Short Fiction, Mack Reynolds [best book reader txt] 📗

it occasionally popped open to admit or emit a recruit, white-robed doctors, male nurses and half nude men could be glimpsed beyond.

Joe followed the other through the press and to an inner office at which door he didn’t bother to knock. He pushed his way through, waved in greeting with his swagger stick to the single occupant who looked up from the paper- and tape-strewn desk at which he sat.

Joe Mauser had seen the face before on Telly though never so tired as this and never with the element of defeat to be read in the expression. Bullet-headed, barrel-figured Baron Malcolm Haer of Vacuum Tube Transport. Category Transportation, Mid-Upper, and strong candidate for Upper-Upper upon retirement. However, there would be few who expected retirement in the immediate future. Hardly. Malcolm Haer found too obvious a lusty enjoyment in the competition between Vacuum Tube Transport and its stronger rivals.

Joe came to attention, bore the sharp scrutiny of his chosen commander-to-be. The older man’s eyes went to the kilted Upper officer who had brought Joe along. “What is it, Balt?”

The other gestured with his stick at Joe. “Claims to be Rank Captain. Looking for a commission with us, Dad. I wouldn’t know why.” The last sentence was added lazily.

The older Haer shot an irritated glance at his son. “Possibly for the same reason mercenaries usually enlist for a fracas, Balt.” His eyes came back to Joe.

Joe Mauser, still at attention even though in mufti, opened his mouth to give his name, category and rank, but the older man waved a hand negatively. “Captain Mauser, isn’t it? I caught the fracas between Carbonaceous Fuel and United Miners, down on the Panhandle Reservation. Seems to me I’ve spotted you once or twice before, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Joe said. This was some improvement in the way things were going.

The older Haer was scowling at him. “Confound it, what are you doing with no more rank than captain? On the face of it, you’re an old hand, a highly experienced veteran.”

An old pro, we call ourselves, Joe said to himself. Old pros, we call ourselves, among ourselves.

Aloud, he said, “I was born a Mid-Lower, sir.”

There was understanding in the old man’s face, but Balt Haer said loftily, “What’s that got to do with it? Promotion is quick and based on merit in Category Military.”

At a certain point, if you are good combat officer material, you speak your mind no matter the rank of the man you are addressing. On this occasion, Joe Mauser needed few words. He let his eyes go up and down Balt Haer’s immaculate uniform, taking in the swagger stick of the Rank Colonel or above. Joe said evenly, “Yes, sir.”

Balt Haer flushed quick temper. “What do you mean by⁠—”

But his father was chuckling. “You have spirit, captain. I need spirit now. You are quite correct. My son, though a capable officer, I assure you, has probably not participated in a fraction of the fracases you have to your credit. However, there is something to be said for the training available to we Uppers in the academies. For instance, captain, have you ever commanded a body of lads larger than, well, a company?”

Joe said flatly, “In the Douglas-Boeing versus Lockheed-Cessna fracas we took a high loss of officers when the Douglas-Boeing outfit rang in some fast-firing French mitrailleuse we didn’t know they had. As my superiors took casualties I was field promoted to acting battalion commander, to acting regimental commander, to acting brigadier. For three days I held the rank of acting commander of brigade. We won.”

Balt Haer snapped his fingers. “I remember that. Read quite a paper on it.” He eyed Joe Mauser, almost respectfully. “Stonewall Cogswell got the credit for the victory and received his marshal’s baton as a result.”

“He was one of the few other officers that survived,” Joe said dryly.

“But, Zen! You mean you got no promotion at all?”

Joe said, “I was upped to Low-Middle from High-Lower, sir. At my age, at the time, quite a promotion.”

Baron Haer was remembering, too. “That was the fracas that brought on the howl from the Sovs. They claimed those mitrailleuse were post-1900 and violated the Universal Disarmament Pact. Yes, I recall that. Douglas-Boeing was able to prove that the weapon was used by the French as far back as the Franco-Prussian War.” He eyed Joe with new interest now. “Sit down, captain. You too, Balt. Do you realize that Captain Mauser is the only recruit of officer rank we’ve had today?”

“Yes,” the younger Haer said dryly. “However, it’s too late to call the fracas off now. Hovercraft wouldn’t stand for it, and the Category Military Department would back them. Our only alternative is unconditional surrender, and you know what that means.”

“It means our family would probably be forced from control of the firm,” the older man growled. “But nobody has suggested surrender on any terms. Nobody, thus far.” He glared at his officer son who took it with an easy shrug and swung a leg over the edge of his father’s desk in the way of a seat.

Joe Mauser found a chair and lowered himself into it. Evidently, the foppish Balt Haer had no illusions about the spot his father had got the family corporation into. And the younger man was right, of course.

But the Baron wasn’t blind to reality any more than he was a coward. He dismissed Balt Haer’s defeatism from his mind and came back to Joe Mauser. “As I say, you’re the only officer recruit today. Why?”

Joe said evenly, “I wouldn’t know, sir. Perhaps freelance Category Military men are occupied elsewhere. There’s always a shortage of trained officers.”

Baron Haer was waggling a finger negatively. “That’s not what I mean, captain. You are an old hand. This is your category and you must know it well. Then why are you signing up with Vacuum Tube Transport rather than Hovercraft?”

Joe Mauser looked at him for a moment without speaking.

“Come, come, captain. I am an old hand too, in my category, and