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would do even better. Or, possibly,you ought to wear a monocle, even in action."

  Joe continued to stare, as though the little man had gone completelyaround the bend.

  Freddy Soligen had made his first impression. He finished the ale, putthe glass into the chute and turned back to the professionalmercenary. His voice was flat now, all expression gone from his face."All right," he said. "Now listen to my fling. You've got a lot tolearn."

  * * * * *

  Joe held his peace, if only in pure amazement. He ranked the littleman opposite him in both caste and in professional attainments.Besides which, he was a combat officer and unused to being addressedwith less than full respect, even from superiors. For unlucky JoeMauser might be in his chosen field, but respected he was.

  Freddy Soligen pointed a finger at him, almost mockingly. "You're onthe make, Mauser. In a world where few bother, any more, you're on theway up. The trouble is, you took the wrong path many years ago."

  Joe snorted his contempt of the other's lack of knowledge. "I was borninto the Clothing Category, Sub-division Shoes, Branch Repair. In theold days they called us cobblers. You think you could work your way upfrom Mid-Lower to Upper caste with that beginning, Soligen? Zen! wedon't even have cobblers any more, shoes are thrown away as soon asthey show wear. Sure, sure, sure. Theoretically, under People'sCapitalism, you can cross categories into any field you want. But haveyou ever heard of anybody doing any real jumping of caste levels inany category except Military or Religion? I didn't take the wrongpath, religion is a little too strong for even my stomach, which leftthe Category Military the only path available."

  Freddy had heard him out, his face twisted sourly. He said now, "Youmisunderstand. I realize that the military's the only quick way ofgetting a bounce in caste. I wish I'd figured that out sooner, beforeI made a trade out of the one I was born into, Communications. It'stoo late now, I'm into my forties with a busted marriage but the proudpapa of a kid." He twisted his face again in another grimace. "By theway, the boy's a novitiate in Category Religion."

  Some elements were clearing up in Joe's mind. He said, incomprehension, "So ... we're both ambitious."

  "That's right, major. Now, let's get back to fundamentals. Your wrongpath is the _manner_ in which you're trying to work your way up intothe elite. You've got to become a celebrated hero, major. And it's theTelly fan, the fracas-buff, who decides who the Category Militaryheroes are. Those are the slobs you have to toady to. In the long run,nobody else counts. I know, I know. All the old pros, even big nameslike Stonewall Cogswell and Jack Alshuler, think you're a top man.Great! But how many buff-clubs you got to your name? How often do thebuff magazines run articles about you? How often do you getinterviewed on Telly, in between fracases? Have the movies ever done'The Joe Mauser Story'?"

  Joe twisted uncomfortably. "All that stuff takes a lot of time. I'vebeen keeping myself busy."

  "Right. Busy getting shot at."

  "I'm a mercenary. That's my trade."

  Freddy spread his hands. "O.K. If that's all you're interested in,shooting lads signed up on the other side, or getting shot by them,that's fine. But you know, major"--he cocked his head to one side, andpeered knowingly at Joe--"I've got a sneaking suspicion that you don'tparticularly like combat. Some do, I know. Some love it. I don't thinkyou do."

  Joe looked at him.

  Freddy said, "You're in it because of the chance for promotion,nothing else counts."

  Joe remained silent.

  Freddy pushed him. "Who're the names every fracas buff knows? JerrySturgeon, captain at the age of twenty-one, and so damned pretty inthose fancy uniforms he wears. How many times have you ever heard ofhim really being in the dill? He knows better! Captain Sturgeon spendshis time prancing around on that famous palomino of his in front ofthe Telly lenses, not dodging bullets. Or Ted Sohl. Colonel Ted Sohl.The dashing Sohl with his two western style six-shooters, slung low onhis hips, and that romantic limp and craggy face. My, do the femalebuffs go for Colonel Sohl! I wonder how many of them know he wears aspecial pair of boots to give him that limp. Old Jerry's a long timedrinking pal of mine, he's never copped one in his life. What's more,another year or so and he'll be a general and you know what thatmeans. Almost automatic jump to Upper caste."

  Joe's face was working. All this was not really news to him. Like hisfellow old pros, Joe Mauser was fully aware of the glory grabbers.There had always been the glory grabbers from mythological Achilles,who sulked in his tent while his best friend died before the walls ofTroy, to Alexander, who conquered the world with an army conceived andprecision trained by another man whose name is all but forgotten, tothe swashbuckling Custer who sacrificed self and squadron rather thanwait for assistance.

  Freddy pushed him. "How come you're never on lens when you're in theregoing good, major? Ever thought about that? When you're commanding arear-guard action, maybe, trying to extract your lads when thesituation's pickled, who's in the Telly lens where all the stupidbuffs can see him? One of the manufactured heroes."

  Joe scowled. "The who?"

  "Come off it, major. You've been around long enough to know heroes aremade, not born. We stopped having much regard for real heroes a longtime ago. Lindbergh and Byrd were a couple of the last we turned out.After that, we left it to the Norwegians to do such things as crew the_Kon-Tiki_, or to the English to top Everest--whether or not theBritisher made the last hundred feet slung over the shoulder of aSherpa. I don't know if it was talking movies, the radio, the comingof Telly, or what. Possibly all three. But we got away from realheroes, 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 thingsrather than being showmen. Actually, most adventure can be on themonotonous side, nine-tenths of the time. When a Stanley goes to finda Livingston, he doesn't spend twenty-four hours a day killing rogueelephants or fighting off tribesman; most of the time he's ploddingalong in the swamps, getting bitten by mosquitoes, or through the bushgetting bitten by tsetse flies. So, as a people, we turned it over tothe 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 Tellyset, wants two things. First, lots of gore, lots of blood, lots ofsadistic thrill. And the Lower-Lower lads, who are silly enough to getinto the Military Category for the sake of glory or the few shares ofcommon stock they might secure, provide that gore. Second, your Tellyfan wants some Good Guys whose first requirement is to be easilyrecognized. Some heroes, easily identified with. Anybody can tell aTelly hero when he sees one. Handsome, dashing, distinctivelyuniformed, preferably tall, and preferably blond and blue-eyed, thoughwe'll eliminate those requirements in your case, if you'll grow amustache." He cocked his head to one side. "Yes, sir. A very dashingmustache."

  Joe said sourly, "You think that's all I need to hit the big time. Adashing mustache, eh?"

  "No," Freddy Soligen said, very slowly and evenly. "We're also goingto need every bit of stock you've accumulated, major. We're going tohave 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, tokeep 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 credityou've got."

  "I see," Joe said. "And when it's all been accomplished, what do youget 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 youare. 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 lateBaron Haer of Vacuum Tube Transport, entered the swank Exclusive Roomof the Greater Washington branch of the Ultra Hotels, the orchestraceased the dreamy dance music it had been playing and struck up thelilting "The Girl I Left Behind Me."


  As they followed the maitre d'hotel to their table, Nadine frowned inpuzzled 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 downfrom way back. Popular during the Civil War. The seventh Cavalry rodeforth to that tune on the way to their rendezvous with the Sioux atthe Little Big Horn."

  She frowned at him, puzzled still, "You seem to know an inordinateamount about a simple tune,