The colonel was indicating a hoverlimousine with a sweeping gesture
that would have seemed overly graceful, had not Joe felt the grip of
the man only a moment earlier. Kossuth interrupted him politely, "The
plane was a trifle late and the banquet we have prepared awaits us,
major. A multitude of my fellow officers are anxious to meet the famed
Joseph Mauser. Would it surprise you to know that I have replayed, a
score of times, your celebrated holding action on the Louisiana
Military Reservation? Zut! Unbelievable. With but a single company of
men!"
Joe was looking at him blankly. _Celebrated!_ Joe couldn't but
remember the fracas the mincing Hungarian was talking about. When the
front had collapsed, Joe, then a captain, had held his position in the
swamps while his superiors were supposedly reforming behind him,
actually while they frantically tried to reach terms with the enemy.
One of the West-world lieutenants laughed at Joe's expression. "You're
going to have to get used to the fact that there're as many fracas
buffs over here, sir, as there are back home."
The Sov colonel waggled a finger at him. "But, no, you misunderstand
completely, Lieutenant Andersen. We _study_ the bloody fracases of the
West. Following the campaigns of such tacticians as your Marshal
Stonewall Cogswell goes far toward the training of our own Pink Army
in its, ah, fracases."
That brought up a dozen questions in Joe's mind, but first he turned
and indicated Max, who'd been standing behind, his eyes wide, and
taking in the luxurious airport, the vehicles about it, the buildings,
the airport workers, few in number though they be, the road leading to
the city beyond.