Dr. Nadine Haer, Category Medicine, Mid-Upper caste, was driving and
with considerable enjoyment resultant not only from her destination,
long desired, now to be realized, but also from the sheer exuberance
of handling the vehicle. Since pre-history, man's pleasure in the
physical control of a speedy vehicle has been superlative,
particularly when that vehicle is known by the driver to be unique in
its class. The Hittite charioteer, bowling across the landscape of
Anatolia, a Sterling Moss carefully tooling his automobile around the
multi-curves of the Upper Cornice on the Riviera, or a Nadine Haer
delicately trimming the controls of a sports model Hovercar.
She shot a quick glance at Joe Mauser, formerly of Category Military,
formerly Rank Major, now an unemployed Mid-Middle who slouched in the
bucketseat next to her. He noticed neither speed nor direction.
Nadine called, above the wind, "Zen, Joe! Where did you ever acquire
such a car? It must have been built entirely by hand, and by Swiss
watchmakers."
Joe stirred and shrugged. Newly from the hospital, he was still deep
in the gloom of his recent loss of the dream, the defeat of his
life-long ambitions. He said, "A buff gave it to me."
She slowed down, the better to frown at him in amazement. "_Gave_ it
to you? Why the thing is priceless."
Joe sighed and told her the salient details. "Quite a few mercenaries
manage to acquire a private fracas-buff." He defined the term for her.
"He makes a hobby of your career. Winds up knowing more about it than
you, yourself can possibly remember. He follows every fracas you get
into. Knows every time you cop one, how serious it was, how long you
were in hospital. He glories each time you get a promotion, is in
gloom each time your side loses a fracas. He's got pictures of you in
various poses taken from the fracas-buff magazines, and files away all
articles in which your name appears."
"Zen!" Nadine laughed in deprecation.
"That's just the beginning. After a while he starts writing you fan
letters, wanting autographed portraits, wanting a souvenir--sometimes
nothing more exciting than a button off your uniform. More often they
want a gun, sword or combat knife, particularly one they saw you using
in some fracas or other. They usually offer to pay for such, sometimes
quite fabulous amounts. Other times they want a bit of bloody uniform,
your own true blood from a time when you were in the dill and managed
to cop one."
Nadine was astonished. Antagonistic as she was, herself, to the
fracases, she wasn't particularly knowledgeable about all their
ramifications. She said, repelled, "But doesn't such morbidity disgust
you? This fawning, this slobbering--"
Joe grunted. "All part of the game. A mercenary without buffs to boost
him, to form fracas-buff clubs and such, hasn't much chance of
promotion. So far as disgust is concerned, you'd have to see one of
the really far-out ones. The gleam in an ordinarily fishlike eye when
he recounts the time you killed three men in hand-to-hand combat,
equipped only with an entrenching tool, when they came at you with
bayonets. The trace of spittle, running down from the side of his
mouth."
"And this buff of yours. Why did he give you this perfectly marvelous
car?"
"It was a she, not a he," Joe said.
Nadine's voice changed infinitesimally. "You mean you accepted a gift
of this value from a ... woman?"
Joe looked at her and grinned sourly. "I wasn't in much of a position
to refuse. The gift was in her will. She was well into her nineties
when she died. She was an Upper-Upper, by the way, and the most
knowledgeable fracas buff I ever met. She knew the intimate details of
every fracas since Tiglath-Pileser and his Assyrians captured Babylon.
She could argue for an hour on whether Parmenion or Alexander the
Great should have been given the credit for the victory over the
Persians at Issus." Joe grunted. "I suppose there should be a moral
somewhere about this kindly old lady who was the outstanding fracas
buff of them all."
* * * * *
Nadine Haer was in the process of hitting the drop lever with her left
hand as they slowed and headed for the entrance to a parking area. She
said brittlely, "The moral is that you can have slobs at any level in
society. Being an Upper doesn't guarantee anything."
Joe sighed, "Here we go again." He looked about him, scowling. "Which
brings to mind. Where _are_ we going? These are governmental
buildings, aren't they?"
They were sinking quickly, below street level, now in the power of the
auto-parker. Nadine turned off the engine and released the controls.
She said, cryptogrammicly, "We are going to see about doing something
with your abilities other than shooting at people, or being shot at."
When the car was parked, she led the way to an elevator.
Joe said wryly, "Oh, great. I love mysteries. When do we find out who
killed the victim?"
Nadine looked at him from the side of her eyes. "I killed the victim,"
she said. "Major Mauser, mercenary by trade, is now no more."
There was bitterness in him and he found no ability to respond to what
was meant as humor in her words. He followed her silently and his
puzzlement grew with him. The office building through which they moved
was as well done as any he could ever remember having observed, even
on the Telly. Surely they couldn't be in the Octagon or the New White
House. But, if so, why?
Nadine said. "Here we are," and indicated a door which opened at their
approach.
There was a receptionist in the small office beyond, a bit of ostentation
Joe Mauser seldom met with in the modern world. What in the name of Zen
could anyone need with other than an auto-receptionist? Didn't efficiency
mean anything here?
The receptionist said, "Good afternoon, Dr. Haer. Mr. Holland is
expecting you."
It came to Joe now--Philip Holland, secretary to Harlow Mannerheim,
the Minister of Foreign Affairs. He had met the man a few months ago
at Nadine's home in that swank section of Greater Washington once
known as Baltimore. But he had no idea what Nadine had in mind
bringing him here. Evidently, she was well enough into the graces of
the bureaucrat to barge into his office during working hours.
Surprising in itself, since, although she was an Upper born, still
governmental servants can't be at the beck of every hereditary
aristocrat in the land.
Holland stood up briefly at their entrance and shook hands quickly,
almost abruptly, held a chair for Nadine, motioned to another one for
Joe. He sat down again and said into an inter-office telly-mike, "Miss
Mikhail, the dossier on Joesph Mauser, and would you request Frank
Hodgson to drop in?"
What was obviously the dossier slid from the desk chute and Holland
leafed through it, as though disinterested. He said, "Joseph Mauser,
born Mid-Lower, Clothing Category, Sub-division Shoes, Branch Repair."
Holland looked up. "A somewhat plebian beginning, let us admit."
A tic manifested itself at the side of Joe Mauser's mouth, but he said
nothing. If long years of the military had taught him anything, it was
patience. The other man had the initiative now, let him use it.
Holland cast his eyes ceilingward, and, without referring to the
dossier before him, said, "Crossed categories at the age of seventeen
to Military, remaining a Rank Private for three years at which time
promoted to corporal. Sergeant followed in another three years and
upon reaching the rank of lieutenant, at the age of twenty-five was
bounced in caste to High-Lower. After distinguishing himself in a
fracas between Douglas-Boeing and Lockheed-Cessna was further raised
to Low-Middle caste. By the age of thirty had reached Mid-Middle caste
and Rank Captain. By thirty-three, the present, had been promoted to
major, and had been under consideration for Upper-Middle caste."
That last, Joe had not know about, however, he said now, "Also at
present, expelled from participation in future fracases on any level
of rank, and fined his complete resources beyond the basic common
stock issued him as a Mid-Middle." His voice was bitter.