After routine morning duties, Joe Mauser returned to his billet and
mystified Max Mainz by not only changing into mufti himself but having
Max do the same.
In fact, the new batman protested faintly. He hadn't nearly, as yet, got
over the glory of wearing his kilts and was looking forward to parading
around town in them. He had a point, of course. The appointed time for
the fracas was getting closer and buffs were beginning to stream into
town to bask in the atmosphere of threatened death. Everybody knew what
a military center, on the outskirts of a fracas reservation such as the
Catskills, was like immediately preceding a clash between rival
corporations. The high-strung gaiety, the drinking, the overtranking,
the relaxation of mores. Even a Rank Private had it made. Admiring
civilians to buy drinks and hang on your every word, and more important
still, sensuous-eyed women, their faces slack in thinly suppressed
passion. It was a recognized phenomenon, even Max Mainz knew--this
desire on the part of women Telly fans to date a man, and then watch him
later, killing or being killed.
"Time enough to wear your fancy uniform," Joe Mauser growled at him. "In
fact, tomorrow's a local election day. Parlay that up on top of all the
fracas fans gravitating into town and you'll have a wingding the likes
of nothing you've seen before."
"Well yessir," Max begrudged. "Where're we going now, captain?"
"To the airport. Come along."
Joe Mauser led the way to his sports hovercar and as soon as the two
were settled into the bucket seats, hit the lift lever with the butt of
his left hand. Aircushion-borne, he trod down on the accelerator.
Max Mainz was impressed. "You know," he said. "I never been in one of
these swanky sports jobs before. The kinda car you can afford on the
income of a Mid-Lower's stock aren't--"
"Knock it off," Joe said wearily. "Carping we'll always have with us
evidently, 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."
[Illustration]
"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."
"Hm-m-m," Joe murmured. "And all the other cliches 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.
It was obviously too deep for Max, and since he didn't understand, he
assumed his superior didn't know what he was talking about. He said,
tolerantly, "Well, what's wrong with People's Capitalism? Everybody
owns the corporations. Damnsight better than the Sovs have."
Joe said sourly. "We've got one optical illusion, they've got another,
Max. Over there they claim the proletariat owns the means of production.
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 are like our 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. But in the West-world, the people own a
corporation's stock and they run it and get the benefit."
"At least it 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, but the remaining
stockholder owns the other hundred thousand."
"I don't know what you're getting at," Max said.
Joe Mauser was tired of the discussion. "Briefly," he said, "we have the
illusion that this is a People's Capitalism, with all stock in the hands
of the People. Actually, as ever before, the stock is in the hands of
the Uppers, all except a mere dribble. They own the country and they run
it for their own benefit."
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 Administration Building
of the airport. "No," Joe 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. The clerk, hardly looking up,
began going through motions, speaking into telescreens.
The clerk said finally, "You might have a small wait, sir. Quite a few
of the officers involved in this fracas have been renting out
taxi-planes almost as fast as they're available."
That didn't surprise Joe Mauser. Any competent officer made a point of
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 relegated to the
cemetery of military devices along with such items as nuclear weapons,
tanks, and even gasoline-propelled vehicles of size to be useful.
Use an aircraft in a fracas, or even _build_ an aircraft for military
usage and you'd have a howl go up from the military attaches from 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 military observers,
keen-eyed to check whether or not any really modern tools of war were
being illegally utilized. Joe Mauser sometimes wondered if the
West-world observers, over in the Sov-world, were as hair fine in their
living up to the rules of the Universal Disarmament Pact. Probably. But,
for that matter, they didn't have the same system of fighting fracases
over there, as in the West.
Joe took a chair while he waited and thumbed through a fan magazine.
From time to time he found his own face in such publications. He was a
third-rate celebrity, really. Luck hadn't been with him so far as the
buffs were concerned. They wanted spectacular victories, murderous
situations in which they could lose themselves in vicarious sadistic
thrills. Joe had reached most of his peaks while in retreat, or
commanding a holding action. His officers appreciated him and so did the
ultra-knowledgeable fracas buffs--but he was all but an unknown to the
average dim wit who spent most of his life glued to the Telly set,
watching men butcher each other.
On the various occasions when matters had pickled and Joe had to fight
his way out against difficult odds, using spectacular tactics in
desperation, he was almost always off camera. Purely luck. On top of
skill, determination, experience and courage, you had to have luck in
the Military Category to get anywhere.
This time Joe was going to manufacture his own.