The older man's voice went brisk. "This is the situation. I have been
approached by the United Miners to command their forces in their trial
by combat with Carbonaceous Fuel. Same old issues, of course. Contract
between the union and corporation is usually for only two years. Each
time it comes up again, the union officials try to get a larger cut of
the pie and the hereditary heads of Carbonaceous Fuel resist.
Automatically, the Category Military Department issues a permit. The
fracases they've been fighting prove so popular that there'd be riots
if the permit was refused. Frankly, I'm no great admirer of the group
in control of United Miners, but--"
Joe was surprised enough to say, "Why not, sir?" Old pro mercenaries
seldom concerned themselves as to the issues or principles involved in
a fracas. They chose their side by more mundane considerations.
* * * * *
Marshal Cogswell looked at him testily. "Sit down, Joe. You're not on
my staff, as yet, at least. Zen take the formality!" When Joe had
accepted the chair, he growled again. "Suppose you didn't know I was
born into Category Mining?"
"No, sir."
"Well, I was. But even as a boy this new industrial revolution was
cutting the number of employees involved in the category each year
that went by."
"That's happened in every field, sir. Including my original one." Joe
Mauser was thinking, _so what?_
"Of course," Cogswell rapped. "My objection is what happened to the
union. Unions were originally founded as an instinctive gathering
together of employees to achieve as high a pay as they could get from
the employer, with the strike as their weapon. But whatever the
original purpose, and its virtue or lack of it, the union grew into
something entirely different by the early and middle twentieth
century. Such unions as the United Miners grew to such a size that
they, themselves, became some of the largest business organizations in
the country. And eventually they came to be run, like any other
business, for the benefit of those who owned or controlled them. The
professional labor leader evolved, motivated by his own interests and
finally becoming, in his despotic control of the union, backed by goon
squads and gangsters, as powerful a man as was to be found in the
country. Seldom were strikes any longer held to better the condition
of the individual union members. Instead, the issues were contracts
which allowed for fabulous sums to go into the union coffers where
they were at the disposal of the union officials."
The marshal grunted sourly. "Now that the whole industry of mining is
all but completely automated and only a few thousands employed
actively, there are confounded few miners not on the unemployed list,
but the union officials wax as fat as ever, what with the percentages
of each ton mined going into so-called welfare funds, and such."
He looked at Joe, evidently conscious that he had made an inordinary
long speech for the supposedly taciturn Stonewall Cogswell. He cleared
his throat and said, "Not that it's my affair. I switched categories
to Military, in my youth. Let us get to the point. I've been caught
napping, Joe."
That was an unlooked for confession to come from Stonewall Cogswell.
Joe said nothing, waiting for more.
The marshal shook his baton at the younger officer. "By utilizing that
confounded glider of yours as a reconnaissance craft, you
revolutionized present warfare, major. Act of absolute ingenuity, and
I admired it. Unfortunately, I failed to realize the speed with which
every professional in our category would jump upon the bandwagon and
secure gliders for himself."
Joe saw light.
"Been caught short," Cogswell rapped. "Short of gliders. Short of even
one glider. And within a few weeks I'm committed to a divisional size
fracas." He pushed back his chair, angrily. "General McCord is in
command of the Carbonaceous Fuel forces. Met him before, and always
brought up victory only by the skin of my teeth. But this time he has
two gliders. I have none."
"But, sir, surely you can either buy or rent several craft on the
market."
"Confound it! It's not the machines that are unavailable, but the
trained pilots to operate them. The sport hasn't been popular in half
a century. Not overly so, even then."
"But training a pilot--"
"Training a pilot, nonsense!" the marshal was shaking his baton at him
again, in indignation. "A _pilot_ won't do. He must also be a trained
reconnaissance man. Must be able to follow terrain from the air.
Identify military forces both in nature and number. I needn't tell you
this, major. You above all know the problem."
It hadn't occurred to Joe, but the other was obviously right. There
couldn't be more than a few dozen men in Category Military who could
hold down both the job of pilot and reconnaissance officer. In another
six months, the situation would have changed. Officers would quickly
be trained. But now? As Cogswell said, he was caught short.
Joe came to his feet. "Sir, I'll have to consider the commission.
Frankly, my plans were otherwise."
Cogswell started at him grimly. "Mauser, you've always been one of the
best. An old pro, in every sense of the word. However, there have been
some rumors going around about your ambitions."
Joe said stiffly, "Sir, my ambitions are my own business, whatever
these rumors."
"Didn't say I believed them, major. We've been together too often when
the situation has pickled for me to judge you without more evidence
than gossip. What I was leading up to, is this. There's nothing wrong
with ambition. If you see me through in this, I'll do what I can
toward pushing your promotion."
Joe came to the salute again. "Thank you, sir. I'll consider the
commission and let you know by tomorrow."
Cogswell flicked the baton, in his nonchalant answer to salute. "That
will be all, then, major."