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

comrades in arms, one journalist from some fracas buff magazine, some woman he’d never met before, and Zen knew how she’d ever got herself into the club. A snarl had driven some away, or a growl or sneer. This one, he decided, called for an angered scowl, particularly in view of the tone of voice which only brought home doubly how his planning of a full two years had come a cropper.

He looked up, beginning his grimace of discouragement. “Go away,” he muttered nastily. The other’s identity came through slowly. One of the Telly news reporters who’d covered the fracas; for the moment he couldn’t recall the name.

Joe Mauser held the common prejudices of the Category Military for Telly and all its ramifications. Not only for the drooling multitudes who sat before their sets and vicariously participated in the sadism of combat while their trank bemused brains refused contemplation of the reality of their way of life. But also for Category Communications, and particularly its Subdivision Telly, Branch Fracas News, and all connected with it. His views, perhaps, were akin to those of the matador facing the moment of truth, the crowds screaming in the arena seats for him to go in and the promoters and managers watching from the barrera and possibly wondering if he were gored if next week’s gate would improve.

The Telly cameras which watched you as, crouched almost double, you scurried into the fire area of a mitrailleuse or perhaps a Maxim; the Telly cameras which swung in your direction speedily, avidly, when a blast of fire threw you back and to the ground; the Telly cameras with their zoom lenses which focused full into your face as life leaked away. The Spanish aficionados never had it so good. The closeup expression of the dying matador had been denied them.

The other undeterred, sank into the chair opposite, his face twisted cynically. Joe placed him now. Freddy Soligen. Give the man his due, he and his team were right in there when the going got hot. More than once, in the past fifteen years, Joe had seen the little man lugging his cameras into the center of the fracas, taking chances expected only of combatants. Vaguely, he wondered why.

He demanded, “Why?”

“Eh?” Soligen said. “Major, by the looks of you, you’re going to have a beaut, comes morning. Why don’t you stick to trank?”

“Cause I’m not a slob,” Joe sneered. “Why?”

“Why, what? Listen, you want me to help you on home?”

“Got no home. Live in hotels. Military clubs. In barracks. Got nothing but my rank and caste.” He sneered again. “Such as they are.”

Soligen said, “Mid-Middle, aren’t you? And a major. Zen, most would say you haven’t much to complain about.”

Joe grunted contempt, but dropped that angle of it. However, he could have mentioned that he was well into his thirties, that he had copped many a one in his day and that now time was borrowed. When you had been in the dill as often as had Joe Mauser, the days you lived were borrowed. Borrowed from some lad who hadn’t used up all that nature had originally allotted him. He was well into the thirties and his life’s goal was still tantalizingly far before him, and he living on borrowed time.

He said, “Why’re you⁠ ⁠… exception? How come you get right into the middle of it, like that time on the Panhandle Reservation. You coulda copped one there.”

Soligen chuckled abruptly, and as though in self-deprecation. “I did cop one there. Hospitalized three months. Didn’t read any of the publicity I got? No, I guess you didn’t, it was mostly in the Category Communications trade press. Anyway, I got bounced not only in rank on the job, but up to Low-Middle in caste.” There was the faintest edge of the surly in his voice as he added, “I was born a Lower, major.”

Joe snorted. “So was I. You didn’t answer my question, Soligen. Why stick your neck out? Most of you Telly reporters, stick it out in some concrete pillbox with lots of telescopic equipment.” He added bitterly, “And usually away from what’s really going on.”

The Telly reporter looked at him oddly. “Stick my neck out?” he said with deliberation. “Possibly for the same reason you do, major. In fact, it’s kinda the reason I looked you up. Trouble is, you’re probably too drenched, right now, to listen to my fling.”

Joe Mauser’s voice attempted cold dignity. He said, “In the Category Military, Soligen, you never get so drenched you can’t operate.”

The other’s cynical grunt conveyed nothing, but he reached out and dialed the auto-bar. He growled, “OK, a Sober-Up for you, an ale for me.”

“I don’t want to sober up. I’m being bitter and enjoying it.”

“Yes, you do,” the little man said. “I have the answer to your bitterness.” He handed Joe the pill. “You see, what’s wrong with you, major, is you’ve been trying to do it alone. What you need is help.”

Joe glowered at him, even as he accepted the medication. “I make my own way, Soligen. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s obvious,” the other said sourly. He waited, sipping his brew, while the Sober-Up worked its miracle. He was compassionate enough to shudder, having been through, in his time, the speeding up of a hangover so that full agony was compressed into mere minutes rather than dispensed over a period of hours.

Joe groaned, “It better be good, whatever you want to say.”

Freddy Soligen asked, at long last, tilting his head to one side and taking Joe in critically. “You know one of the big reasons you’re only a major?”

Joe Mauser looked at him.

The Telly reporter said, “You haven’t got any mustache.”

Joe Mauser stared at him.

The other laughed cynically. “You think I’m drivel-happy, eh? Well, maybe a long scar down the cheek would do even better. Or, possibly, you ought to wear a monocle, even in action.”

Joe continued to stare, as though the little man had gone completely around the bend.

Freddy