In a far away past, Kingston had once been the capital of the United
States. For a short time, when Washington's men were in flight after the
debacle of their defeat in New York City, the government of the United
Colonies had held session in this Hudson River town. It had been its one
moment of historic glory, and afterward Kingston had slipped back into
being a minor city on the edge of the Catskills, approximately halfway
between New York and Albany.
Of most recent years, it had become one of the two recruiting centers
which bordered the Catskill Military Reservation, which in turn was one
of the score or so population cleared areas throughout the continent
where rival corporations or unions could meet and settle their
differences in combat--given permission of the Military Category
Department of the government. And permission was becoming ever easier to
acquire.
It had slowly evolved, the resorting to trial by combat to settle
disputes between competing corporations, disputes between corporations
and unions, disputes between unions over jurisdiction. Slowly, but
predictably. Since the earliest days of the first industrial revolution,
conflict between these elements had often broken into violence,
sometimes on a scale comparable to minor warfare. An early example was
the union organizing in Colorado when armed elements of the Western
Federation of Miners shot it out with similarly armed "detectives" hired
by the mine owners, and later with the troops of an unsympathetic State
government.
By the middle of the Twentieth-Century, unions had become one of the
biggest businesses in the country, and by this time a considerable
amount of the industrial conflict had shifted to fights between them for
jurisdiction over dues-paying members. Battles on the waterfront,
assassination and counter-assassination by gun-toting goon squads
dominated by gangsters, industrial sabotage, frays between pickets and
scabs--all were common occurrences.
But it was the coming of Telly which increasingly brought such conflicts
literally before the public eye. Zealous reporters made ever greater
effort to bring the actual mayhem before the eyes of their viewers, and
never were their efforts more highly rewarded.
A society based upon private endeavor is as jealous of a vacuum as is
Mother Nature. Give a desire that can be filled profitably, and the
means can somehow be found to realize it.
* * *
At one point in the nation's history, the railroad lords had dominated
the economy, later it became the petroleum princes of Texas and
elsewhere, but toward the end of the Twentieth Century the
communications industries slowly gained prominence. Nothing was more
greatly in demand than feeding the insatiable maw of the Telly fan,
nothing, ultimately, became more profitable.
And increasingly, the Telly buff endorsed the more sadistic of the
fictional and nonfictional programs presented him. Even in the earliest
years of the industry, producers had found that murder and mayhem, war
and frontier gunfights, took precedence over less gruesome subjects.
Music was drowned out by gunfire, the dance replaced by the shuffle of
cowboy and rustler advancing down a dusty street toward each other,
their fingertips brushing the grips of their six-shooters, the
comedian's banter fell away before the chatter of the gangster's tommy
gun.
And increasing realism was demanded. The Telly reporter on the scene of
a police arrest, preferably a murder, a rumble between rival gangs of
juvenile delinquents, a longshoreman's fray in which scores of workers
were hospitalized. When attempts were made to suppress such broadcasts,
the howl of freedom of speech and the press went up, financed by tycoons
clever enough to realize the value of the subjects they covered so
adequately.
The vacuum was there, the desire, the _need_. Bread the populace had.
Trank was available to all. But the need was for the circus, the
vicious, sadistic circus, and bit by bit, over the years and decades,
the way was found to circumvent the country's laws and traditions to
supply the need.
Aye, a way is always found. The final Universal Disarmament Pact which
had totally banned all weapons invented since the year 1900 and provided
for complete inspection, had not ended the fear of war. And thus there
was excuse to give the would-be soldier, the potential defender of the
country in some future inter-nation conflict, practical experience.
Slowly tolerance grew to allow union and corporation to fight it out,
hiring the services of mercenaries. Slowly rules grew up to govern such
fracases. Slowly a department of government evolved. The Military
Category became as acceptable as the next, and the mercenary a valued,
even idolized, member of society. And the field became practically the
only one in which a status quo orientated socio-economic system allowed
for advancement in caste.
Joe Mauser and Max Mainz strolled the streets of Kingston in an extreme
of atmosphere seldom to be enjoyed. Not only was the advent of a
divisional magnitude fracas only a short period away, but the freedom of
an election day as well. The carnival, the Mardi Gras, the fete, the
fiesta, of an election. Election Day, when each aristocrat became only a
man, and each man an aristocrat, free of all society's artificially
conceived, caste-perpetuating rituals and taboos.
Carnival! The day was young, but already the streets were thick with
revelers, with dancers, with drunks. A score of bands played, youngsters
in particular ran about attired in costume, there were barbeques and
flowing beer kegs. On the outskirts of town were roller coasters and
ferris wheels, fun houses and drive-it-yourself miniature cars.
Carnival!
Max said happily, "You drink, Joe? Or maybe you like trank, better."
Obviously, he loved to roll the other's first name over his tongue.
Joe wondered in amusement how often the little man had found occasion to
call a Mid-Middle by his first name. "No trank," he said. "Alcohol for
me. Mankind's old faithful."
"Well," Max debated, "get high on alcohol and bingo, a hangover in the
morning. But trank? You wake up with a smile."
"And a desire for more trank to keep the mood going," Joe said wryly.
"Get smashed on alcohol and you suffer for it eventually."
"Well, that's one way of looking at it," Max argued happily. "So let's
start off with a couple of quick ones in this here Upper joint."
* * * * *
Joe looked the place over. He didn't know Kingston overly well, but by
the appearance of the building and by the entry, it was probably the
swankiest hotel in town. He shrugged. So far as he was concerned, he
appreciated the greater comfort and the better service of his Middle
caste bars, restaurants and hotels over the ones he had patronized when
a Lower. However, his wasn't an immediate desire to push into the
preserves of the Uppers; not until he had won rightfully to their
status.
But on this occasion the little fellow wanted to drink at an Upper bar.
Very well, it was election day. "Let's go," he said to Max.
In the uniform of a Rank Captain of the Military Category, there was
little to indicate caste level, and ordinarily given the correct air of
nonchalance, Joe Mauser, in uniform, would have been able to go
anywhere, without so much as a raised eyebrow--until he had presented
his credit card, which indicated his caste. But Max was another thing.
He was obviously a Lower, and probably a Low-Lower at that.
But space was made for them at a bar packed with election day
celebrants, politicians involved in the day's speeches and voting,
higher ranking officers of the Haer forces, having a day off, and
various Uppers of both sexes in town for the excitement of the fracas to
come.
"Beer," Joe said to the bartender.
"Not me," Max crowed. "Champagne. Only the best for Max Mainz. Give me
some of that champagne liquor I always been hearing about."
Joe had the bill credited to his card, and they took their bottles and
glasses to a newly abandoned table. The place was too packed to have
awaited the services of a waiter, although poor Max probably would have
loved such attention. Lower, and even Middle bars and restaurants were
universally automated, and the waiter or waitress a thing of yesteryear.
Max looked about the room in awe. "This is living," he announced. "I
wonder what they'd say if I went to the desk and ordered a room."
Joe Mauser wasn't as highly impressed as his batman. In fact, he'd often
stayed in the larger cities, in hostelries as sumptuous as this, though
only of Middle status. Kingston's best was on the mediocre side. He
said, "They'd probably tell you they were filled up."