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  IV

  After routine morning duties, Joe Mauser returned to his billet andmystified Max Mainz by not only changing into mufti himself but havingMax do the same.

  In fact, the new batman protested faintly. He hadn't nearly, as yet, gotover the glory of wearing his kilts and was looking forward to paradingaround town in them. He had a point, of course. The appointed time forthe fracas was getting closer and buffs were beginning to stream intotown to bask in the atmosphere of threatened death. Everybody knew whata military center, on the outskirts of a fracas reservation such as theCatskills, was like immediately preceding a clash between rivalcorporations. The high-strung gaiety, the drinking, the overtranking,the relaxation of mores. Even a Rank Private had it made. Admiringcivilians to buy drinks and hang on your every word, and more importantstill, sensuous-eyed women, their faces slack in thinly suppressedpassion. It was a recognized phenomenon, even Max Mainz knew--thisdesire on the part of women Telly fans to date a man, and then watch himlater, killing or being killed.

  "Time enough to wear your fancy uniform," Joe Mauser growled at him. "Infact, tomorrow's a local election day. Parlay that up on top of all thefracas fans gravitating into town and you'll have a wingding the likesof nothing you've seen before."

  "Well yessir," Max begrudged. "Where're we going now, captain?"

  "To the airport. Come along."

  Joe Mauser led the way to his sports hovercar and as soon as the twowere settled into the bucket seats, hit the lift lever with the butt ofhis left hand. Aircushion-borne, he trod down on the accelerator.

  Max Mainz was impressed. "You know," he said. "I never been in one ofthese swanky sports jobs before. The kinda car you can afford on theincome of a Mid-Lower's stock aren't--"

  "Knock it off," Joe said wearily. "Carping we'll always have with usevidently, but in spite of all the beefing in every strata fromLow-Lower to Upper-Middle, I've yet to see any signs of organizedprotest against our present politico-economic system."

  "Hey," Max said. "Don't get me wrong. What was good enough for Dad isgood enough for me. You won't catch me talking against the government."

  "Hm-m-m," Joe murmured. "And all the other cliches taught to us topreserve the status quo, our People's Capitalism." They were reachingthe outskirts of town, crossing the Esopus. The airport lay only a mileor so beyond.

  It was obviously too deep for Max, and since he didn't understand, heassumed his superior didn't know what he was talking about. He said,tolerantly, "Well, what's wrong with People's Capitalism? Everybodyowns the corporations. Damnsight better than the Sovs have."

  Joe said sourly. "We've got one optical illusion, they've got another,Max. Over there they claim the proletariat owns the means of production.Great. But the Party members are the ones who control it, and, as aresult they manage to do all right for themselves. The Party hierarchyover there are like our Uppers over here."

  "Yeah." Max was being particularly dense. "I've seen a lot about it onTelly. You know, when there isn't a good fracas on, you tune to one ofthem educational shows, like--"

  Joe winced at the term _educational_, but held his peace.

  "It's pretty rugged over there. But in the West-world, the people own acorporation's stock and they run it and get the benefit."

  "At least it makes a beautiful story," Joe said dryly. "Look, Max.Suppose you have a corporation that has two hundred thousand shares outand they're distributed among one hundred thousand and one persons. Onehundred thousand of these own one share apiece, but the remainingstockholder owns the other hundred thousand."

  "I don't know what you're getting at," Max said.

  Joe Mauser was tired of the discussion. "Briefly," he said, "we have theillusion that this is a People's Capitalism, with all stock in the handsof the People. Actually, as ever before, the stock is in the hands ofthe Uppers, all except a mere dribble. They own the country and they runit for their own benefit."

  Max shot a less than military glance at him. "Hey, you're not one ofthese Sovs yourself, are you?"

  They were coming into the parking area near the Administration Buildingof the airport. "No," Joe said so softly that Max could hardly hear hiswords. "Only a Mid-Middle on the make."

  * * * * *

  Followed by Max, he strode quickly to the Administration Building,presented his credit identification at the desk and requested a lightaircraft for a period of three hours. The clerk, hardly looking up,began going through motions, speaking into telescreens.

  The clerk said finally, "You might have a small wait, sir. Quite a fewof the officers involved in this fracas have been renting outtaxi-planes almost as fast as they're available."

  That didn't surprise Joe Mauser. Any competent officer made a point ofan aerial survey of the battle reservation before going into a fracas.Aircraft, of course, couldn't be used _during_ the fray, since theypostdated the turn of the century, and hence were relegated to thecemetery of military devices along with such items as nuclear weapons,tanks, and even gasoline-propelled vehicles of size to be useful.

  Use an aircraft in a fracas, or even _build_ an aircraft for militaryusage and you'd have a howl go up from the military attaches from theSov-world that would be heard all the way to Budapest. Not a fracaswent by but there were scores, if not hundreds, of military observers,keen-eyed to check whether or not any really modern tools of war werebeing illegally utilized. Joe Mauser sometimes wondered if theWest-world observers, over in the Sov-world, were as hair fine in theirliving up to the rules of the Universal Disarmament Pact. Probably. But,for that matter, they didn't have the same system of fighting fracasesover there, as in the West.

