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

It was then that the door announced, “Major Joseph Mauser, calling on Fredric Soligen.”

Joe Mauser shook hands with the Telly reporter in an abrupt, impatient manner.

Freddy said, “Major, I’d like to introduce my son, Samuel. Sam, this is Major Joe Mauser. You don’t follow the fracases, but the major’s one of the best mercenaries in the field.”

Sam scrambled to his feet and shook hands. “Gee, Joe Mauser.”

Joe looked at him questioningly. “I thought you didn’t follow the fracases.”

Sam grinned awkwardly. “Well, gee, you can’t miss picking up some stuff about the fighting. All the other guys are buffs.”

Joe said to Freddy, “Could I speak to you alone?”

“Certainly, certainly. Sam, run along the major and I have business.”

When the boy was gone, Joe sank into a chair and looked up at the Telly reporter accusingly. He said, “This fancy uniform, I stood still for. That idea of picking a song to identify me with and bribing the orchestra leaders to swing into it whenever I enter some restaurant or nightclub, might have its advantages. Getting me all sorts of Telly interviews, between fracases, and all those write-ups in the fracas buff magazines, I can see the need for, in spite of what it’s costing. But what in Zen”⁠—his voice went dangerous⁠—“was the idea of sticking that punch-drunk prizefighter on me in the most respectable nightclub in Greater Washington?”

Freddy grinned ruefully. “Oh, you figured that out, eh?”

“Did you think I was stupid?”

Freddy rubbed his hands together, happily. “He used to be world champion, and you flattened him. It was in every gossip column in the country, every news reporter, played it up. And hell all it cost us was five shares of your Vacuum Tube Transport stock.”

“Five shares!”

“Why not? He used to be champ. Now, he’s so broke he’s got to live on stock he isn’t allowed to sell. His basic government issue at birth. He was willing to take a dive cheap, if you ask me.”

Joe growled at him unhappily. “I’ve got news for you, Freddy. Your hired brawler started off as per instructions, evidently, but after a couple of blows had been exchanged his slaphappy brain lost the message and he tried to take me. We’re lucky he didn’t splatter me all over the dance floor of the Exclusive Club. He didn’t take a dive. I had to scuttle him.”

Freddy blinked. “Zen!”

“Sure, sure, sure,” Joe growled. “Look, next time you decide to spend five shares of my stock on some deal like this, let me know, eh?”

Freddy walked to the sideboard and got glasses. “Whiskey?” he said.

“Tequila, if you’ve got it,” Joe said. “Look, I’m beginning to have second thoughts about this campaign. Where’s it got us, so far?”

Freddy brought the fiery Mexican drink and handed it to him, and took a place in the chair opposite. His voice went persuasive. “It’s going fine. You’re on everybody’s lips. First thing you know, some of the armaments firms will be having you endorse their guns, swords, cannon, or whatever.”

“Oh, great,” Joe growled. “Already my friends are ribbing me about this fancy uniform and all the plugs I’ve been getting. The glory-grabber isn’t any more popular today among real pros than he’s ever been.”

“Who gives a damn?” Freddy sneered, cynically. “We’re not in this to please your lame-brain mercenary pals with their soldier-of-fortune codes of behavior. We’re in this for Number One, Joe Mauser, and Number Two, Freddy Soligen.”

Joe put away the greater part of his drink. “Sure, sure, sure. But where are we now? Your campaign has been in full swing for months. What’s accomplished?”

The small Telly reporter was indignant. “What’s accomplished? We’ve got three Major Joe Mauser buff clubs in full swing and five more starting up. And next month you’re going to be on the cover of the Fracas Times.”

“And I’m still a major and still Mid-Middle caste. And my stock shares available for bribery are running short.”

Freddy twisted his mouth and looked worriedly down into his glass. He said unhappily, “We need a gimmick to climax all this. Some kind of gimmick to bring you absolutely to the top.”

“A gimmick?” Joe demanded. “What do you mean, a gimmick?”

“You’re going to have to do something really spectacular. Make you the biggest Telly hero of them all. We’ll have to get you into a real fracas and pull something dramatic. I don’t know what, I don’t seem to be able to come up with an angle. But when I do, I’ll guarantee that every Telly camera covering the fracas will be zeroed in on Joe Mauser.”

“Great,” Joe growled. “I’ve got just the gimmick. It’ll wow them.”

The Telly reported looked up, hopefully.

“I’ll get killed in a burst of glory,” Joe said.

A servant took Joe Mauser’s cap at the door and requested that Joe follow him. Joe trailed behind on the way to the living room of the mansion, somewhat taken aback by the, to him, ostentation of the display of the luxuries of yesteryear. Among them was to be numbered the butler. Servants, other than military batmen, were simply not in Joe’s world. Only the Uppers were in position to utilize the full time of individuals. Long years past, those tasks which once called for servants had been automated, from automated elevators to automated babysitters.

The servant announced him and then seemingly disappeared in the brief moment while Joe was bowing formally over Nadine Haer’s hand. Even while murmuring the appropriate banalities, Joe wondered how one acquired the ability to seemingly disappear, once one’s services were no longer needed. Each man to his own trade, he decided.

He had a date with Nadine, but it turned out that the piquant Upper was not alone. In fact, it was obvious that she had not as yet got around to dressing for her appointment with Joe. He had promised to take her soaring in his sailplane. She was attired, as always, as those dress who have