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

Soligen had made his first impression. He finished the ale, put the glass into the chute and turned back to the professional mercenary. His voice was flat now, all expression gone from his face. “All right,” he said. “Now listen to my fling. You’ve got a lot to learn.”

Joe held his peace, if only in pure amazement. He ranked the little man opposite him in both caste and in professional attainments. Besides which, he was a combat officer and unused to being addressed with less than full respect, even from superiors. For unlucky Joe Mauser might be in his chosen field, but respected he was.

Freddy Soligen pointed a finger at him, almost mockingly. “You’re on the make, Mauser. In a world where few bother, anymore, you’re on the way up. The trouble is, you took the wrong path many years ago.”

Joe snorted his contempt of the other’s lack of knowledge. “I was born into the Clothing Category, Subdivision Shoes, Branch Repair. In the old days they called us cobblers. You think you could work your way up from Mid-Lower to Upper caste with that beginning, Soligen? Zen! we don’t even have cobblers any more, shoes are thrown away as soon as they show wear. Sure, sure, sure. Theoretically, under People’s Capitalism, you can cross categories into any field you want. But have you ever heard of anybody doing any real jumping of caste levels in any category except Military or Religion? I didn’t take the wrong path, religion is a little too strong for even my stomach, which left the Category Military the only path available.”

Freddy had heard him out, his face twisted sourly. He said now, “You misunderstand. I realize that the military’s the only quick way of getting a bounce in caste. I wish I’d figured that out sooner, before I made a trade out of the one I was born into, Communications. It’s too late now, I’m into my forties with a busted marriage but the proud papa of a kid.” He twisted his face again in another grimace. “By the way, the boy’s a novitiate in Category Religion.”

Some elements were clearing up in Joe’s mind. He said, in comprehension, “So⁠ ⁠… we’re both ambitious.”

“That’s right, major. Now, let’s get back to fundamentals. Your wrong path is the manner in which you’re trying to work your way up into the elite. You’ve got to become a celebrated hero, major. And it’s the Telly fan, the fracas-buff, who decides who the Category Military heroes are. Those are the slobs you have to toady to. In the long run, nobody else counts. I know, I know. All the old pros, even big names like Stonewall Cogswell and Jack Alshuler, think you’re a top man. Great! But how many buff-clubs you got to your name? How often do the buff magazines run articles about you? How often do you get interviewed on Telly, in between fracases? Have the movies ever done The Joe Mauser Story?”

Joe twisted uncomfortably. “All that stuff takes a lot of time. I’ve been keeping myself busy.”

“Right. Busy getting shot at.”

“I’m a mercenary. That’s my trade.”

Freddy spread his hands. “OK. If that’s all you’re interested in, shooting lads signed up on the other side, or getting shot by them, that’s fine. But you know, major,”⁠—he cocked his head to one side, and peered knowingly at Joe⁠—“I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that you don’t particularly like combat. Some do, I know. Some love it. I don’t think you do.”

Joe looked at him.

Freddy said, “You’re in it because of the chance for promotion, nothing else counts.”

Joe remained silent.

Freddy pushed him. “Who’re the names every fracas buff knows? Jerry Sturgeon, captain at the age of twenty-one, and so damned pretty in those fancy uniforms he wears. How many times have you ever heard of him really being in the dill? He knows better! Captain Sturgeon spends his time prancing around on that famous palomino of his in front of the Telly lenses, not dodging bullets. Or Ted Sohl. Colonel Ted Sohl. The dashing Sohl with his two western style six-shooters, slung low on his hips, and that romantic limp and craggy face. My, do the female buffs go for Colonel Sohl! I wonder how many of them know he wears a special pair of boots to give him that limp. Old Jerry’s a long time drinking pal of mine, he’s never copped one in his life. What’s more, another year or so and he’ll be a general and you know what that means. Almost automatic jump to Upper caste.”

Joe’s face was working. All this was not really news to him. Like his fellow old pros, Joe Mauser was fully aware of the glory grabbers. There had always been the glory grabbers from mythological Achilles, who sulked in his tent while his best friend died before the walls of Troy, to Alexander, who conquered the world with an army conceived and precision trained by another man whose name is all but forgotten, to the swashbuckling Custer who sacrificed self and squadron rather than wait for assistance.

Freddy pushed him. “How come you’re never on lens when you’re in there going good, major? Ever thought about that? When you’re commanding a rearguard action, maybe, trying to extract your lads when the situation’s pickled, who’s in the Telly lens where all the stupid buffs can see him? One of the manufactured heroes.”

Joe scowled. “The who?”

“Come off it, major. You’ve been around long enough to know heroes are made, not born. We stopped having much regard for real heroes a long time ago. Lindbergh and Byrd were a couple of the last we turned out. After that, we left it to the Norwegians to do such things as crew the Kon-Tiki, or to the English to top Everest⁠—whether or not the Britisher made the last hundred feet slung over the shoulder of a Sherpa. I don’t know if it was talking movies, the radio, the coming of Telly, or what. Possibly all three. But