Frigid Fracas

  Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction March and April 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  To my loyal fans. Major Joe Mauser]

  FRIGID FRACAS

  In any status-hungry culture, the level a man is assigned depends on what people think he is--not on what he is. And that, of course, means that only the deliberately phony has real status!

  by MACK REYNOLDS

  ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN SCHOENHERR

  * * * * *

  I

  In other eras he might have been described as swacked, stewed, stoned,smashed, crocked, cockeyed, soused, shellacked, polluted, potted,tanked, lit, stinko, pie-eyed, three sheets in the wind, or simplydrunk.

  In his own time, Major Joseph Mauser, Category Military, Mid-MiddleCaste, was drenched.

  Or at least rapidly getting there.

  He wasn't happy about it. It wasn't that kind of a binge.

  He lowered one eyelid and concentrated on the list of potables offeredby the auto-bar. He'd decided earlier in the game that it would be aphysical impossibility to get through the whole list but he was makinga strong attempt on a representative of each subdivision. He'd had acocktail, a highball, a sour, a flip, a punch and a julep. He waggedforth a finger to dial a fizz, a Sloe Gin Fizz.

  Joe Mauser occupied a small table in a corner of the Middle CasteCategory Military Club in Greater Washington. His current fame,transient though it might be, would have made him welcome as a guestin the Upper Caste Club, located in the swank Baltimore section oftown. Old pros in the Category Military had comparatively smallsufferance for caste lines among themselves; rarified classdistinctions meant little when you were in the dill, and you didn'tbecome an old pro without having been in spots where matters hadpickled. Joe would have been welcome on the strength of hisperformance in the most recent fracas in which he had participated asa mercenary, that between Vacuum Tube Transport and ContinentalHovercraft. But he didn't want it that way.

  You didn't devote the greater part of your life to pulling your wayup, pushing your way up, fighting your way up, the ladder of status tobe satisfied to associate with your social superiors on the basis ofbeing a nine-day-wonder, an oddity to be met at cocktail parties andspoken to for a few democratic moments.

  No, Joe Mauser would stick to his own position in the scheme of thingsuntil through his own efforts he won through to that rarefied altitudein society which his ambition demanded.

  A sour voice said, "Celebrating, captain? Oops, major, I mean. So youdid get something out of the Catskill Reservation fracas. I'msurprised."

  A scowl, Joe decided, would be the best. Various others, in the courseof the evening, had attempted to join him. Three or four comrades inarms, one journalist from some fracas buff magazine, some woman he'dnever met before, and Zen knew how she'd ever got herself into theclub. A snarl had driven some away, or a growl or sneer. This one, hedecided, called for an angered scowl, particularly in view of the toneof voice which only brought home doubly how his planning of a full twoyears had come a cropper.

  He looked up, beginning his grimace of discouragement. "Go away," hemuttered nastily. The other's identity came through slowly. One of theTelly news reporters who'd covered the fracas; for the moment hecouldn't recall the name.

  Joe Mauser held the common prejudices of the Category Military forTelly and all its ramifications. Not only for the drooling multitudeswho sat before their sets and vicariously participated in the sadismof combat while their trank bemused brains refused contemplation ofthe reality of their way of life. But also for CategoryCommunications, and particularly its Sub-division Telly, Branch FracasNews, and all connected with it. His views, perhaps, were akin tothose of the matador facing the moment of truth, the crowds screamingin the arena seats for him to go in and the promoters and managerswatching from the _barrera_ and possibly wondering if he were gored ifnext week's gate would improve.

  The Telly cameras which watched you as, crouched almost double, youscurried into the fire area of a mitrailleuse or perhaps a Maxim; theTelly cameras which swung in your direction speedily, avidly, when ablast of fire threw you back and to the ground; the Telly cameras withtheir zoom lenses which focused full into your face as life leakedaway. The Spanish aficionados never had it so good. The close-upexpression of the dying matador had been denied them.

  The other undeterred, sank into the chair opposite, his face twistedcynically. Joe placed him now. Freddy Soligen. Give the man his due,he and his team were right in there when the going got hot. More thanonce, in the past fifteen years, Joe had seen the little man lugginghis cameras into the center of the fracas, taking chances expectedonly of combatants. Vaguely, he wondered why.

  He demanded, "Why?"

  "Eh?" Soligen said. "Major, by the looks of you, you're going to havea beaut, comes morning. Why don't you stick to trank?"

  "Cause I'm not a slob," Joe sneered. "Why?"

  "Why, what? Listen, you want me to help you on home?"

  "Got no home. Live in hotels. Military clubs. In barracks. Got nothingbut my rank and caste." He sneered again. "Such as they are."

  Soligen said, "Mid-Middle, aren't you? And a major. Zen, most wouldsay you haven't much to complain about."

  Joe grunted contempt, but dropped that angle of it. However, he couldhave mentioned that he was well into his thirties, that he had coppedmany a one in his day and that now time was borrowed. When you hadbeen in the dill as often as had Joe Mauser, the days you lived wereborrowed. Borrowed from some lad who hadn't used up all that naturehad originally allotted him. He was well into the thirties and hislife's goal was still tantalizingly far before him, and he living onborrowed time.

  He said, "Why're you ... exception? How come you get right into themiddle of it, like that time on the Panhandle Reservation. You couldacopped one there."

  Soligen chuckled abruptly, and as though in self-deprecation. "I _did_cop one there. Hospitalized three months. Didn't read any of thepublicity I got? No, I guess you didn't, it was mostly in the CategoryCommunications trade press. Anyway, I got bounced not only in rank onthe job, but up to Low-Middle in caste." There was the faintest edgeof the surly in his voice as he added, "I was born a Lower, major."

  Joe snorted. "So was I. You didn't answer my question, Soligen. Whystick your neck out? Most of you Telly reporters, stick it out in someconcrete pillbox with lots of telescopic equipment." He addedbitterly, "And usually away from what's really going on."

  The Telly reporter looked at him oddly. "Stick my neck out?" he saidwith deliberation. "Possibly for the same reason you do, major. Infact, it's kinda the reason I looked you up. Trouble is, you'reprobably too drenched, right now, to listen to my fling."

  Joe Mauser's voice attempted cold dignity. He said, "In the CategoryMilitary, Soligen, you never get so drenched you can't operate."

  The other's cynical grunt conveyed nothing, but he reached out anddialed the auto-bar. He growled, "O.K., a Sober-Up for you, an ale forme."

  "I don't want to sober up. I'm being bitter and enjoying it."

  "Yes, you do," the little man said. "I have the answer to yourbitterness." He handed Joe the pill. "You see, what's wrong with you,major, is you've been trying to do it alone. What you need is help."

  Joe glowered at him, even as he accepted the medication. "I make myown way, Soligen. I don't even know what you're talking about."

  "That's obvious," the other said s
ourly. He waited, sipping his brew,while the Sober-Up worked its miracle. He was compassionate enough toshudder, having been through, in his time, the speeding up of ahangover so that full agony was compressed into mere minutes ratherthan dispensed over a period of hours.

  Joe groaned, "It better be good, whatever you want to say."

  Freddy Soligen asked, at long last, tilting his head to one side andtaking Joe in critically. "You know one of the big reasons you're onlya major?"

  Joe Mauser looked at him.

  The Telly reporter said, "You haven't got any mustache."

  Joe Mauser stared at him.

  The other laughed cynically. "You think I'm drivel-happy, eh? Well,maybe a long scar down the cheek