into the recruiting line, now composed of excited, shouting verbal participants of the fray.
However, the extinction of Joe Mauser’s small ally had taken a moment or two and time was what Joe needed most. For a double second he had the oaf alone on his hands and that was sufficient. He caught a flailing arm, turned his back and automatically went into the movements which result in that spectacular hold of the wrestler, the Flying Mare. Just in time he recalled that his opponent was a future comrade-in-arms and twisted the arm so that it bent at the elbow, rather than breaking. He hurled the other over his shoulder and as far as possible, to take the scrap out of him, and twirled quickly to meet the further attack of his sole remaining foe.
That phase of the combat failed to materialize.
A voice of command bit out, “Hold it, you lads!”
The original situation which had precipitated the fight was being duplicated. But while the three Lowers had failed to respond to Joe Mauser’s tone of authority, there was no similar failure now.
The owner of the voice, beautifully done up in the uniform of Vacuum Tube Transport, complete to kilts and the swagger stick of the officer of Rank Colonel or above, stood glaring at them. Age, Joe estimated, even as he came to attention, somewhere in the late twenties—an Upper in caste. Born to command. His face holding that arrogant, contemptuous expression once common to the patricians of Rome, the Prussian Junkers, the British ruling class of the Nineteenth Century. Joe knew the expression well. How well he knew it. On more than one occasion, he had dreamt of it.
Joe said, “Yes, sir.”
“What in Zen goes on here? Are you lads overtranked?”
“No, sir,” Joe’s veteran opponent grumbled, his eyes on the ground, a schoolboy before the principal.
Joe said, evenly, “A private disagreement, sir.”
“Disagreement!” the Upper snorted. His eyes went to the three fallen combatants, who were in various stages of reviving. “I’d hate to see you lads in a real scrap.”
That brought a response from the non-combatants in the recruiting line. The bon mot wasn’t that good but caste has its privileges and the laughter was just short of uproarious.
Which seemed to placate the kilted officer. He tapped his swagger stick against the side of his leg while he ran his eyes up and down Joe Mauser and the others, as though memorizing them for future reference.
“All right,” he said. “Get back into the line, and you trouble makers quiet down. We’re processing as quickly as we can.” And at that point he added insult to injury with an almost word for word repetition of what Joe had said a few moments earlier. “You’ll get all the fighting you want from Hovercraft, if you can wait until then.”
The four original participants of the rumpus resumed their places in various stages of sheepishness. The little fellow, nursing an obviously aching jaw, made a point of taking up his original position even while darting a look of thanks to Joe Mauser who still stood where he had when the fight was interrupted.
The Upper looked at Joe. “Well, lad, are you interested in signing up with Vacuum Tube Transport or not?”
“Yes, sir,” Joe said evenly. Then, “Joseph Mauser, sir. Category Military, Rank Captain.”
“Indeed.” The officer looked him up and down all over again, his nostrils high. “A Middle, I assume. And brawling with recruits.” He held a long silence. “Very well, come with me.” He turned and marched off.
Joe inwardly shrugged. This was a fine start for his pitch—a fine start. He had half a mind to give it all up, here and now, and head on up to Catskill to enlist with Continental Hovercraft. His big scheme would wait for another day. Nevertheless, he fell in behind the aristocrat and followed him to the offices which had been his original destination.
Two Rank Privates with 45-70 Springfields and wearing the Haer kilts in such wise as to indicate permanent status in Vacuum Tube Transport came to the salute as they approached. The Upper preceding Joe Mauser flicked his swagger stick in an easy nonchalance. Joe felt envious amusement. How long did it take to learn how to answer a salute with that degree of arrogant ease?
There were desks in here, and typers humming, as Vacuum Tube Transport office workers, mobilized for this special service, processed volunteers for the company forces. Harried noncoms and junior-grade officers buzzed everywhere, failing miserably to bring order to the chaos. To the right was a door with a medical cross newly painted on it. When it occasionally popped open to admit or emit a recruit, white-robed doctors, male nurses and half nude men could be glimpsed beyond.
Joe followed the other through the press and to an inner office at which door he didn’t bother to knock. He pushed his way through, waved in greeting with his swagger stick to the single occupant who looked up from the paper- and tape-strewn desk at which he sat.
Joe Mauser had seen the face before on Telly though never so tired as this and never with the element of defeat to be read in the expression. Bullet-headed, barrel-figured Baron Malcolm Haer of Vacuum Tube Transport. Category Transportation, Mid-Upper, and strong candidate for Upper-Upper upon retirement. However, there would be few who expected retirement in the immediate future. Hardly. Malcolm Haer found too obvious a lusty enjoyment in the competition between Vacuum Tube Transport and its stronger rivals.
Joe came to attention, bore the sharp scrutiny of his chosen commander-to-be. The older man’s eyes went to the kilted Upper officer who had brought Joe along. “What is it, Balt?”
The other gestured with his stick at Joe. “Claims to be Rank Captain. Looking for a commission with us, Dad. I wouldn’t know why.” The last sentence was added lazily.
The older Haer shot an irritated glance at his son. “Possibly for the same reason mercenaries usually enlist for a fracas, Balt.” His eyes came back to Joe.
Joe Mauser, still at attention even though in mufti, opened his mouth to give his name, category and rank, but the older man waved a hand negatively. “Captain Mauser, isn’t it? I caught the fracas between Carbonaceous Fuel and United Miners, down on the Panhandle Reservation. Seems to me I’ve spotted you once or twice before, too.”
“Yes, sir,” Joe said. This was some improvement in the way things were going.
The older Haer was scowling at him. “Confound it, what are you doing with no more rank than captain? On the face of it, you’re an old hand, a highly experienced veteran.”
An old pro, we call ourselves, Joe said to himself. Old pros, we call ourselves, among ourselves.
Aloud, he said, “I was born a Mid-Lower, sir.”
There was understanding in the old man’s face, but Balt Haer said loftily, “What’s that got to do with it? Promotion is quick and based on merit in Category Military.”
At a certain point, if you are good combat officer material, you speak your mind no matter the rank of the man you are addressing. On this occasion, Joe Mauser needed few words. He let his eyes go up and down Balt Haer’s immaculate uniform, taking in the swagger stick of the Rank Colonel or above. Joe said evenly, “Yes, sir.”
Balt Haer flushed quick temper. “What do you mean by—”
But his father was chuckling. “You have spirit, captain. I need spirit now. You are quite correct. My son, though a capable officer, I assure you, has probably not participated in a fraction of the fracases you have to your credit. However, there is something to be said for the training available to we Uppers in the academies. For instance, captain, have you ever commanded a body of lads larger than, well, a company?”
Joe said flatly, “In the Douglas-Boeing versus Lockheed-Cessna fracas we took a high loss of officers when the Douglas-Boeing outfit rang in some fast-firing French mitrailleuse we didn’t know they had. As my superiors took casualties I was field promoted to acting battalion commander, to acting regimental commander, to acting brigadier. For three days I held the rank of acting commander of brigade. We won.”
Balt Haer snapped his fingers. “I remember that. Read quite a paper on it.” He eyed Joe Mauser, almost respectfully. “Stonewall Cogswell got the credit for the victory and received his marshal’s baton as a result.”
“He was one of the few other officers that survived,” Joe said dryly.
“But, Zen! You mean you got no promotion at all?”
Joe said, “I was upped to Low-Middle from High-Lower, sir. At my age, at the time, quite a promotion.”
Baron Haer was remembering, too. “That was the fracas that brought on the howl from the Sovs. They claimed those mitrailleuse were post-1900 and violated the Universal Disarmament Pact. Yes, I recall that.
