Joe Mauser, Mercenary from Tomorrow. Mack Reynolds
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going now, Captain?”
“To the airport. Come along.”
Outside, Mauser led the way to his hovercraft. As soon as the two were settled into the bucket seats, he hit the lift lever with the butt of his left hand. Once they were air-cushion borne, he pressed down on the accelerator.
Max Mainz was impressed. “You know,” he said, “I never been in one of these swanky jobs before. The kinda car you can afford on the income of a Mid-Lower’s stock isn’t—”
“Oh, come off it, Max!” Mauser said wearily. “People are always griping, but in spite of all the beefing in every strata from Low-Lower to Upper-Middle, I’ve yet to see any signs of organized protest against our present politico-economic system.”
“Hey,” Max said. “Don’t get me wrong. What was good enough for Dad, is good enough for me. You won’t catch me talking against the government.”
“Hmm,” Joe murmured. “And all the other clichés taught to us to preserve the status quo, our People’s Capitalism.” They were reaching the outskirts of town, crossing the Esopus. The airport lay only a mile or so beyond.
The sarcasm was too deep for Max, and since he didn’t understand, he said, tolerantly, “Well, what’s wrong with People’s Capitalism? Everybody owns the corporations. Damn-sight better than what the Sovs have.”
Mauser said sourly, “We’ve got one optical illusion; they’ve got another. Over there they claim the proletariat owns the means of production, distribution, and communication. Great. But the Party members are the ones who control it, and as a result, they manage to do all right for themselves. The Party hierarchy over there is like the Uppers over here.”
“Yeah.” Max was being particularly dense. “I’ve seen a lot about it on telly. You know, when there isn’t a good fracas on, you tune to one of them educational shows, like.”
Joe winced at the term “educational,” but held his peace.
“It’s pretty rugged over there,” Max continued, “but here in the West-world the people own a corporation’s stock and they run it and get the benefit.”
“Makes a beautiful story,” Joe said dryly. “Look, Max. Suppose you have a corporation that has two hundred thousand shares out and they’re distributed among one hundred thousand and one persons. One hundred thousand of these own one share apiece, and the remaining stockholder owns the other hundred thousand.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Max said.
Joe sighed. “Briefly,” he said, “we are given the illusion that this is a People’s Capitalism, an improvement over democracy, with all stock in the hands of the people—evenly distributed. Actually, the stock is in the hands of the Uppers, all except a mere dribble. They own the country and then run it for their own benefit.
“True democracy—and true freedom—was allowed to die at the end of the 20th century, thanks in large part to so-called Socialists who, it was largely thought, gained no little support from the Communist world.” Max shot a less than military glance at him. “Hey, you’re not one of these Sovs yourself, are you?” They were coming into the parking area near the airport’s Administration Building. “No,” Mauser said, so softly that Max could hardly hear his words. “Only a Mid-Middle on the make.”
Followed by Max, he strode quickly to the Administration Building, presented his credit identification at the desk, and requested a light aircraft for a period of three hours. He made it clear that he required a specific type of aircraft. The clerk, hardly looking up, began going through motions, keying codes into a terminal and speaking into a telescreen.
The clerk said finally, “You might have a short wait, sir. Quite a few of the officers involved in this fracas have been renting out taxi-planes as fast as they’re available.” He paused as the terminal spat out a printed slip, then handed it over along with Mauser’s credit card. “And I don’t know whether you’ll get the kind of deal you’re after; it’s first come, first served today. You’ll be paged when your aircraft is ready.”
The delay didn’t surprise him. Any competent officer made a point of conducting an aerial survey of the battle reservation before going into a fracas. Aircraft, of course, couldn’t be used during the fray, since they postdated the turn of the century and hence were regulated to the cemetery of military devices—along with such items as nuclear weapons, tanks, and even powered vehicles of sufficient size to be useful.
Use an aircraft in a fracas, or even build an aircraft for military use, and you’d have a howl go up from the military attaches of the Sov-world that would be heard all the way to Budapest. Not a fracas went by but there were scores if not hundreds of foreign military observers, keen-eyed to check whether or not any really modern tools of war were being illegally utilized. He sometimes wondered if the Sov-world armies were as strict in their adherence to the rules of the Universal Disarmament Pact. Probably, since West-world observers were breathing down their necks, as well. But they didn’t have the same system of fighting fracases over there. The Neut-world, of course, didn’t figure into the equation, and Common Europe was another matter entirely. Still, observers from those blocs were to be found at every major fracas, as well.
Mauser and Max took seats while they waited, and both thumbed through the ubiquitous fracas fan magazines. Joe sometimes found his own face in such publications, probably more as a result of having been around so long than anything else. He was a third-rate celebrity; luck hadn’t been with him as far as the buffs were concerned. They wanted spectacular victories, murderous situations in which they could lose themselves in vicarious thrills. Mauser, unfortunately, had reached most of his peaks while either in retreat or while commanding a holding action. His fellow officers and superiors appreciated him, as did a few ultra-knowledgeable fracas buffs, but he was all but unknown to the average dimwit whose life was devoted to blood and gore.
On the various occasions when matters had pickled and Mauser had fought his way out against difficult odds, he was almost always off camera. Purely bad luck. On top of skill, determination, experience, and courage, you had to have luck to get anywhere in Category Military. But then, that was true of life in general.
This time, Mauser reminded himself, he was going to make his own luck.
A voice said, “Ah, Captain Mauser.”
Joe looked up, then came to his feet quickly. He started to salute out of sheer reflex, then caught himself; he was not in uniform. He said stiffly, “My compliments, Marshal Cogswell.”
The other was a smallish man, but strongly built, with a strikingly narrow face. His voice was clipped and clear, the air of command etched into it. He, like Mauser, wore mufti. He now extended his hand to be shaken.
“I hear you have signed up with Baron Haer, Captain. I was rather expecting you to come in with me. Had a place for a good aide-de-camp. Liked your work in that last fracas we went through together. ”
“Thank you, sir,” Mauser said. Stonewall Cogswell was as good a tactician as ever free-lanced, and more. He was an excellent judge of men and a stickler for detail. And right now, if Joe Mauser knew Marshal Cogswell as well as he thought he did, Cogswell was smelling a rat. There was no reason why an old pro should sign up with a sure loser like Vacuum Tube when he could have earned more shares taking a commission with Hovercraft, especially in view of the fact that as an aide-de-camp it was unlikely he would run much chance of getting into the dill.
He was looking at Mauser brightly, the question in his eyes. Three or four of his staff stood a few paces back, looking polite, but Cogswell didn’t bring them into the conversation. Mauser knew most by sight. Good men all. Old pros all. He felt another twinge of doubt.
He had to cover. At last he said, “I was offered a particularly good contract, sir. Too good to resist.”
The other nodded, as though inwardly coming to a satisfactory conclusion. “Baron Haer’s connections, eh? He’s probably offered to back you for a bounce in caste. Is that it, Joe?”
Mauser