  Joe took a chair while he waited and thumbed through a fan magazine.From time to time he found his own face in such publications. He was athird-rate celebrity, really. Luck hadn't been with him so far as thebuffs were concerned. They wanted spectacular victories, murderoussituations in which they could lose themselves in vicarious sadisticthrills. Joe had reached most of his peaks while in retreat, orcommanding a holding action. His officers appreciated him and so did theultra-knowledgeable fracas buffs--but he was all but an unknown to theaverage dim wit who spent most of his life glued to the Telly set,watching men butcher each other.

  On the various occasions when matters had pickled and Joe had to fighthis way out against difficult odds, using spectacular tactics indesperation, he was almost always off camera. Purely luck. On top ofskill, determination, experience and courage, you had to have luck inthe Military Category to get anywhere.

  This time Joe was going to manufacture his own.

  A voice said, "Ah, Captain Mauser."

  Joe looked up, then came to his feet quickly. In automatic reflex, hebegan to come to the salute but then caught himself. He said stiffly,"My compliments, Marshal Cogswell."

  The other was a smallish man, but strikingly strong of face and stronglybuilt. His voice was clipped, clear and had the air of command as thoughborn with it. He, like Joe, wore mufti and now extended his hand to beshaken.

  "I hear you've signed up with Baron Haer, captain. I was ratherexpecting you to come in with me. Had a place for a good aide de camp.Liked your work in that last fracas we went through together."

  "Thank you, sir," Joe said. Stonewall Cogswell was as good a tacticianas freelanced and he was more than that. He was a judge of men and astickler for detail. And right now, if Joe Mauser knew Marshal StonewallCogswell as well as he thought, Cogswell was smelling a rat. There wasno reason why old pro Joe Mauser should sign up with a sure loser likeVacuum Tube when he could have earned more shares taking a commissionwith Hovercraft.

  He was looking at Joe brightly, the question in his eyes. Three or fourof his staff were behind a few paces, looking polite, but Cogswelldidn't bring them into the conversation. Joe knew most by sight. Goodmen all. Old pros all. He felt another twinge of doubt.

  Joe had to cover. He said, "I was offered a particularly good contract,sir. Too good to resist."

  The othe
r nodded, as though inwardly coming to a satisfactoryconclusion. "Baron Haer's connections, eh? He's probably offered to backyou for a bounce in caste. Is that it, Joe?"

  Joe Mauser flushed. Stonewall Cogswell knew what he was talking about.He'd been born into Middle status himself and had become an Upper thehard way. His path wasn't as long as Joe's was going to be, but longenough and he knew how rocky the climb was. How very rocky.

  Joe said, stiffly, "I'm afraid I'm in no position to discuss mycommander's military contracts, marshal. We're in mufti, but afterall--"

  Cogswell's lean face registered one of his infrequent grimaces of humor."I understand, Joe. Well, good luck and I hope things don't pickle foryou in the coming fracas. Possibly we'll find ourselves aligned togetheragain at some future time."

  "Thank you, sir," Joe said, once more having to catch himself to preventan automatic salute.

  Cogswell and his staff went off, leaving Joe looking after them. Eventhe marshal's staff members were top men, any of whom could haveconducted a divisional magnitude fracas. Joe felt the coldness in hisstomach again. Although it must have looked like a cinch, the enemywasn't taking any chances whatsoever. Cogswell and his officers wereundoubtedly here at the airport for the same reason as Joe. They wanteda thorough aerial reconnaissance of the battlefield-to-be, before theissue was joined.

  * * *

  Max was standing at his elbow. "Who was that, sir? Looks like a realtough one."

  "He is a real tough one," Joe said sourly. "That's Stonewall Cogswell,the best field commander in North America."

  Max pursed his lips. "I never seen him out of uniform before. Lots oftimes on Telly, but never out of uniform. I thought he was taller thanthat."

  "He fights with his brains," Joe said, still looking after the craggyfield marshal. "He doesn't have to be any taller."

  Max scowled. "Where'd he ever get that nickname, sir?"

  "Stonewall?" Joe was turning to resume his chair and magazine. "He'ssupposed to be a student of a top general back in the American CivilWar. Uses some of the original Stonewall's tactics."

  Max was out of his depth. "American Civil War? Was that much of afracas, captain? It musta been before my time."

  "It was quite a fracas," Joe said dryly. "Lot of good lads died. Ahundred years after it was fought, the _reasons_ it was fought seemedabout as valid as those we fight fracases for today. Personally I--"

  He had to cut it short. They were calling him on the address system. Hisaircraft was ready. Joe made his way to the hangars, followed by MaxMainz. He was going to pilot the airplane himself and old StonewallCogswell would have been surprised at what Joe Mauser was looking for.