Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

not a fool. I realize there is scarcely a soul in the West-world that expects anything but disaster for my colors. Pay rates have been widely posted. I can offer only five common shares of Vacuum Tube for a Rank Captain, win or lose. Hovercraft is doubling that, and can pick and choose among the best officers in the hemisphere.”

Joe said softly, “I have all the shares I need.”

Balt Haer had been looking back and forth between his father and the newcomer and becoming obviously more puzzled. He put in, “Well, what in Zen motivates you if it isn’t the stock we offer?”

Joe glanced at the younger Haer to acknowledge the question but he spoke to the Baron. “Sir, like you said, you’re no fool. However, you’ve been sucked in, this time. When you took on Hovercraft, you were thinking in terms of a regional dispute. You wanted to run one of your vacuum tube deals up to Fairbanks from Edmonton. You were expecting a minor fracas, involving possibly five thousand men. You never expected Hovercraft to parlay it up, through their connections in the Category Military Department, to a divisional magnitude fracas which you simply aren’t large enough to afford. But Hovercraft was getting sick of your corporation. You’ve been nicking away at them too long. So they decided to do you in. They’ve hired Marshal Cogswell and the best combat officers in North America, and they’re hiring the most competent veterans they can find. Every fracas buff who watches Telly, figures you’ve had it. They’ve been watching you come up the aggressive way, the hard way, for a long time, but now they’re all going to be sitting on the edges of their sofas waiting for you to get it.”

Baron Haer’s heavy face had hardened as Joe Mauser went on relentlessly. He growled, “Is this what everyone thinks?”

“Yes. Everyone intelligent enough to have an opinion.” Joe made a motion of his head to the outer offices where the recruiting was proceeding. “Those men out there are rejects from Catskill, where old Baron Zwerdling is recruiting. Either that or they’re inexperienced Low-Lowers, too stupid to realize they’re sticking their necks out. Not one man in ten is a veteran. And when things begin to pickle, you want veterans.”

Baron Malcolm Haer sat back in his chair and stared coldly at Captain Joe Mauser. He said, “At first I was moderately surprised that an old time mercenary like yourself should choose my uniform, rather than Zwerdling’s. Now I am increasingly mystified about motivation. So all over again I ask you, captain: Why are you requesting a commission in my forces which you seem convinced will meet disaster?”

Joe wet his lips carefully. “I think I know a way you can win.”

II

His permanent military rank the Haers had no way to alter, but they were short enough of competent officers that they gave him an acting rating and pay scale of major and command of a squadron of cavalry. Joe Mauser wasn’t interested in a cavalry command this fracas, but he said nothing. Immediately, he had to size up the situation; it wasn’t time as yet to reveal the big scheme. And, meanwhile, they could use him to whip the Rank Privates into shape.

He had left the offices of Baron Haer to go through the red tape involved in being signed up on a temporary basis in the Vacuum Tube Transport forces, and reentered the confusion of the outer offices where the Lowers were being processed and given medicals. He reentered in time to run into a Telly team which was doing a live broadcast.

Joe Mauser remembered the news reporter who headed the team. He’d run into him two or three times in fracases. As a matter of fact, although Joe held the standard Military Category prejudices against Telly, he had a basic respect for this particular newsman. On the occasions he’d seen him before, the fellow was hot in the midst of the action even when things were in the dill. He took as many chances as did the average combatant, and you can’t ask for more than that.

The other knew him, too, of course. It was part of his job to be able to spot the celebrities and near celebrities. He zeroed in on Joe now, making flicks of his hand to direct the cameras. Joe, of course, was fully aware of the value of Telly and was glad to cooperate.

“Captain! Captain Mauser, isn’t it? Joe Mauser who held out for four days in the swamps of Louisiana with a single company while his ranking officers reformed behind him.”

That was one way of putting it, but both Joe and the newscaster who had covered the debacle knew the reality of the situation. When the front had collapsed, his commanders⁠—of Upper caste, of course⁠—had hauled out, leaving him to fight a delaying action while they mended their fences with the enemy, coming to the best terms possible. Yes, that had been the United Oil versus Allied Petroleum fracas, and Joe had emerged with little either in glory or pelf.

The average fracas fan wasn’t on an intellectual level to appreciate anything other than victory. The good guys win, the bad guys lose⁠—that’s obvious, isn’t it? Not one out of ten Telly followers of the fracases was interested in a well-conducted retreat or holding action. They wanted blood, lots of it, and they identified with the winning side.

Joe Mauser wasn’t particularly bitter about this aspect. It was part of his way of life. In fact, his pet peeve was the real buff. The type, man or woman, who could remember every fracas you’d ever been in, every time you’d copped one, and how long you’d been in the hospital. Fans who could remember, even better than you could, every time the situation had pickled on you and you’d had to fight your way out as best you could. They’d tell you about it, their eyes gleaming, sometimes a slightest trickle