That in mind, Mauser wasted no time on verbal preliminaries. In a lightning move, he closed on the belligerent Lower. His right hand darted out, fingers close together and pointed. An instant later his fingers sank into the other’s abdomen, immediately below the rib-cage, and found their target—the solar plexus. The man jerked, doubled over, and sank silently to the ground.
It was then that Mauser discovered he had underestimated the other two. Even as his opponent crumbled, they came at him from both sides. And at least one of them had been in hand-to-hand combat before, probably in the prize ring. Another pro like Mauser himself, though from a somewhat different field.
Mauser took the first blow, rolling with it, then automatically dropped into the stance of the trained fighter. He retreated slightly to erect defenses, plan attack. They pressed him strongly, reading victory in his withdrawal.
The one to his left mattered little. Mauser could have polished him off in a matter of seconds, had there been seconds to devote. The other, the experienced one, was the problem. He and Mauser were well matched, and with the oaf as his ally the Lower really had the best of it.
Just then the source of the problem waded in, delivering sudden, unexpected support. As big as any of the men there so far as spirit was concerned, the little man advanced on the veteran, fists before him in typical street-fighting fashion.
His attack proved a bit hasty, however. He took a crashing blow to the side of his head which sent him sailing back into the recruiting line, now composed of excited, shouting onlookers.
That small wrangle bought what Mauser needed most—time. For a double second he had the oaf alone on his hands, and that was enough. As the man swung on him, Joe sidestepped, caught a flailing arm, turned his back and automatically went into that spectacular wrestling hold called the Flying Mare. Just in time he recalled that his opponent was a future comrade-in-arms and twisted the arm so that it bent at the elbow rather than breaking. He hurled the other over his shoulder and as far as possible to take the scrap out of him, then twirled to meet the attack of his sole remaining foe.
That phase of the combat failed to materialize.
A voice of command bit out, “Hold it, you lads!”
The situation that had originally started the fight was being duplicated. But while the three Lowers had failed to respond to Mauser’s tone of authority, there was no similar failure now.
The owner of the voice, beautifully done up in the uniform of Vacuum Tube Transport complete to kilts and the swagger stick carried by ranks of colonel or above, stood glaring at them. Age, Mauser estimated as he came to attention, somewhere in his late twenties. An Upper in caste—a born aristocrat, born to command, his face holding that arrogant, contemptuous expression once common to the patricians of Rome, the Prussian Junkers, the British ruling class of the 19th century. Joe knew the expression well. How well he knew it—on more than one occasion, he had dreamed of it.
Mauser said, “Yes, sir.”
“What in Zen goes on here? Are you lads over-tranked?”
“No, sir,” Mauser’s veteran opponent grumbled, eyes on the ground, a schoolboy before the principal.
The Upper glared at Mauser. Mauser said evenly, “A private disagreement, sir.”
“Disagreement?” The Upper snorted. His eyes went to the two fallen combatants, now beginning to recover. “I’d hate to see you lads in a real scrap.”
That brought a strong response from the men in the recruiting line. The bon mot wasn’t that good, but caste has its privileges; the laughter was just short of uproarious.
This seemed to placate the kilted officer. He tapped his swagger stick against his leg while he ran his eyes up and down Mauser and the others, as though memorizing them for future reference.
“All right,” he said, “get back into line, and you troublemakers quiet down. We’re processing as quickly as we can.” Then he added insult to injury with an almost word-for-word repetition of what Mauser had said a few minutes earlier. “You’ll get all the fighting you want from Hovercraft, if you can wait until then.” The Lowers who had been in the original altercation resumed their places sheepishly. The little fellow, rubbing what had to be an aching jaw, made a point of taking up his original position. None challenged him. He darted a look of thanks to Mauser, who remained at attention.
The Upper looked at him. “Well, lad, are you interested in signing up with Vacuum Transport or not?” There was a fine impatience in his voice, just a touch of extra emphasis on “lad.”
“Yes, sir,” Mauser replied. Then, “Joseph Mauser, sir. Category Military, Rank Captain.”
“Indeed.” The officer looked him up and down all over again, his nostrils high. “A Middle, I assume. And brawling with recruits.” He held a long silence.
“Very well, come with me.” He turned and marched off.
Mauser shrugged inwardly. This was a fine start for his fling—a fine start. He had half a mind to give it all up, here and now, and head on north to Catskill to enlist with Continental Hovercraft. He was almost sure to win at least a junior position on Stonewall Cogswell’s staff, although that would mean that his big scheme would have to wait for another day.
But, at the thought of his plan, he set his lips and fell in behind the aristocrat. A few hundred steps brought them to the offices which had been Joe’s original destination.
Two Rank Privates, carrying 45-70 Springfields and wearing the Haer kilts in a manner that indicated permanent status with Vacuum Tube Transport, came to the salute as they approached. The Upper flicked his swagger stick to his cap in easy nonchalance. Mauser felt envious amusement. How long did it take to learn to answer a salute with just that degree of arrogant ease?
They passed through double doors into a large room. Office furniture, terminals, and other pieces of equipment were scattered about, apparently at random. Counters and desks trailed long lines of recruits. The sound of printers humming, keyboards clicking, sorters and collators flicking, merged into an annoying hum as Vacuum Tube Transport office workers, mobilized for this special service, processed volunteers for the company forces. Harried noncoms and junior-grade officers buzzed everywhere, failing miserably to bring order to the chaos. To the right, a door sported a newly-painted medical cross. When it occasionally popped open to admit or emit a recruit, white-robed doctors, nurses, and half-nude men could be glimpsed beyond. Joe gave the scene a cursory glance; he had seen it all a hundred times over.
He followed the Upper through the press and into an inner office at which door the Upper didn’t bother to knock. Instead he pushed his way through, waved in greeting with his swagger stick to the single occupant, who looked up from a paper-strewn desk.
Joe had seen the face before on telly, though never so worn and haggard as this. Bullet-headed, barrel-figured Baron Malcolm Haer of Vacuum Tube Transport: Category Transportation, Mid-Upper, and strong candidate for Upper-Upper upon retirement. However, few expected retirement of the baron in the immediate future. Hardly. Malcolm Haer found too obvious a lusty enjoyment in the competition between Vacuum Tube Transport and its stronger rivals. A roly-poly man he might be physically, but his demeanor reminded one of Bonaparte rather than Humpty Dumpty.
Mauser came to attention and bore the sharp scrutiny of his chosen commander-to-be. The older man’s eyes left him to go to the kilted Upper. “What is it, Balt?” he said.
Balt gestured with his stick at Mauser. “Claims to be Rank Captain. Looking for a commission with us, Dad. I wouldn’t know why…” The last sentence was added lazily.
The older Haer shot an irritated glance at his son. “Possibly for the usual reasons mercenaries enlist for a fracas, Balt.” His eyes, small and sharp, returned to Mauser.
Still