rank Commentator.”

  Holland looked over at Frank Hodgson. He said, “We ought to be able to swing that. Burke, over at Category Communications, owes me a few favors. It wouldn’t hurt us at all to have a Rank Commentator planted in telly. We’re not ready to use him, as yet, but there’ll come a day. For that matter, once this Soligen is in with us we might make other converts in Category Communications. We could use them.”

  Hodgson nodded. “Why don’t you see about it, Phil? If you can’t twist Burke’s arm, let me know. I’ve got some leverage in Category Communications myself.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  After Holland and Hodgson had left, Joe Mauser spent the balance of the day, and the night, too, for that matter, with Nadine Haer. Thus Max Mainz’s efforts to get in touch with him failed. Max wasn’t aware that Nadine had returned to town. Hence he didn’t bother to call the Haer home in his search for Joe.

  Jerry, however, had gotten in touch with him in the middle of the day on the telly phone, and said that they had an assignment for that night.

  “What kind of an assignment?” Max said warily.

  Jerry grinned at him from the screen. “Can’t tell you that over the phone, pal. It’s not much, but you’ll get a share of Variable. Don’t wear the shirt that I issued you, but bring the other thing. Well pick you up in front of your building at eight. Be waiting on the curb.” His face faded from the screen.

  Max continued to stare at the blank telly phone screen. The other thing that Jerry had issued him was a billy club of the type the Minutemen carried. The thing to do was to get in touch with Joe soonest and find out just how to handle this. He had no doubt what the “assignment” was. Somebody was scheduled for a beating.

  But he had no luck in locating Joe. The only other member of Joe’s organization that Max Mainz knew was Nadine Haer, an
d she was out of town. If he refused to go with Jerry, then his cover in the Nathan Hale Society would be blown, Joe wanted him in the Society.

  He decided that perhaps Joe’s tellyphone was on the blink, and left his mini-apartment and took a hovercar over to Joe’s place. Joe wasn’t there, though.

  At the same time, Joe was worriedly trying to get in touch with Max to find out what had happened the night before at the Nathan Hale Society headquarters. When he couldn’t locate Max he gave up and returned to the joys of the woman he loved. He assumed that Max would phone him sooner or later. Either at home or at the Haer mansion.

  Max was on the curb in front of his apartment house when Jerry and another Minuteman drove up in a hovercar. The two were in the front seat, and Jerry was driving. Max climbed into the back. His billy club was in his belt under his jacket.

  Jerry grinned at him and said, “Max Mainz, meet Art Prager. Art’s one of the best in this kinda work. Art, Max is our latest recruit. Category Military, so don’t let his size throw you off. He’s been in the fracases.”

  “Glad to meetcha,” Art said. He was a very rugged-looking character and Max disliked him on sight.

  Max said, “Hi, Art,” and then to Jerry, nonchalantly, “What’s the romp tonight?”

  “Oh, nothin’ important. There’s this here doc belongs to some subversive outfit. Call themselves the Sons of Liberty or something like that. Bunch of kikes and atheists, that sort of shit. He’s some bigshot in the outfit, so we’ve been checking him out and me and Art, here, have got his habits down pat. He walks his dog in the park every night at about nine. Last walk of the day for the pooch.”

  “Dog?” Max said. “They can be trouble. You know, I shot a dog once, three times with a forty-five and it kept coming till it was down on its belly crawling. It was one of these here Dobermans.” Max was lying, but he’d seen a historical war telly show once with a Doberman in it. He was taking a desperate chance of throwing them off.

  Jerry laughed. “This here’s a miniature Poodle and he looks maybe twelve years old. If he sunk his teeth into you, they’d most likely drop out.”

  “You afraid of dogs?” Art said contemptuously.

  Max had to reestablish himself. He said, hotly, “You’re damned right I’m afraid of dogs like Dobermans and German Police. They’re tough and if you ever been up against one of them you know it. But Poodles is another thing.”

  “Okay,” Jerry said, obviously the leader of the assignment. “We got it all staked out. He always goes by a real quiet place, giving the little pooch a chance to piss. We hit him there.”

  “What’da we do?” Max said, trying to keep any apprehension from his voice.

  “What’dya think we do, for Zen’s sake? We work him over a little and let him know he better keep out of criticising the government and associating with kikes and foreigners, or he’ll really get it the next time around. Hell, he’ll probably shit in his pants. He’s an old duffer. Maybe fifty-five or something. Here we are.”

  Jerry had entered the park. Max didn’t even recognize what park it was; there were parks all over Greater Washington. Jerry came to a halt in the cover of a group of trees.

  Max said, still not knowing what it was possible for him to do, “Okay.” Maybe he could come through with something to ease the old guy’s troubles when it came to taking a beating from these goons. One thing was sure. Max wasn’t going to hit the victim. He might fake doing it, if possible, but he wouldn’t hit him.

  Jerry led the way down a path of shale and rock to a silent glade lit softly by the moonlight There was a tall stand of dark trees to the far side with underbrush behind them. Jerry again led the way, and they stood in the shadows. The branches of the trees were twisting against each other in the freshening winds. Max shivered.

  They remained in silence for about five minutes and then Jerry said, “Here he comes. Good old Doc Mitfield, the funker.”

  A middle-aged man had entered the small glade. Max couldn’t make him out too well in the dim light. He was carrying a leash in his hand, but the dog who frisked about his feet was free of its leash.

