Joseph Mauser spotted the recruiting line-up from two or three blocks
down the street, shortly after driving into Kingston. The local offices
of Vacuum Tube Transport, undoubtedly. Baron Haer would be doing his
recruiting for the fracas with Continental Hovercraft there if for no
other reason than to save on rents. The Baron was watching pennies on
this one and that was bad.
In fact, it was so bad that even as Joe Mauser let his sports hovercar
sink to a parking level and vaulted over its side he was still
questioning his decision to sign up with the Vacuum Tube outfit rather
than with their opponents. Joe was an old pro and old pros do not get to
be old pros in the Category Military without developing an instinct to
stay away from losing sides.
Fine enough for Low-Lowers and Mid-Lowers to sign up with this outfit,
as opposed to that, motivated by no other reasoning than the snappiness
of the uniform and the stock shares offered, but an old pro considered
carefully such matters as budget. Baron Haer was watching every expense,
was, it was rumored, figuring on commanding himself and calling upon
relatives and friends for his staff. Continental Hovercraft, on the
other hand, was heavy with variable capital and was in a position to
hire Stonewall Cogswell himself for their tactician.
However, the die was cast. You didn't run up a caste level, not to speak
of two at once, by playing it careful. Joe had planned this out; for
once, old pro or not, he was taking risks.
Recruiting line-ups were not for such as he. Not for many a year, many a
fracas. He strode rapidly along this one, heading for the offices ahead,
noting only in passing the quality of the men who were taking service
with Vacuum Tube Transport. These were the soldiers he'd be commanding
in the immediate future and the prospects looked grim. There were few
veterans among them. Their stance, their demeanor, their ... well, you
could tell a veteran even though he be Rank Private. You could tell a
veteran of even one fracas. It showed.
He knew the situation. The word had gone out. Baron Malcolm Haer was due
for a defeat. You weren't going to pick up any lush bonuses signing up
with him, and you definitely weren't going to jump a caste. In short, no
matter what Haer's past record, choose what was going to be the winning
side--Continental Hovercraft. Continental Hovercraft and old Stonewall
Cogswell who had lost so few fracases that many a Telly buff couldn't
remember a single one.
Individuals among these men showed promise, Joe Mauser estimated even as
he walked, but promise means little if you don't live long enough to
cash in on it.
Take that small man up ahead. He'd obviously got himself into a hassle
maintaining his place in line against two or three heftier would-be
soldiers. The little fellow wasn't backing down a step in spite of the
attempts of the other Lowers to usurp his place. Joe Mauser liked to see
such spirit. You could use it when you were in the dill.
As he drew abreast of the altercation, he snapped from the side of his
mouth, "Easy, lads. You'll get all the scrapping you want with
Hovercraft. Wait until then."
He'd expected his tone of authority to be enough, even though he was in
mufti. He wasn't particularly interested in the situation, beyond giving
the little man a hand. A veteran would have recognized him as an
old-timer and probable officer, and heeded, automatically.
These evidently weren't veterans.
"Says who?" one of the Lowers growled back at him. "You one of Baron
Haer's kids, or something?"
Joe Mauser came to a halt and faced the other. He was irritated, largely
with himself. He didn't want to be bothered. Nevertheless, there was no
alternative now.
The line of men, all Lowers so far as Joe could see, had fallen silent
in an expectant hush. They were bored with their long wait. Now
something would break the monotony.
By tomorrow, Joe Mauser would be in command of some of these men. In as
little as a week he would go into a full-fledged fracas with them. He
couldn't afford to lose face. Not even at this point when all, including
himself, were still civilian garbed. When matters pickled, in a fracas,
you wanted men with complete confidence in you.
* * * * *
The man who had grumbled the surly response was a near physical twin of
Joe Mauser which put him in his early thirties, gave him five foot
eleven of altitude and about one hundred and eighty pounds. His clothes
casted him Low-Lower--nothing to lose. As with many who have nothing to
lose, he was willing to risk all for principle. His face now registered
that ideal. Joe Mauser had no authority over him, nor his friends.
Joe's eyes flicked to the other two who had been pestering the little
fellow. They weren't quite so aggressive and as yet had come to no
conclusion about their stand. Probably the three had been unacquainted
before their bullying alliance to deprive the smaller man of his place.
However, a moment of hesitation and Joe would have a trio on his hands.
He went through no further verbal preliminaries. Joe Mauser stepped
closer. His right hand lanced forward, not doubled in a fist but fingers
close together and pointed, spear-like. He sank it into the other's
abdomen, immediately below the rib cage--the solar plexus.
He had misestimated the other two. Even as his opponent crumpled, they
were upon him, coming in from each side. And at least one of them, he
could see now, had been in hand-to-hand combat before. In short, another
pro, like Joe himself.
He took one blow, rolling with it, and his feet automatically went into
the shuffle of the trained fighter. He retreated slightly to erect
defenses, plan attack. They pressed him strongly, sensing victory in his
retreat.
The one mattered little to him. Joe Mauser could have polished off the
oaf in a matter of seconds, had he been allotted seconds to devote. But
the second, the experienced one, was the problem. He and Joe were well
matched and with the oaf as an ally really he had all the best of it.
Support came from a forgotten source, the little chap who had been the
reason for the whole hassle. He waded in now as big as the next man so
far as spirit was concerned, but a sorry fate gave him to attack the
wrong man, the veteran rather than the tyro. 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 verbal participants of the fray.
However, the extinction of Joe Mauser's small ally had taken a moment or
two and time was what Joe needed most. For a double second he had the
oaf alone on his hands and that was sufficient. He caught a flailing
arm, turned his back and automatically went into the movements which
result in that spectacular hold of the wrestler, 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, and twirled quickly to meet the further attack of his
sole remaining foe.
That phase of the combat failed to materialize.