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

Joe Mauser, working coolly, fast and ruthlessly, now, a trained combat man exercising his profession, moved in for the kill, his shoulders hunched slightly forward, his hands forward and to the sides, choppers rather than sledges.

Joe stepped closer, as quick as a jungle cat. His left hand leapt forward to the other’s neck, hacked, came back into another blurring swing, hacked again. His opponent grunted agony.

But a man does not become heavyweight champion without being able to take as well as give punishment. Joe’s attacker tucked his chin into his shoulder, fighter style, and moved in throwing off the effects of the karate blows. Somehow, he seemed considerably less drunk or over-tranked than he had short moments before, and there was rage in his face, rather than glaze.

One of the blows caught Joe on a shoulder and sent him reeling back. At the same time, behind the other, Joe could see the maître d’hôtel flanked by three waiters, hurrying up. He was going to have to do something, and do it quickly, or be branded a boorish Middle who had intruded into a domain of the Uppers only to participate in a brawl and have to be expelled by the establishment’s servants.

The former champ, his eyes narrowed in confidence of victory, came boring in, on his toes, quick for all of his bulk. Joe turned sideways, his movements lithe. He lashed out with his right foot, at this angle getting double the leverage he would have otherwise, and caught the other on the kneecap. The pugilist bent forward in agony, his mouth opening as though in protest.

Joe stepped forward, quickly, efficiently. His hands were now knitted together in a huge double fist. He brought them upward, crushingly, into his opponent’s face, with all the force he could achieve, and felt bone and cartilage crush. Before even waiting for the other to fall, he turned, righted his chair, and resumed his seat facing Nadine, his breath coming only inconsiderably faster than before.

Her eyes were wide, but she hadn’t organized herself as yet to the point of either protest or praise.

The maître d’ was at their table. “Sir⁠—” he began.

Joe said curtly, “This barroom brawler attacked me. I’m surprised you allow your patrons to get into the shape he is. Please bring our bill.”

The head waiter stuttered, his eyes going about in despair, even as his assistants were lifting the fallen champion to his feet and hustling him away.

An occupant of one of the nearby tables spoke up, collaborating Joe’s words. The action had been fast, though brief, and had won the fascinated attention of that half of the patrons of the Exclusive Room near enough to see. Somebody else called out, too. And it came to Joe cynically, that a brawl in an establishment exclusive to Uppers, differed little from one of Middle or even Lower caste.

But it was impossible that they remain. He had looked forward to this evening with Nadine Haer, had planned to lay the foundations for a future campaign, when, as a newly created Upper, he would be in the position to mention marriage. He fumed, inwardly, even as he helped her with her wrap, preparatory to leaving.

Nadine, now that she had recovered composure, said coldly, “I suppose you realize you broke that man’s nose and injured his eye to an extent I’d have to examine him to evaluate?”

Behind her, he rolled his eyes upward in mute protest. He said, “What was I supposed to do, hand him a rose from our table bouquet?”

“Violence is the resort of the incompetent.”

“You must tell that, some time, to a jungle animal being attacked by a lion.”

“Oh, you’re impossible!”

When Freddy Soligen entered his living room, he automatically switched off the Telly screen which was the entire north wall. The room’s lights automatically went brighter.

His perpetual air of sour cynicism was absent as he chuckled to the room’s sole inhabitant, “What! A son of mine gawking at Telly? Next I’ll be finding tranks by the bowl full, sitting on the tea table.”

His son grinned at him. Already, at the ago of sixteen, Samuel Soligen was a good three inches taller than his father, at least ten pounds heavier. The boy was bright of eye, toothy of smile, gawky as only a teenager can be gawky, and obviously the proverbial apple of his father’s eye.

Sam said, the faintest note of apology in his tone, “Just finished my assignments, Papa. Thought I’d see if there was anything worthwhile on the air.”

“An incurable optimist,” Freddy chuckled. “You take after your mother. Believe me, Sam. There’s never anything worthwhile on Telly.”

“Not even when you’re casting?”

“Especially when I’m casting, boy. What’ve you been getting at the Temple school these days? Zen! I’ve been so busy on a special project I’ve been working on, I haven’t had time to keep check on whether or not you’re even still living here.”

The boy shrugged, picked up an apple from the sideboard and began to munch. His voice was disinterested. “Aw, Comparative Religion, mostly. We gotta go way back and study about the Greeks and the Triple-Goddess, and then the Olympians, and all that curd.”

“Hey, watch your language, Sam. Remember, you’re going to wind up a priest.”

“Yeah,” the boy grumbled, “that’ll be the day. You ever heard of a Lower becoming a full priest? I’ll be lucky if I ever get to monk.”

Freddy Soligen sat down suddenly, across from his son, and his voice lost its edge of good-natured humor and became deadly serious. “Listen, son. You were born a High-Lower, just like your father. Unfortunately, I wasn’t jumped to Low-Middle until after your birth. But you’re not going to stay a High-Lower, any more than I’m going to stay a Low-Middle.”

The boy shrugged, his expression almost surly, now. “Aw, what difference does it make? High-Lower isn’t too bad. It’s sure better than Low-Lower. I got enough stock issued me for anything I’ll ever need. Or, if not, I can work