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

strike as their weapon. But whatever the original purpose, and its virtue or lack of it, the union grew into something entirely different by the early and middle twentieth century. Such unions as the United Miners grew to such a size that they, themselves, became some of the largest business organizations in the country. And eventually they came to be run, like any other business, for the benefit of those who owned or controlled them. The professional labor leader evolved, motivated by his own interests and finally becoming, in his despotic control of the union, backed by goon squads and gangsters, as powerful a man as was to be found in the country. Seldom were strikes any longer held to better the condition of the individual union members. Instead, the issues were contracts which allowed for fabulous sums to go into the union coffers where they were at the disposal of the union officials.”

The marshal grunted sourly. “Now that the whole industry of mining is all but completely automated and only a few thousands employed actively, there are confounded few miners not on the unemployed list, but the union officials wax as fat as ever, what with the percentages of each ton mined going into so-called welfare funds, and such.”

He looked at Joe, evidently conscious that he had made an inordinary long speech for the supposedly taciturn Stonewall Cogswell. He cleared his throat and said, “Not that it’s my affair. I switched categories to Military, in my youth. Let us get to the point. I’ve been caught napping, Joe.”

That was an unlooked for confession to come from Stonewall Cogswell. Joe said nothing, waiting for more.

The marshal shook his baton at the younger officer. “By utilizing that confounded glider of yours as a reconnaissance craft, you revolutionized present warfare, major. Act of absolute ingenuity, and I admired it. Unfortunately, I failed to realize the speed with which every professional in our category would jump upon the bandwagon and secure gliders for himself.”

Joe saw light.

“Been caught short,” Cogswell rapped. “Short of gliders. Short of even one glider. And within a few weeks I’m committed to a divisional size fracas.” He pushed back his chair, angrily. “General McCord is in command of the Carbonaceous Fuel forces. Met him before, and always brought up victory only by the skin of my teeth. But this time he has two gliders. I have none.”

“But, sir, surely you can either buy or rent several craft on the market.”

“Confound it! It’s not the machines that are unavailable, but the trained pilots to operate them. The sport hasn’t been popular in half a century. Not overly so, even then.”

“But training a pilot⁠—”

“Training a pilot, nonsense!” the marshal was shaking his baton at him again, in indignation. “A pilot won’t do. He must also be a trained reconnaissance man. Must be able to follow terrain from the air. Identify military forces both in nature and number. I needn’t tell you this, major. You above all know the problem.”

It hadn’t occurred to Joe, but the other was obviously right. There couldn’t be more than a few dozen men in Category Military who could hold down both the job of pilot and reconnaissance officer. In another six months, the situation would have changed. Officers would quickly be trained. But now? As Cogswell said, he was caught short.

Joe came to his feet. “Sir, I’ll have to consider the commission. Frankly, my plans were otherwise.”

Cogswell started at him grimly. “Mauser, you’ve always been one of the best. An old pro, in every sense of the word. However, there have been some rumors going around about your ambitions.”

Joe said stiffly, “Sir, my ambitions are my own business, whatever these rumors.”

“Didn’t say I believed them, major. We’ve been together too often when the situation has pickled for me to judge you without more evidence than gossip. What I was leading up to, is this. There’s nothing wrong with ambition. If you see me through in this, I’ll do what I can toward pushing your promotion.”

Joe came to the salute again. “Thank you, sir. I’ll consider the commission and let you know by tomorrow.”

Cogswell flicked the baton, in his nonchalant answer to salute. “That will be all, then, major.”

VII

Freddy Soligen wasn’t at home when Joe Mauser called. The Category Military officer was met, instead, by young Sam Soligen, clothed this day in the robes of a novitiate of the Temple. Joe remembered now that Freddy had mentioned the boy in training in Category Religion.

Sam led him back into the living room, switching off the Telly screen which had been tuned in on one of the fictionalized fracases of the past. Poor entertainment, when compared to the real thing, for any fracas buff, but better than nothing. In fact, it was even contended by some that if you got yourself properly tranked you could get almost as much emotion from a phony-fracas, as they were called, as for the genuine.

“Gee, sir,” Sam said, “Papa was supposed to be back by now. I don’t know where he is. If you wanta wait⁠—”

Joe shrugged and picked himself a chair. He took in Sam’s robes and made conversation. “Studies tough in the Temple schools?” he asked.

The teenager realized it was a make-talk question. He said, “Aw, not much. A lot of curd about rituals and all. You hafta memorize it.”

“Curd, yet,” Joe laughed. “You don’t sound particularly pious, Sam. Come to think of it, I suppose any child of Freddy’s could hardly be.”

Sam said, his young voice urgent, “Papa said you were on your way up, Major Mauser. Just like us. Gee, how come you chose Category Military, instead of Religion?”

Joe Mauser looked at the other. It was his policy to treat young people either as children or adults. If he was to deal with a teenager as an adult, he didn’t believe in pulling punches any more than had he been dealing with a person of sixty. He said, flatly, “I’ve never had much regard for