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

But he rejected this trend of thought and brought his attention back to Sam Soligen.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted. “Some Low-Lower jerk, impressed by what he considers high pay and adventure, doesn’t stand much of a chance against an old pro.”

The gawky tee-ager broke into a toothy smile. “Gee, I wasn’t arguing with you, major. I don’t know anything about it. How about telling me about one of your fracases, eh? You know, some time you really got in the dill.”

Joe snorted. He seldom met someone not of Category Military who didn’t want a special detailed description of some gory action in which Joe had participated. And like all veterans of combat, there was nothing he liked less to do. Combat was something which, when done, you wished to leave behind you. Were brainwashing really practicable, it was this you would wish to wash away.

But Joe, like others before him, down through the ages, had found a way out. He had a store of a dozen or so humorous episodes with which he could regale listeners. That time his horse’s cinch had loosened when he was on a scouting mission and he had galloped around and around amidst a large company of enemy skirmishers, most of them running after him and trying to drag him from the horse’s back, while he hung on for dear life.

But it occurred to him that the boy might better appreciate a tale which involved his father, the Telly reporter, and some act of daring the small man had performed the better to serve his fracas-buff audience.

He was well launched into the tale, boosting Freddy Soligen’s part beyond reality, but not impossibly so, when that worthy entered the room, breaking it off.

While Freddy was shaking hands with his visitor, Sam said, “Hey, Papa, you never told me about that time you were surrounded by all the field artillery, and only you and Major Mauser and three other men got out.”

Freddy grinned fondly at the boy and then looked his reproach at Joe. “What’re you trying to do, make the life of a Telly reporter sound romantic to the kid? Stick to the priesthood, son, there’s more chicken dinners involved.” He saw Joe was impatient to talk to him. “How about leaving us alone for a while, Sam? We’ve got some business.”

“Sure, Papa. I’ve got to memorize some Greek chants, anyway. How come they don’t have all these rituals and all in some language everybody can understand?”

“Then everybody might understand them,” Freddy said sourly. “Then what’d happen?”

His son said, “Major, maybe you can finish that story some other time, huh?”

Joe said, “Sure, sure, sure. It winds up with your father the hero and they bump him up to Upper-Upper and make him head of Category Communications.”

“On the trank again,” Freddy grumbled, but Joe sensed he wasn’t particularly amused.

When the boy was gone, Joe Mauser told the Telly reporter of his interview with Stonewall Cogswell.

Freddy shook his head. “He wants you to fly that sailplane thing of yours again, huh? No. That won’t do it. We need some gimmick, Joe. Something⁠—”

Joe said impatiently, “You keep saying that. But, look, I’m a mercenary. A fighting man can’t drop out of participation in the fracases if he expects the buffs to continue interest in him.”

The little man tried to explain. “I’m not saying you’re going to drop out of the fracases. But we need something where we can make you shine. Somewhere where you can be on every lens for a mile around.”

Joe’s face was still impatient.

Freddy said sourly, “Listen, you tried to handle all this by yourself, last time. You dreamed up that fancy glider gimmick and sold it to old Baron Haer. But did you do yourself any good with the buffs? Like Zen you did. All you did was louse up a perfectly promising fracas so far as they were concerned. Hardly a drop of blood was shed. Stonewall Cogswell just resigned when he saw what he was up against. Oh, sure, you won the battle for Vacuum Tube Transport, practically all by yourself, but that’s not what the buff wants. He wants blood, he wants action, spectacular action. And you can’t give it to him way up there in the air. Hey⁠—!”

Joe looked at him, scowling questioningly.

Freddy said, slowly, “Why not?”

Joe Mauser growled, “What’d you mean, why not?”

Freddy said slowly, “Why can’t you have some blood and guts combat, right up there in that glider?”

“Have you gone drivel-happy?”

But the little man was on his feet, pacing the floor quickly, irritably, but still happily. “A dogfight. A natural. Listen, you ever heard about dogfights, major?”

“You mean pitdogs, like in Wales, in the old days?”

“No, no. In the First War. All those early fighters. Baron Von Richthofen, the German, Albert Ball, the Englishman, René Fonck, the Frenchman. And all the rest. Werner Voss and Ernst Udet, and Rickenbacker and Luke Short.”

Joe nodded at last. “I remember now. They’d have a Vickers or Spandau mounted so as to fire between the propeller blades. As I recall, that German, Richthofen, had some eighty victories to his credit.”

“OK. They called them dogfights. One aircraft against another. You’re going to reintroduce the whole thing.”

Joe was staring at him. Once again the Telly reporter sounded completely around the bend.

Freddy was impatiently patient. “We’ll mount a gun on your sailplane and you’ll attack those two gliders Cogswell says General McCord has.”

Joe said, “The Sov-world observers would never stand still for it. In fact, there’s a good chance that using gliders at all will be forbidden when the International Disarmament Commission convenes next month. If the Sov-world delegates vote against use of gliders as reconnaissance craft, the Neut-world will vote with them. Those Neut-world delegates vote against everything.” Joe grunted. “It’s true enough gliders were flown before the year 1900, but not the kind of advanced sailplanes you have to utilize for them to be practical. Certainly there were no gliders in use capable