"Did you check out on semaphore in school?"
"Well, sure. I'm Category Food, Sub-division Cooking, Branch Chef, but,
like I say, I took basic military training, like most everybody else."
"I'm Captain Joe Mauser. How'd you like to be my batman?"
Max screwed up his already not overly handsome face. "Gee, I don't know.
I kinda joined up to see some action. Get into the dill. You know what I
mean."
Joe said dryly, "See here, Mainz, you'll probably find more pickled
situations next to me than you'll want--and you'll come out alive."
The recruiting sergeant looked up from the desk. It was Max Mainz's turn
to be processed. The sergeant said, "Lad, take a good opportunity when
it drops in your lap. The captain is one of the best in the field.
You'll learn more, get better chances for promotion, if you stick with
him."
Joe couldn't remember ever having run into the sergeant before, but he
said, "Thanks, sergeant."
The other said, evidently realizing Joe didn't recognize him, "We were
together on the Chihuahua Reservation, on the jurisdictional fracas
between the United Miners and the Teamsters, sir."
It had been almost fifteen years ago. About all that Joe Mauser
remembered of that fracas was the abnormal number of casualties they'd
taken. His side had lost, but from this distance in time Joe couldn't
even remember what force he'd been with. But now he said, "That's right.
I thought I recognized you, sergeant."
"It was my first fracas, sir." The sergeant went businesslike. "If you
want I should hustle this lad though, captain--"
"Please do, sergeant." Joe added to Max, "I'm not sure where my billet
will be. When you're through all this, locate the officer's mess and
wait there for me."
"Well, O.K.," Max said doubtfully, still scowling but evidently a
servant of an officer, if he wanted to be or not.
"Sir," the sergeant added ominously. "If you've had basic, you know
enough how to address an officer."
"Well, yessir," Max said hurriedly.
Joe began to turn away, but then spotted the man immediately behind Max
Mainz. He was one of the three with whom Joe had tangled earlier, the
one who'd obviously had previous combat experience. He pointed the man
out to the sergeant. "You'd better give this lad at least temporary rank
of corporal. He's a veteran and we're short of veterans."
The sergeant said, "Yes, sir. We sure are." Joe's former foe looked
properly thankful.
* * * * *
Joe Mauser finished off his own red tape and headed for the street to
locate a military tailor who could do him up a set of the Haer kilts and
fill his other dress requirements. As he went, he wondered vaguely just
how many different uniforms he had worn in his time.
In a career as long as his own from time to time you took semi-permanent
positions in bodyguards, company police, or possibly the permanent
combat troops of this corporation or that. But largely, if you were
ambitious, you signed up for the fracases and that meant into a uniform
and out of it again in as short a period as a couple of weeks.
At the door he tried to move aside but was too slow for the quick moving
young woman who caromed off him. He caught her arm to prevent her from
stumbling. She looked at him with less than thanks.
Joe took the blame for the collision. "Sorry," he said. "I'm afraid I
didn't see you, Miss."
"Obviously," she said coldly. Her eyes went up and down him, and for a
moment he wondered where he had seen her before. Somewhere, he was sure.
She was dressed as they dress who have never considered cost and she had
an elusive beauty which would have been even the more hadn't her face
projected quite such a serious outlook. Her features were more delicate
than those to which he was usually attracted. Her lips were less full,
but still-- He was reminded of the classic ideal of the British Romantic
Period, the women sung of by Byron and Keats, Shelly and Moore.
She said, "Is there any particular reason why you should be staring at
me, Mr.--"
"Captain Mauser," Joe said hurriedly. "I'm afraid I've been rude,
Miss--Well, I thought I recognized you."
She took in his civilian dress, typed it automatically, and came to an
erroneous conclusion. She said, "Captain? You mean that with everyone
else I know drawing down ranks from Lieutenant Colonel to Brigadier
General, you can't make anything better than Captain?"
Joe winced. He said carefully, "I came up from the ranks, Miss. Captain
is quite an achievement, believe me."
"Up from the ranks!" She took in his clothes again. "You mean you're a
Middle? You neither talk nor look like a Middle, captain." She used the
caste rating as though it was not _quite_ a derogatory term.
Not that she meant to be deliberately insulting, Joe knew, wearily. How
well he knew. It was simply born in her. As once a well-educated
aristocracy had, not necessarily unkindly, named their status inferiors
_niggers_; or other aristocrats, in another area of the country, had
named theirs _greasers_. Yes, how well he knew.
He said very evenly, "Mid-Middle now, Miss. However, I was born in the
Lower castes."
An eyebrow went up. "Zen! You must have put in many an hour studying.
You talk like an Upper, captain." She dropped all interest in him and
turned to resume her journey.
"Just a moment," Joe said. "You can't go in there, Miss--"
Her eyebrows went up again. "The name is Haer," she said. "Why can't I
go in here, captain?"
Now it came to him why he had thought he recognized her. She had basic
features similar to those of that overbred poppycock, Balt Haer.
"Sorry," Joe said. "I suppose under the circumstances, you can. I was
about to tell you that they're recruiting with lads running around half
clothed. Medical inspections, that sort of thing."
She made a noise through her nose and said over her shoulder, even as
she sailed on. "Besides being a Haer, I'm an M.D., captain. At the
ludicrous sight of a man shuffling about in his shorts, I seldom blush."
She was gone.
Joe Mauser looked after her. "I'll bet you don't," he muttered.
Had she waited a few minutes he could have explained his Upper accent
and his unlikely education. When you'd copped one you had plenty of
opportunity in hospital beds to read, to study, to contemplate--and to
fester away in your own schemes of rebellion against fate. And Joe had
copped many in his time.