Joe Mauser stared at him.
The other laughed cynically. "You think I'm drivel-happy, eh? Well,
maybe a long scar down the cheek would do even better. Or, possibly,
you ought to wear a monocle, even in action."
Joe continued to stare, as though the little man had gone completely
around the bend.
Freddy Soligen had made his first impression. He finished the ale, put
the glass into the chute and turned back to the professional
mercenary. His voice was flat now, all expression gone from his face.
"All right," he said. "Now listen to my fling. You've got a lot to
learn."
* * * * *
Joe held his peace, if only in pure amazement. He ranked the little
man opposite him in both caste and in professional attainments.
Besides which, he was a combat officer and unused to being addressed
with less than full respect, even from superiors. For unlucky Joe
Mauser might be in his chosen field, but respected he was.
Freddy Soligen pointed a finger at him, almost mockingly. "You're on
the make, Mauser. In a world where few bother, any more, you're on the
way up. The trouble is, you took the wrong path many years ago."
Joe snorted his contempt of the other's lack of knowledge. "I was born
into the Clothing Category, Sub-division Shoes, Branch Repair. In the
old days they called us cobblers. You think you could work your way up
from Mid-Lower to Upper caste with that beginning, Soligen? Zen! we
don't even have cobblers any more, shoes are thrown away as soon as
they show wear. Sure, sure, sure. Theoretically, under People's
Capitalism, you can cross categories into any field you want. But have
you ever heard of anybody doing any real jumping of caste levels in
any category except Military or Religion? I didn't take the wrong
path, religion is a little too strong for even my stomach, which left
the Category Military the only path available."
Freddy had heard him out, his face twisted sourly. He said now, "You
misunderstand. I realize that the military's the only quick way of
getting a bounce in caste. I wish I'd figured that out sooner, before
I made a trade out of the one I was born into, Communications. It's
too late now, I'm into my forties with a busted marriage but the proud
papa of a kid." He twisted his face again in another grimace. "By the
way, the boy's a novitiate in Category Religion."
Some elements were clearing up in Joe's mind. He said, in
comprehension, "So ... we're both ambitious."
"That's right, major. Now, let's get back to fundamentals. Your wrong
path is the _manner_ in which you're trying to work your way up into
the elite. You've got to become a celebrated hero, major. And it's the
Telly fan, the fracas-buff, who decides who the Category Military
heroes are. Those are the slobs you have to toady to. In the long run,
nobody else counts. I know, I know. All the old pros, even big names
like Stonewall Cogswell and Jack Alshuler, think you're a top man.
Great! But how many buff-clubs you got to your name? How often do the
buff magazines run articles about you? How often do you get
interviewed on Telly, in between fracases? Have the movies ever done
'The Joe Mauser Story'?"
Joe twisted uncomfortably. "All that stuff takes a lot of time. I've
been keeping myself busy."
"Right. Busy getting shot at."
"I'm a mercenary. That's my trade."
Freddy spread his hands. "O.K. If that's all you're interested in,
shooting lads signed up on the other side, or getting shot by them,
that's fine. But you know, major"--he cocked his head to one side, and
peered knowingly at Joe--"I've got a sneaking suspicion that you don't
particularly like combat. Some do, I know. Some love it. I don't think
you do."
Joe looked at him.
Freddy said, "You're in it because of the chance for promotion,
nothing else counts."
Joe remained silent.
Freddy pushed him. "Who're the names every fracas buff knows? Jerry
Sturgeon, captain at the age of twenty-one, and so damned pretty in
those fancy uniforms he wears. How many times have you ever heard of
him really being in the dill? He knows better! Captain Sturgeon spends
his time prancing around on that famous palomino of his in front of
the Telly lenses, not dodging bullets. Or Ted Sohl. Colonel Ted Sohl.
The dashing Sohl with his two western style six-shooters, slung low on
his hips, and that romantic limp and craggy face. My, do the female
buffs go for Colonel Sohl! I wonder how many of them know he wears a
special pair of boots to give him that limp. Old Jerry's a long time
drinking pal of mine, he's never copped one in his life. What's more,
another year or so and he'll be a general and you know what that
means. Almost automatic jump to Upper caste."
Joe's face was working. All this was not really news to him. Like his
fellow old pros, Joe Mauser was fully aware of the glory grabbers.
There had always been the glory grabbers from mythological Achilles,
who sulked in his tent while his best friend died before the walls of
Troy, to Alexander, who conquered the world with an army conceived and
precision trained by another man whose name is all but forgotten, to
the swashbuckling Custer who sacrificed self and squadron rather than
wait for assistance.
Freddy pushed him. "How come you're never on lens when you're in there
going good, major? Ever thought about that? When you're commanding a
rear-guard action, maybe, trying to extract your lads when the
situation's pickled, who's in the Telly lens where all the stupid
buffs can see him? One of the manufactured heroes."