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

skill, determination, experience and courage, you had to have luck in the Military Category to get anywhere.

This time Joe was going to manufacture his own.

A voice said, “Ah, Captain Mauser.”

Joe looked up, then came to his feet quickly. In automatic reflex, he began to come to the salute but then caught himself. He said stiffly, “My compliments, Marshal Cogswell.”

The other was a smallish man, but strikingly strong of face and strongly built. His voice was clipped, clear and had the air of command as though born with it. He, like Joe, wore mufti and now extended his hand to be shaken.

“I hear you’ve signed up with Baron Haer, captain. I was rather expecting you to come in with me. Had a place for a good aide de camp. Liked your work in that last fracas we went through together.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joe said. Stonewall Cogswell was as good a tactician as freelanced and he was more than that. He was a judge of men and a stickler for detail. And right now, if Joe Mauser knew Marshal Stonewall Cogswell as well as he thought, Cogswell was smelling a rat. There was no reason why old pro Joe Mauser should sign up with a sure loser like Vacuum Tube when he could have earned more shares taking a commission with Hovercraft.

He was looking at Joe brightly, the question in his eyes. Three or four of his staff were behind a few paces, looking polite, but Cogswell didn’t bring them into the conversation. Joe knew most by sight. Good men all. Old pros all. He felt another twinge of doubt.

Joe had to cover. He said, “I was offered a particularly good contract, sir. Too good to resist.”

The other nodded, as though inwardly coming to a satisfactory conclusion. “Baron Haer’s connections, eh? He’s probably offered to back you for a bounce in caste. Is that it, Joe?”

Joe Mauser flushed. Stonewall Cogswell knew what he was talking about. He’d been born into Middle status himself and had become an Upper the hard way. His path wasn’t as long as Joe’s was going to be, but long enough and he knew how rocky the climb was. How very rocky.

Joe said, stiffly, “I’m afraid I’m in no position to discuss my commander’s military contracts, marshal. We’re in mufti, but after all⁠—”

Cogswell’s lean face registered one of his infrequent grimaces of humor. “I understand, Joe. Well, good luck and I hope things don’t pickle for you in the coming fracas. Possibly we’ll find ourselves aligned together again at some future time.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joe said, once more having to catch himself to prevent an automatic salute.

Cogswell and his staff went off, leaving Joe looking after them. Even the marshal’s staff members were top men, any of whom could have conducted a divisional magnitude fracas. Joe felt the coldness in his stomach again. Although it must have looked like a cinch, the enemy wasn’t taking any chances whatsoever. Cogswell and his officers were undoubtedly here at the airport for the same reason as Joe. They wanted a thorough aerial reconnaissance of the battlefield-to-be, before the issue was joined.

Max was standing at his elbow. “Who was that, sir? Looks like a real tough one.”

“He is a real tough one,” Joe said sourly. “That’s Stonewall Cogswell, the best field commander in North America.”

Max pursed his lips. “I never seen him out of uniform before. Lots of times on Telly, but never out of uniform. I thought he was taller than that.”

“He fights with his brains,” Joe said, still looking after the craggy field marshal. “He doesn’t have to be any taller.”

Max scowled. “Where’d he ever get that nickname, sir?”

“Stonewall?” Joe was turning to resume his chair and magazine. “He’s supposed to be a student of a top general back in the American Civil War. Uses some of the original Stonewall’s tactics.”

Max was out of his depth. “American Civil War? Was that much of a fracas, captain? It musta been before my time.”

“It was quite a fracas,” Joe said dryly. “Lot of good lads died. A hundred years after it was fought, the reasons it was fought seemed about as valid as those we fight fracases for today. Personally I⁠—”

He had to cut it short. They were calling him on the address system. His aircraft was ready. Joe made his way to the hangars, followed by Max Mainz. He was going to pilot the airplane himself and old Stonewall Cogswell would have been surprised at what Joe Mauser was looking for.

V

By the time they had returned to quarters, there was a message waiting for Captain Mauser. He was to report to the officer commanding reconnaissance.

Joe redressed in the Haer kilts and proceeded to headquarters.

The officer commanding reconnaissance turned out to be none other than Balt Haer, natty as ever, and, as ever, arrogantly tapping his swagger stick against his leg.

“Zen! Captain,” he complained. “Where have you been? Off on a trank kick? We’ve got to get organized.”

Joe Mauser snapped him a salute. “No, sir. I rented an aircraft to scout out the terrain over which we’ll be fighting.”

“Indeed. And what were your impressions, captain?” There was an overtone which suggested that it made little difference what impressions a captain of cavalry might have gained.

Joe shrugged. “Largely mountains, hills, woods. Good reconnaissance is going to make the difference in this one. And in the fracas itself cavalry is going to be more important than either artillery or infantry. A Nathan Forrest fracas, sir. A matter of getting there fustest with the mostest.”

Balt Haer said amusedly. “Thanks for your opinion, captain. Fortunately, our staff has already come largely to the same conclusions. Undoubtedly, they’ll be glad to hear your wide experience bears them out.”

Joe said evenly, “It’s a rather obvious conclusion, of course.” He took this as it came, having been through it before. The dilettante amateur’s dislike of the old pro. The amateur in command who knew full well he was less capable than many of those below