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

Joe said, “Gentlemen, may I present Max Mainz?”

The faces of the lieutenants went blank, and one of them coughed as though apologetically.

The Sov colonel looked from Joe to Max, and then back again, his face assuming that expression so well known to Joe for so very long. The aristocrat looking at one of lower class as though wondering what made the fellow tick. Kossuth said, “But surely this, ah, chap, is a servant, one of your, what do you call them, a Lower.”

Max blinked unhappily and looked at Joe.

Joe Mauser said evenly, “I had heard the Sov-world was the Utopia of the proletariat. However, gentlemen, Max Mainz is my friend as well as my⁠ ⁠… assistant.”

The three officers murmured some things stiffly to Max, who, a Lower born, was not overly nonplussed by the situation. Zen, he knew the three were Upper caste, what was Major Mauser getting into a tissy about? He was given a seat in the front, where the chauffeur would have once been, and the others took places in the rear, one of the lieutenants dialing the hover-car’s destination.

Joe Mauser said, “I am afraid my background is hazy, Colonel Kossuth. You mentioned the Pink Army. You also mentioned your own fracases. I knew you maintained an army, of course, but I thought the fracas was a West development, in fact, your military attachés are usually on the scornful side.”

The two lieutenants grinned, but Kossuth said seriously, “Major, as always, nations which hold each other at arm’s length, use different terminology to say much the same thing. It need not be confusing, if one digs below to find reality. Perhaps, for a moment, we four can lower barriers enough for me to explain that whilst in the West-world you hold your fracases to,”⁠—he began enumerating on his fingers⁠—“One, settle disputes between business competitors, or between corporations and unions. Two, to train soldiers for your defense requirements. Three, to keep bemused a potentially dangerous lower class.⁠ ⁠…”

“I object to that, colonel,” one of the lieutenants said hotly.

The Sov officer ignored him. “Four, to dispose of the more aggressive potential rebels, by allowing them to kill each other off in the continual combat.”

“That, sir, is simply not true,” the lieutenant blurted. Joe couldn’t remember if he was Andersen or Dickson, even their names were similar.

Joe said, evenly, “And your alternative?”

The Hungarian shrugged. “The Proletarian Paradise maintains two armies, major. One of veterans, for defense against potential foreign foes, and named the Glorious Invincible Red Army⁠—”

“Or, the Red Army, for short,” one of the lieutenants murmured dryly.

“… And the other composed of less experienced proletarians and their techno-intellectual, and sometimes even Party, officers. This is our Pink Army.”

“Wait a moment,” Joe said. “What’s a proletarian?”

The lieutenant who had protested the Sov officer’s summation of the reasons for the West-world fracases, laughed dryly.

Kossuth stared at Joe. “You are poorly founded in the background of the Sov-world, major.”

Joe said, “Deliberately, Colonel Kossuth. When I learned of my assignment, I deliberately avoided cramming unsifted information. I decided it would be more desirable to get my information at the source, uncontaminated by our own West-world propaganda.”

One of the stiff-necked twins, both of whom Joe was beginning to find a bit too stereotyped West-world adherents, said, “Sir, I must protest. The West does not utilize propaganda.”

“Of course not,” Kossuth said, taking his turn at a dry tone. He said to Joe, “I admire your decision. Obviously, a correct one. Major, a proletarian is, well, you could say, ah⁠—”

“A Low-Lower,” Andersen or Dickson said.

“Not exactly,” the Sov protested. “Let us put it this way. Marx once wrote that when true Socialism had arrived, the formula would be from each according to his abilities and to each according to his needs. Unhappily, due to the fact that the Proletarian Paradise is surrounded by potential enemies, we have not as yet established this formula. Instead, it is now from each according to his abilities and to each according to his contribution. Consequently, the most useful members of our society are drawn into the ranks of the Party, and, contributing the most, are most highly rewarded. The Party consists of somewhat less than one percent of the population.”

“And is for all practical purposes, hereditary,” Anderson or Dickson said.

Kossuth, in indignation, parroted, unknowingly, the lieutenant’s earlier words. “That, sir, is simply not true.”

Joe said, soothing over the ruffled waters, “And the⁠ ⁠… what did you call them⁠ ⁠… techno-intellectuals?”

“They are the second most useful members of society. Our technicians, scientists⁠—although many of these are members of the Party, of course⁠—teachers, artists, Pink and Red Army officers, and so forth.”

Max looked around from the front seat. “Well, gee, that sounds just about like Uppers, Middles and Lowers to me.”

Joe Mauser cleared his throat and said to the Hungarian who was glaring at Max. “And the Pink Army?”

But Kossuth bit out to Max, “Don’t be silly, my man. There are no classes in the Proletarian Paradise.”

“Yeah,” Max said, “and back in the West-world we got People’s Capitalism and the people own the corporations. Yeah.”

“That’ll be all, Max,” Joe said, getting in before the two lieutenants could snap something at the fiesty little man. Joe had already decided that the lieutenants were both Uppers, and was somewhat surprised at their lowly rank.

Kossuth brought his attention back to Joe. “We’re almost to our destination, Major Mauser. However, briefly, some of the more recent additions to the Sov-world, particularly in the more backward areas of southern Asia, have not quite adjusted to the glories of the Proletarian Paradise.”

Both of the lieutenants chuckled softly.

Kossuth said, “So it is found necessary to dispatch punitive expeditions against them. A current such expedition is in the Kunlun Mountains in that area once known as Sinkiang to the north, Tibet to the south. Kirghiz and Kazakhs nomads in the region persist in rejecting the Party and its program. The Pink Army is in the process of eliminating these reactionary elements.”

Joe was puzzled. He said, “You mean, in all these