CHAPTER THREE
By the time Mauser called it a day and retired to his quarters, he was exhausted to the point where his occasional dissatisfaction with the trade he followed was heavily upon him. Such was the case increasingly often these days. He was no longer a kid. There was no longer romance in the calling—if there ever had been for Joe Mauser.
He had met his immediate senior officers, largely dilettante Uppers with precious little field experience, and been unimpressed. And he’d met his own junior officers and been shocked. By the looks of things at this stage, Captain Mauser’s squadron would be going into this fracas both undermanned and with junior officers composed largely of temporarily promoted noncoms. If this was typical of Baron Haer’s total force, then Balt Haer was right; unconditional surrender was to be considered, no matter how disastrous to the Haer family fortunes.
Mauser had no difficulty securing his uniforms. Kingston, as a city on the outskirts of the Catskill Reservation, was well populated by tailors who could turn out uniforms on a twenty-four-hour delivery basis. He had even been able to take immediate delivery of one kilted uniform. Now, inside his quarters, he began stripping out of his jacket. Somewhat to his surprise, Mainz, the small man he had selected earlier to be his batman, entered from an inner room, resplendent in the Haer uniform.
He helped his superior out of the jacket with an ease that held no subservience but at the same time was correctly respectful. You’d have thought him a batman specially trained.
Mauser grunted, “Max, isn’t it? I’d forgotten all about you. Glad you found our billet all right.”
Max said, “Yes, sir. Would the captain like a drink? I picked up a bottle of applejack. Applejack’s the drink around here, sir. Makes a topnotch highball with ginger ale and a twist of lemon.”
Mauser looked at him. Evidently his tapping this man for orderly was sheer fortune. Well, Joe Mauser could use some good luck on this job. He hoped it didn’t end with selecting a batman.
He said, “Sounds good, Max. Got ice?”
“Of course, sir.” Max left the small room.
Vacuum Tube’s officers were billeted in what had once been a group of resort cottages on the old road between Kingston and Woodstock. Each cottage featured full amenities, including a tiny kitchenette. That was one advantage to a fracas held in a civilized area where there were plenty of facilities. Such military reservations as the Little Big Horn in Montana and some of those in the Southwest and Mexico were another thing.
Mauser lowered himself into the room’s easy chair and bent down to untie his laces, then kicked his shoes off. He could use that drink. He began wondering all over again if his scheme for winning this fracas would come off. The more he saw of Baron Haer’s inadequate forces, the more he wondered. He simply hadn’t expected Vacuum Tube to be in this bad a shape. Baron Haer had been riding high for so long that one would have thought his reputation for victory would have lured at least a few freelance veterans to his colors. Evidently they hadn’t bitten. The word was out, all right.
Max Mainz returned with the drink.
Mauser said, “You had one yourself?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, go get yourself one and come on back and sit down. Let’s get acquainted.”
“Yes, sir.” Max disappeared back into the kitchenette to return almost immediately. The little man slid into a chair, drink awkwardly in hand.
His superior sized him up all over again. Not much more than a kid, really. Surprisingly forward for a Lower who must have been raised from childhood in a trank-bemused, telly-entertained household. The fact that he’d broken away from that environment at all was to his credit. It was considerably easier to conform—but then it is always easier to conform, to run with the herd, as Mauser well knew. His own break hadn’t been an easy one.
He sipped at his drink. “Relax,” he said.
Max nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, this is my first day.”
“I know. And you’ve been seeing telly shows all your life showing how an orderly conducts himself in the presence of his superior.” Mauser took another pull and yawned. “Well, forget about it. I like to be on close terms with any man who goes into a fracas with me. When things pickle, I want him to be on my side, not nursing a grudge brought on by his officer trying to give him an inferiority complex.” The little man was eyeing him in surprise.
Mauser finished his drink and came to his feet to get another one. He said, “On two occasions I’ve had an orderly save my life. I’m not taking any chances but that there might be a third opportunity.”
“Well, yessir. Does the captain want me to get him—”
“I’ll get it,” Mauser said.
When he’d returned to his chair, he said, “Why did you join up with Baron Haer, Max?”
The other shrugged. “Well, besides the fact that Continental Hovercraft’s recruit roster was full, the usual. The excitement. The idea of all those fans watching me on telly. The shares of common stock I’ll get. And, you never know, maybe a bounce in caste. I wouldn’t mind making Upper-Lower.”
Mauser said sourly, “One fracas and you’ll be over the desire to have the buffs watching you on telly while they sit around sucking trank. And you’ll probably be over the desire for the excitement, too. Of course, the share of stock is another thing.”
“You aren’t just countin’ down, Captain,” Max said, an almost surly overtone in his voice. “You don’t know what it’s like being born with no more common stock shares than a Mid-Lower.”
Mauser held his peace, nursing his drink. He was moderately fond of alcohol, but could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had really overindulged. And he never used trank, that government-approved and -promoted narcotic. An old pro in the Category Military doesn’t foul up his reflexes, certainly not on the eve of a fracas. He let his eyebrows rise to encourage the other to go on.
Max said doggedly, “Sure, they call it People’s Capitalism and everybody gets issued enough shares to insure him a basic living from the cradle to the grave, like they say. But let me tell you, you’re a Middle and you don’t realize just how basic the basic living of a Lower can be.”
Mauser yawned. If he hadn’t been so tired, he might have found more amusement in the situation. If nothing else, it was ironic.
He decided to let Mainz continue to think he was talking to one with no knowledge of life as a Lower. “Why don’t you work? A Lower can always add to his stock by working. ”
Max stirred, indignant. “Work? Listen, sir, mine’s just one more field that’s been automated right out of existence. Category Food Preparation, Sub-division Cooking, Branch Chef. I’m a junior chef, see? But cooking isn’t left in the hands of slobs who might drop a cake of soap into the soup.” That last was delivered with an angry sarcasm. “It’s done automatic. The only changes made in cooking are by real top experts, almost scientists, like. And most of them are Uppers.”
Mauser sighed inwardly. Mainz’s story was like that of millions of others. The man might have been born into the food preparation category from a long line of chefs, but he knew precious little about his field, Mauser might have suspected. He himself had been born into Clothing Category, Sub-division Shoes, Branch Repair. Cobbler—a meaningless trade, since shoes, like so many other items, were no longer repaired but discarded upon showing signs of wear. In an economy of complete abundance, there is little reason to repair basic commodities.
That was the result of social evolution. Decades of reckless experimentation during the previous century had led to this: a utopia in which almost no one had to work and in which—typical of such societies—a small fraction of the population held the true power and wealth. In an attempt to make everyone equal, inequality had been