Joe Mauser, Mercenary from Tomorrow. Mack Reynolds
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The telly reporter frowned in anger. “This is the big deal to keep under my hat? For crissake, Captain, you’re not that green. You must know that every Category Military cloddy on the make tries to suck up to telly teams. You’d think most of them were Tri-Dee stars, trying to get their faces on lens as much as possible.” He snorted again. “This is the first time you’ve braced me, though!” There was contempt in his voice; that and a certain disappointment.
Joe now realized he’d made a mistake. He couldn’t put it over this way. He either had to tell Freddy Soligen now or forget it. But he had no intention of telling Freddy Soligen a thing. He couldn’t afford to.
He said, “Forget about it. To hell with it, Freddy. See you there, later.” He turned and walked off. Max Mainz, who had been standing off a few feet, followed.
The telly reporter started after him, then stopped and called out, “Yeah. See you, Captain. Hope you run into no personal dill.”
“Same, Freddy,” Mauser called over his shoulder.
* * * *
Soligen continued to scowl after him. His reporter instinct told him something was off. It wasn’t like Captain Joe Mauser to be sucking up to a telly man, trying to get on lens for a moment or two for the publicity value. Of course he, Soligen, had possibly precipitated it with his crack about Mauser pulling something out of the hat just to become newsworthy. But still…
Just then Freddy Soligen noted the landing of Stonewall Cogswell’s transport. He started off to round up his crew, but his tight little face still registered suspicious thoughts.
They drove back to their billet in silence, Max Mainz respecting Mauser’s desire to mull over the morning’s developments, whatever they were. Max still wasn’t quite sure what had been accomplished by the flight over the military reservation. From several thousand feet of altitude, he had been able to make out precious little below, and couldn’t understand why they so completely covered the mountain ridges, hovering at this point or that for five or ten minutes at a time.
His captain pulled up the sporty little air cushion car before their cottage and left Max to bring their things in.
Mauser entered the front door, pulled his jerkin off, and threw it over the back of a chair. He went on through the front room and into the kitchenette. There were several bottles standing on the cabinet; he picked up one and scowled at it. Tequila. It brought to mind what Soligen had said about the knoll they’d been pinned down on, years ago, down on the Chihuahua Military Reservation in what had once been Mexico.
He’d been a top sergeant at that time, and had picked up a taste for the fiery Mexican spirits. He remembered how they drank it there. You put a little salt on the back of your hand and a quarter of a lime on the bar before you. After licking the salt, you picked up the shot glass of tequila and tossed its contents back over your tonsils. You then grabbed the lime and bit into it, by way of a chaser.
He didn’t have any limes here in Kingston, nor the patience to go through the routine. He poured a glass of the colorless potable and tossed it off, stiff-wristed. He started to pour another, but caught himself. At this time of day? He put the bottle back and went back to the living room, scowling.
He didn’t think of himself as a drinker. He knew the drinkers, and what happened to them. You didn’t remain one in Category Military; if you did, you didn’t last long. You needed your reflexes at top peak.
Back in the living room, he noticed the message light glowing on the terminal. He flicked the playback.
The screen lit up with the expressionless face of a girl clerk clad in the Haer uniform. Probably an office worker, drafted for special work during the fracas. It wasn’t the best thing in the world for Baron Haer to be doing. Even clerks in the military should be old hands. Silly mistakes made by tyros could lose a fracas.
She said, “Captain Mauser, please report soonest to the offices of Reconnaissance Command.” The screen blanked; a recording.
There were no other messages. He shrugged and went into his bedroom to get back into his cavalry major uniform. He was sorry now he had taken the drink; it would be on his breath when he showed up at headquarters. But then he shrugged impatiently at himself. Why should he give a damn? For that matter, every officer in the Haer forces was probably doing a bit more drinking than usual. They had something to drink about, to be sure.
As he dressed, he called through the door to Max, “I’ve got to go into Kingston. Take the rest of the day off, if you want. Believe me, you can use the rest. Tomorrow we’ll start whipping this outfit into a unit.” He added, sotto voce, “If possible.”
Max said, “I guess I’ll get into my own kilts and go into town to see what’s jelling, sir.”
Joe grinned, remembering his own first days in the Category Military and the glory of wearing combat attire. He had been lucky to survive the first year or so as a mercenary. You had a very good chance of becoming a casualty long before you learned the tools of your trade. He shrugged into his tunic and left the motel, still buttoning it.
Let poor Max have his moment of glory, strutting the streets of downtown Kingston in his spanking new Haer kilts under the admiring gaze of the fracas buffs who were pouring into town to get as near as possible to the Category Military officers and soldiers. Men who all too soon would be spilling their blood on the Catskill hills.
Yes, Max should enjoy it while he could. Soon enough he would know what being a mercenary was really about.
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