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

we got away from real heroes, they’re not exciting enough. Telly actors can do it better. Real heroes are apt to be on the dull side, they’re men who do things rather than being showmen. Actually, most adventure can be on the monotonous side, nine-tenths of the time. When a Stanley goes to find a Livingston, he doesn’t spend twenty-four hours a day killing rogue elephants or fighting off tribesman; most of the time he’s plodding along in the swamps, getting bitten by mosquitoes, or through the bush getting bitten by tsetse flies. So, as a people, we turned it over to the movies, and Telly, where they can do it better.”

Joe Mauser’s mind was working now, but he held silence.

Freddy Soligen went on, “Your typical fracas buff, glued to his Telly set, wants two things. First, lots of gore, lots of blood, lots of sadistic thrill. And the Lower-Lower lads, who are silly enough to get into the Military Category for the sake of glory or the few shares of common stock they might secure, provide that gore. Second, your Telly fan wants some Good Guys whose first requirement is to be easily recognized. Some heroes, easily identified with. Anybody can tell a Telly hero when he sees one. Handsome, dashing, distinctively uniformed, preferably tall, and preferably blond and blue-eyed, though we’ll eliminate those requirements in your case, if you’ll grow a mustache.” He cocked his head to one side. “Yes, sir. A very dashing mustache.”

Joe said sourly, “You think that’s all I need to hit the big time. A dashing mustache, eh?”

“No,” Freddy Soligen said, very slowly and evenly. “We’re also going to need every bit of stock you’ve accumulated, major. We’re going to have to buy your way into the columns of the fracas buff magazine. We’re going to have to bribe my colleagues, the Telly camera crews, to keep you on lens when you’re looking good, and, more important still, off it when you’re not. We’re going to have to spend every credit you’ve got.”

“I see,” Joe said. “And when it’s all been accomplished, what do you get out of this, Freddy?”

Freddy Soligen laid it on the line. “When it’s all been accomplished, you’ll be an Upper. I’m ambitious, too, Joe. Just as ambitious as you are. I need an In. You’ll be it. I’ll make you. I have the know-how. I can do it. When you’re made, you’ll make me.”

II

When Major Mauser, escorting Dr. Nadine Haer, daughter of the late Baron Haer of Vacuum Tube Transport, entered the swank Exclusive Room of the Greater Washington branch of the Ultra Hotels, the orchestra ceased the dreamy dance music it had been playing and struck up the lilting “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

As they followed the maître d’hôtel to their table, Nadine frowned in puzzled memory and after they were seated, she said, “That piece, where have I heard it before?”

Joe cleared his throat uncomfortably. “An old marching song, come down from way back. Popular during the Civil War. The seventh Cavalry rode forth to that tune on the way to their rendezvous with the Sioux at the Little Big Horn.”

She frowned at him, puzzled still, “You seem to know an inordinate amount about a simple tune, Joe.” Then she said, “Why, now I remember where I’ve heard it recently. Wednesday, when I was waiting for you at the Agora Bar. The band played it when you entered.”

He picked up the menu, hurriedly. The Exclusive Room was ostentatious to the point of menus and waiters. “What’ll you have, Nadine?” He still wasn’t quite at ease with her first name. Offhand, he could never remember having been on a first name basis with a Mid-Upper, certainly not one of the female gender.

But she was not to be put off. “Why, Joe Mauser, you’ve acquired a theme song, or whatever you call it. I didn’t know you were that well known amount the nitwits who follow the fracases. Why next they’ll be forming those ridiculous buff-clubs.” Her laughter tinkled. “The Major Joe Mauser Club.”

Joe flushed. “As a matter of fact, there are three,” he said unhappily. “One in Mexico City, one in Bogota and one in Portland. I’ve forgotten if it’s Oregon or Maine.”

She was puzzled still, and ignored the waiter who, standing there, made Joe nervous. Establishments which boasted live waiters, were rare enough in Joe Mauser’s experience that he could easily remember the number of occasions he’d attended them. Nadine Haer, to the contrary, an hereditary aristocrat born, was totally unaware of the flunky’s presence and would remain so until she required him.

She looked at Joe from the side of her eyes, suspiciously. “That new mustache which gives you such a romantic air. Your new uniform, very gallant. You look like one of those Imperial Hussars or something. And your Telly interviews. By a stretch of chance, I saw one of them the other day. That master of ceremonies seemed to think you are the most dashing soldier since Jeb Stuart.”

Joe said to the waiter, “Champagne, please.”

That worthy said apologetically, “May I see your credit card, major? The Exclusive Room is limited to Upper⁠—”

Nadine said coldly, “The major is my guest. I am Dr. Nadine Haer.” Her voice held the patina of those to the manor born, and not to be gainsaid. The other bowed hurriedly, murmured something placatingly, and was gone.

There was a tic at the side of Joe’s mouth which usually manifested itself only in combat. He said stiffly, “I am afraid we should have gone to a Middle establishment.”

“Nonsense. What difference does it make? Besides, don’t change the subject. I am not to be fooled, Joe Mauser. Something is afoot. Now, just what?”

The tic had intensified. Joe Mauser looked at the woman he loved, realizing that it could never occur to her that he, a Mid-Middle, would presume to think in terms of wooing her. That even in her supposed scorn of rank, privilege and status, she was still, subconsciously perhaps,