Frigid Fracas Read online

Joe." Then she said, "Why, now I rememberwhere I've heard it recently. Wednesday, when I was waiting for you atthe Agora Bar. The band played it when you entered."

  He picked up the menu, hurriedly. The Exclusive Room was ostentatiousto the point of menus and waiters. "What'll you have, Nadine?" Hestill wasn't quite at ease with her first name. Offhand, he couldnever 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 atheme song, or whatever you call it. I didn't know you were that wellknown amount the nit-wits who follow the fracases. Why next they'll beforming those ridiculous buff-clubs." Her laughter tinkled. "The MajorJoe Mauser Club."

  Joe flushed. "As a matter of fact, there are three," he saidunhappily. "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 rareenough in Joe Mauser's experience that he could easily remember thenumber of occasions he'd attended them. Nadine Haer, to the contrary,an hereditary aristocrat born, was totally unaware of the flunky'spresence and would remain so until she required him.

  She looked at Joe from the side of her eyes, suspiciously. "That newmustache which gives you such a romantic air. Your new uniform, verygallant. You look like one of those Imperial Hussars or something. Andyour Telly interviews. By a stretch of chance, I saw one of them theother day. That master of ceremonies seemed to think you are the mostdashing 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." Hervoice held the patina of those to the manor born, and not to begainsaid. The other bowed hurriedly, murmured something placatingly,and was gone.

  There was a tic at the side of Joe's mouth which usually manifesteditself only in combat. He said stiffly, "I am afraid we should havegone to a Middle establishment."

  "Nonsense. What difference does it make? Besides, don't change thesubject. 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 hersupposed scorn of rank, privilege and status, she was still,subconsciously perhaps, a noble and he a serf. Evolution there was insociety, and the terms were different, but it was still a world ofclass distinction and she was of the ruling class, and he the ruled,she a patrician, he a pleb.

  His voice went very even, very flat, almost as though he was speakingto a foe. "When we first met, Nadine, I told you that I had been borna Mid-Lower. Why, I don't know, but from my earliest memories Irevolted against the strata in which birth placed me. History--I havehad lots of time to read history, in hospital beds--tells me therehave been few socio-economic systems under which the strong,intelligent, aggressive, cunning or ruthless couldn't work their wayto the top. Very well, I intend to do it under People's Capitalism."

  "Industrial Feudalism," she murmured.

  "Call it what you will. I won't be happy until I'm a member of thatone per cent on top."

  She looked into his face. "Are you sure you will be then?"

  "I don't know," he said angrily. "But I've heard the argument before.It's been used down through the ages by apologists for the privilegedclasses. Pity the poor rich man. While the happy slaves are sittingdown on the levee, strumming their banjos, the poor plantation owneris up in his mansion drowning his sorrows in mint juleps."

  She had an edge of anger, too. "All right," she snapped. "But I'lltell you this, Joe Mauser. The world is out of gear, but the answerisn't for individuals to better their material lot by jumping theircaste statuses."

  The waiter brought their wine, and, both angry, both held their peaceuntil he had served it and left.

  "What _is_ the answer?" he said, mock in his voice. "It's easy enoughfor you, on top, to tell me, below, that the answer isn't in making myway to your level."

  She was interrupted in her hot reply by a rolling of the orchestra'sdrums and the voice of a domineering M.C. who managed effectively todrown all vocal opposition at the tables.

  * * * * *

  Grinning inanely, holding onto his portable, wireless mike, he babbledalong about the wonderful people present tonight and the good timebeing had by all. The Exclusive Room being founded on pure snobbery,he made great todo about the celebrities present. This politician,that actress, this currently popular songstress, that baron ofindustry.

  Joe and Nadine ignored most of his chatter, still glaring at eachother, until he came to....

  "And those among us who are fracas buffs, and who isn't a fracas buffthese days, given the merest drop of red blood? Fracas buffs will bethrilled to know that they are spending the evening in the company ofthe intrepid Major Joseph Mauser...."

  Behind him, the orchestra broke into the quick strains of "The Girl ILeft Behind Me."

  "... Whose most recent act of sheer military genius and derringdocombined resulted in his all but single-handed winning of the fracasbetween Continental Hovercraft and Vacuum Tube Transport, and thusinflicting defeat upon none other than Marshal Stonewall Cogswell forthe first time in more than a decade."

  The M.C. babbled on, now about another present celebrity, a retiredpugilist, once a champion.

  Nadine looked into his face. "I think I understand now. You mentionedthat in any society the ... how did you put it? ... the strong,intelligent, aggressive, cunning or ruthless could work their way tothe top. You've tried strength, intelligence, and aggressiveness,haven't you, Joe? They didn't work. At least, not fast enough. So nowyou're giving cunning a try. Will ruthlessness be next, Joe Mauser?"

  He was saved an answer.

  A hulking body in evening wear stood next to their table, swaying. Joelooked up into a face glazed by either trank or alcohol. He didn'tknow the other man and for a moment failed to realize the other'spurpose. The man was mumbling something that didn't come through.

  Joe, irritated, said, "What in Zen do you want?"

  The stranger shook his head, as though to clear it. He sneered, "Thefamous Joe Mauser, eh? The brave soldier-boy. Well, lemme tell yousomething, soldier-boy, you don't look so tough to me with your cutelittle mustache and your fancy-pants uniform. You look like a molly tome."

  "That's too bad," Joe bit out. "And now, if you'll just go away." Heturned his face from the other.

  "Joe...!" Nadine said in an alarmed warning.

  The other's contemptuous cuff, unsuspected, nearly bowled Joecompletely from his chair. As it was, he barely caught himself.

  His attacker shuffled backward and Joe recognized the trained step ofthe professional boxer. The other's identity now came to him, althoughhe was no follower of pugilism, a sport largely out of favor since therapid growth of Telly scanned fracases. Boxing at its top had neverbeen more than an inadequate replacement of the games once held in theRoman area.

  Joe was on his feet, instantly the fighting man under attack. Thetable that he and Nadine occupied was a ringside one, and in open viewof half the room, but that meant nothing. He was under attack and forthe nonce surprised, on the defensive.

  "How'd you like them apples, soldier-boy?" the professional pugilistchuckled nastily. His left flicked forward and Joe barely avoided itsconnecting with his face.

  He threw aside, for the time, any attempt to explain the other'suncalled for aggression. Unless he did something, and quick, he wasgoing to be a laughing stock, rather than the hero into which FreddySoligen was trying to build him.

  Nadine said, Anxiously, "Joe ... please ... the waiters will dealwith--".

  He didn't hear her.

  Joe Mauser, with all his hospital studies,
had never heard of theMarquis of Queensbury. But even if he had, it would never haveoccurred to him to be bound by that arbiter of fisticuffs. In fact, hehad no intention even of being restricted to the use of his hands asfists. The Japanese, long centuries before, had proven the fist lessthan the most effective manner in which to pursue hand-to-hand combat.

  Joe Mauser, working coolly, fast and ruthlessly, now, a trained combatman exercising his profession, moved in for the kill, his shouldershunched slightly forward, his hands forward and to the sides, choppersrather than sledges.

  Joe stepped closer, as quick as a jungle cat. His left hand leaptforward to