  “Okay, boys,” Jerry said and stepped out, followed by Art. Max unhappily brought up the rear.

  Doctor Lawrence Mitfield looked up at their approach, frowning. He began to say something, but Jerry and Art brought forth their billies quickly and Jerry slammed the older man across the belly, driving the wind from him and caving him forward. Art stepped in and brought his club down brutally on the doctor’s head, The dog started to bark in a frenzy, but Jerry kicked him, tossing the tiny animal a full ten yards off. The two Minutemen began to beat the fallen doctor unmercifully.

  “Hey, you’ll kill him,” Max said urgently. “He’s already unconscious.”

  “Good idea,” Art snarled. And before Max could believe what he was witnessing, the other had snatched out a snub-nosed revolver from a hip pocket, lowered it, and deliberately shot their victim behind the ear.

  For a moment, Jerry, as well as Max, was stupified.

  “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here,” Jerry said. “The cops…”

  But it was then that two spotlights, from different directions, zeroed-in on them. A voice yelled, “Put ’em up, you funkers! You’re covered!”

  By mere chance, the three ran in differing directions. Art, his gun still in hand, tried to shoot at the spotlights as he went, and a barrage of fire reached out for him.

  He went down with a scream. Jerry was dashing for the path by which they had entered the glade, probably trying to make it back to the car. Whether or not he made it, Max didn’t know. He himself instinctively headed for the hedges and dove into them. All about were heaps of fallen branches and scattered stacks of underbrush left by the park’s clean-up crew. He zigzagged through them and, by so doing, unknowingly threw off the aim of the police behind. He continued to hear shots and the zing of bullets through the air above him.

  He emerged into a shadowed meadow, but already he was panting and could hear sounds of pursuit. Art was possibly dead and Jerry was either shot or captured by now. The police could devote full attention to him.

  He came upon a thick tangle of hawthorn hedges and forced his way through them and into another glade beyond. He still didn’t have the vaguest idea of where he was. So far as he knew, he had never been in this park before, and it seemed to be fairly large. He slowed down to a walk. He could no longer hear them behind him, but if they flushed him again he’d need all of his breath. He couldn’t expend the balance of his strength running madly without direction. He might even be running in a circle.

  He stopped, listened, and could hear the sounds of traffic and made his way in that direction. He emerged at the edge of the park and looked up and down nervously. He crossed the boulevard and then headed down a side street.

  He had to think fast, and well. This was a murder romp. And he had no way of knowing if Art was dead. He might only have copped one or two small ones. And Jerry? Jerry had been heading back for the car. They probably had nabbed him alive. Furthermore, Max had no illusions about either of the two keeping mum if they were captured. They would almost certainly implicate him.

  And that meant that he couldn’t go home to his own mini-apartment, and couldn’t use his Universal Credit Card for transportation or anything else. The moment his identification number was revealed, the computers would be alerted for him. Any attempt to use the credit card would give them the chance to get a cross on him and zero-in.

  There was just one place he could go, and he agonized about that. He didn’t want to subject Joe Mauser to the risk. But the only place that held any security at all for him was Joe’s apartment. And Max still had his key to it.

  He emerged onto a wide boulevard and at last realized what part of town he was in. Joe’s apartment was miles away; he’d have to walk. Happily, because it was still early enough in the evening, there were quite a few pedestrians on the sidewalks. He wouldn’t be conspicuous.

  When Joe Ma
user entered his apartment the following morning, he found a bedraggled Max Mainz stretched out on the living room sofa. The room he had formerly occupied was still available, but Max hadn’t made it any farther than the sofa.

  Joe, scowling, shook the little man. Max opened his eyes, groggily.

  “Oh, hi, Joe,” he said, struggling erect and wiping his mouth with his right hand. “What time is it? You heard the morning news?”

  “No,” Joe said. “What news? Wait a minute. I’ll get you some coffee.”

  “We don’t have time for no coffee.”

  Joe Mauser sat down across from him and took him in. “No? What do we have time for?”

  “A screwed-up mess,” Max said. “I’m on the run. Joe, I’ve got a murder romp hanging over me.”

  Joe eyed him. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

  Max told him all. All about his going to the Nathan. Hale Society headquarters. His meeting with Jerry. His meeting with Balt Haer. His being made a member of one of the special squads. Then the following day and his being sent on his first so-called assignment. Then the details of the assignment, the murder of Mitfield, and his escape through the park.

  Joe stared at him for long moments. He said, finally, “It was a set-up.”

  “How do you mean?” Max said.

  “It was a trap. Those cops, or Bureau of Investigation, or Category Security men, or whoever they were, were staked out, waiting for you.”

  Max shook his head, and said negatively, “They didn’t make no effort to stop shooting that Doc Mitfield or whatever his name was.”

  “They didn’t give a damn for him, Max.” Joe said. “They wanted you.”

  “Me? What good am I?”

  “With a murder romp charge hanging over you, probably quite a bit. Maybe your Art wasn’t in on it. Maybe he was. But he was probably considered expendable. He was probably ordered to use that shooter. From what you say, not even Jerry knew he was going to do it. Art was probably a Low-Lower from what you say. It was probably set up so that you were to take the murder romp charge. Then the evidence would come out that you were connected to me. And then the evidence would come out that I was connected with the organization Nadine and I belong to. That would get both me and the organization. I smell Balt Haer’s finger in the stew. When you were talking with him did he give any indication he knew you were with me?”