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

time you get a promotion, is in gloom each time your side loses a fracas. He’s got pictures of you in various poses taken from the fracas-buff magazines, and files away all articles in which your name appears.”

“Zen!” Nadine laughed in deprecation.

“That’s just the beginning. After a while he starts writing you fan letters, wanting autographed portraits, wanting a souvenir⁠—sometimes nothing more exciting than a button off your uniform. More often they want a gun, sword or combat knife, particularly one they saw you using in some fracas or other. They usually offer to pay for such, sometimes quite fabulous amounts. Other times they want a bit of bloody uniform, your own true blood from a time when you were in the dill and managed to cop one.”

Nadine was astonished. Antagonistic as she was, herself, to the fracases, she wasn’t particularly knowledgeable about all their ramifications. She said, repelled, “But doesn’t such morbidity disgust you? This fawning, this slobbering⁠—”

Joe grunted. “All part of the game. A mercenary without buffs to boost him, to form fracas-buff clubs and such, hasn’t much chance of promotion. So far as disgust is concerned, you’d have to see one of the really far-out ones. The gleam in an ordinarily fishlike eye when he recounts the time you killed three men in hand-to-hand combat, equipped only with an entrenching tool, when they came at you with bayonets. The trace of spittle, running down from the side of his mouth.”

“And this buff of yours. Why did he give you this perfectly marvelous car?”

“It was a she, not a he,” Joe said.

Nadine’s voice changed infinitesimally. “You mean you accepted a gift of this value from a⁠ ⁠… woman?”

Joe looked at her and grinned sourly. “I wasn’t in much of a position to refuse. The gift was in her will. She was well into her nineties when she died. She was an Upper-Upper, by the way, and the most knowledgeable fracas buff I ever met. She knew the intimate details of every fracas since Tiglath-Pileser and his Assyrians captured Babylon. She could argue for an hour on whether Parmenion or Alexander the Great should have been given the credit for the victory over the Persians at Issus.” Joe grunted. “I suppose there should be a moral somewhere about this kindly old lady who was the outstanding fracas buff of them all.”

Nadine Haer was in the process of hitting the drop lever with her left hand as they slowed and headed for the entrance to a parking area. She said brittlely, “The moral is that you can have slobs at any level in society. Being an Upper doesn’t guarantee anything.”

Joe sighed, “Here we go again.” He looked about him, scowling. “Which brings to mind. Where are we going? These are governmental buildings, aren’t they?”

They were sinking quickly, below street level, now in the power of the auto-parker. Nadine turned off the engine and released the controls. She said, cryptogrammicly, “We are going to see about doing something with your abilities other than shooting at people, or being shot at.”

When the car was parked, she led the way to an elevator.

Joe said wryly, “Oh, great. I love mysteries. When do we find out who killed the victim?”

Nadine looked at him from the side of her eyes. “I killed the victim,” she said. “Major Mauser, mercenary by trade, is now no more.”

There was bitterness in him and he found no ability to respond to what was meant as humor in her words. He followed her silently and his puzzlement grew with him. The office building through which they moved was as well done as any he could ever remember having observed, even on the Telly. Surely they couldn’t be in the Octagon or the New White House. But, if so, why?

Nadine said. “Here we are,” and indicated a door which opened at their approach.

There was a receptionist in the small office beyond, a bit of ostentation Joe Mauser seldom met with in the modern world. What in the name of Zen could anyone need with other than an auto-receptionist? Didn’t efficiency mean anything here?

The receptionist said, “Good afternoon, Dr. Haer. Mr. Holland is expecting you.”

It came to Joe now⁠—Philip Holland, secretary to Harlow Mannerheim, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He had met the man a few months ago at Nadine’s home in that swank section of Greater Washington once known as Baltimore. But he had no idea what Nadine had in mind bringing him here. Evidently, she was well enough into the graces of the bureaucrat to barge into his office during working hours. Surprising in itself, since, although she was an Upper born, still governmental servants can’t be at the beck of every hereditary aristocrat in the land.

Holland stood up briefly at their entrance and shook hands quickly, almost abruptly, held a chair for Nadine, motioned to another one for Joe. He sat down again and said into an inter-office telly-mike, “Miss Mikhail, the dossier on Joesph Mauser, and would you request Frank Hodgson to drop in?”

What was obviously the dossier slid from the desk chute and Holland leafed through it, as though disinterested. He said, “Joseph Mauser, born Mid-Lower, Clothing Category, Subdivision Shoes, Branch Repair.” Holland looked up. “A somewhat plebian beginning, let us admit.”

A tic manifested itself at the side of Joe Mauser’s mouth, but he said nothing. If long years of the military had taught him anything, it was patience. The other man had the initiative now, let him use it.

Holland cast his eyes ceilingward, and, without referring to the dossier before him, said, “Crossed categories at the age of seventeen to Military, remaining a Rank Private for three years at which time promoted to corporal. Sergeant followed in another three years and upon reaching the rank of lieutenant, at the age of twenty-five was bounced in caste to High-Lower. After distinguishing himself in a fracas between Douglas-Boeing and Lockheed-Cessna was further raised to Low-Middle caste. By the age of thirty had reached Mid-Middle caste and Rank Captain. By thirty-three, the