Continental Hovercraft stands in the way and it is they who have demanded of the Category Military Department a trial by arms. On the face of it, justice is on the side of Baron Haer.”
Freddy Soligen said into the camera, “Well, all you good people of the Telly world, that’s an able summation the captain has made, but it certainly doesn’t jibe with the words of Baron Zwerdling we heard this morning, does it? However, justice triumphs and we’ll see what the field of combat will have to offer. Thank you, thank you very much, Captain Mauser. All of us, all of us tuned in today, hope that you personally will run into no dill in this fracas.”
“Thanks, Freddy. Thanks all,” Joe said into the camera, before turning away. He wasn’t particularly keen about this part of the job, but you couldn’t underrate the importance of pleasing the buffs. In the long run it was your career, your chances for promotion both in military rank and ultimately in caste. It was the way the fans took you up, boosted you, idolized you, worshipped you if you really made it. He, Joe Mauser, was only a minor celebrity, he appreciated every chance he had to be interviewed by such a popular reporter as Freddy Soligen.
Even as he turned, he spotted the four men with whom he’d had his spat earlier. The little fellow was still to the fore. Evidently, the others had decided the one place extra that he represented wasn’t worth the trouble he’d put in their way defending it.
On an impulse he stepped up to the small man who began a grin of recognition, a grin that transformed his feisty face. A revelation of an inner warmth beyond average in a world which had lost much of its human warmth.
Joe said, “Like a job, soldier?”
“Name’s Max. Max Mainz. Sure I want a job. That’s why I’m in this everlasting line.”
Joe said, “First fracas for you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I had basic training in school.”
“What do you weigh, Max?”
Max’s face soured. “About one twenty.”
“Did you check out on semaphore in school?”
“Well, sure. I’m Category Food, Sub-division Cooking, Branch Chef, but, like I say, I took basic military training, like most everybody else.”
“I’m Captain Joe Mauser. How’d you like to be my batman?”
Max screwed up his already not overly handsome face. “Gee, I don’t know. I kinda joined up to see some action. Get into the dill. You know what I mean.”
Joe said dryly, “See here, Mainz, you’ll probably find more pickled situations next to me than you’ll want—and you’ll come out alive.”
The recruiting sergeant looked up from the desk. It was Max Mainz’s turn to be processed. The sergeant said, “Lad, take a good opportunity when it drops in your lap. The captain is one of the best in the field. You’ll learn more, get better chances for promotion, if you stick with him.”
Joe couldn’t remember ever having run into the sergeant before, but he said, “Thanks, sergeant.”
The other said, evidently realizing Joe didn’t recognize him, “We were together on the Chihuahua Reservation, on the jurisdictional fracas between the United Miners and the Teamsters, sir.”
It had been almost fifteen years ago. About all that Joe Mauser remembered of that fracas was the abnormal number of casualties they’d taken. His side had lost, but from this distance in time Joe couldn’t even remember what force he’d been with. But now he said, “That’s right. I thought I recognized you, sergeant.”
“It was my first fracas, sir.” The sergeant went businesslike. “If you want I should hustle this lad though, captain—”
“Please do, sergeant.” Joe added to Max, “I’m not sure where my billet will be. When you’re through all this, locate the officer’s mess and wait there for me.”
“Well, O.K.,” Max said doubtfully, still scowling but evidently a servant of an officer, if he wanted to be or not.
“Sir,” the sergeant added ominously. “If you’ve had basic, you know enough how to address an officer.”
“Well, yessir,” Max said hurriedly.
Joe began to turn away, but then spotted the man immediately behind Max Mainz. He was one of the three with whom Joe had tangled earlier, the one who’d obviously had previous combat experience. He pointed the man out to the sergeant. “You’d better give this lad at least temporary rank of corporal. He’s a veteran and we’re short of veterans.”
The sergeant said, “Yes, sir. We sure are.” Joe’s former foe looked properly thankful.
Joe Mauser finished off his own red tape and headed for the street to locate a military tailor who could do him up a set of the Haer kilts and fill his other dress requirements. As he went, he wondered vaguely just how many different uniforms he had worn in his time.
In a career as long as his own from time to time you took semi-permanent positions in bodyguards, company police, or possibly the permanent combat troops of this corporation or that. But largely, if you were ambitious, you signed up for the fracases and that meant into a uniform and out of it again in as short a period as a couple of weeks.
At the door he tried to move aside but was too slow for the quick moving young woman who caromed off him. He caught her arm to prevent her from stumbling. She looked at him with less than thanks.
Joe took the blame for the collision. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I didn’t see you, Miss.”
“Obviously,” she said coldly. Her eyes went up and down him, and for a moment he wondered where he had seen her before. Somewhere, he was sure.
She was dressed as they dress who have never considered cost and she had an elusive beauty which would have been even the more hadn’t her face projected quite such a serious outlook. Her features were more delicate than those to which he was usually attracted. Her lips were less full, but still— He was reminded of the classic ideal of the British Romantic Period, the women sung of by Byron and Keats, Shelly and Moore.
She said, “Is there any particular reason why you should be staring at me, Mr.—”
“Captain Mauser,” Joe said hurriedly. “I’m afraid I’ve been rude, Miss—Well, I thought I recognized you.”
She took in his civilian dress, typed it automatically, and came to an erroneous conclusion. She said, “Captain? You mean that with everyone else I know drawing down ranks from Lieutenant Colonel to Brigadier General, you can’t make anything better than Captain?”
Joe winced. He said carefully, “I came up from the ranks, Miss. Captain is quite an achievement, believe me.”
“Up from the ranks!” She took in his clothes again. “You mean you’re a Middle? You neither talk nor look like a Middle, captain.” She used the caste rating as though it was not quite a derogatory term.
Not that she meant to be deliberately insulting, Joe knew, wearily. How well he knew. It was simply born in her. As once a well-educated aristocracy had, not necessarily unkindly, named their status inferiors niggers; or other aristocrats, in another area of the country, had named theirs greasers. Yes, how well he knew.
He said very evenly, “Mid-Middle now, Miss. However, I was born in the Lower castes.”
An eyebrow went up. “Zen! You must have put in many an hour studying. You talk like an Upper, captain.” She dropped all interest in him and turned to resume her journey.
“Just a moment,” Joe said. “You can’t go in there, Miss—”
Her eyebrows went up again. “The name is Haer,” she said. “Why can’t I go in here, captain?”
Now it came to him why he had thought he recognized her. She had basic features similar to those of that overbred poppycock, Balt Haer.
“Sorry,” Joe said. “I suppose under the circumstances, you can. I was about to tell you that they’re recruiting with lads running around half clothed. Medical inspections, that sort of thing.”
She made a noise through her nose and said over her shoulder, even as she sailed on. “Besides being a Haer, I’m an M.D., captain. At the ludicrous sight of a man shuffling about in his shorts, I seldom blush.”
She was gone.
Joe Mauser looked after her. “I’ll bet you don’t,” he muttered.
Had she waited a few minutes he could have explained his Upper accent and his unlikely education. When
