LITMIR.BIZ

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      Max was saying, “The only way I could figure on a promotion to a higher caste, or the only way to earn stock shares, was by crossing categories. And you know what that means. Either Category Military or Category Religion, and I sure as Zen don’t know nothing about religion.”

      Mauser chuckled at the unintentional humor in Max’s statement. “Theoretically, you can cross categories into any field you want, Max,” he said mildly.

      Max snorted. “Theoretically is right…sir. But have you ever heard of a Lower, or even a Middle like yourself, crossing categories to, say, some Upper category like banking?”

      Mauser chuckled again. He liked this peppery little fellow. If Max worked out as well as Joe thought he might, there was a possibility of taking him along to the next fracas. He had once had a batman for a period of almost three years, until the man had copped one that led to an amputation and retirement.

      Max was saying, “I’m not saying anything against the old-time way of doing things, or talking against the government, but I’ll tell you, Captain, every year goes by it gets harder and harder for a man to raise his caste or earn some additional stock shares.”

      The applejack had worked enough on Mauser to bring out one of his pet peeves. He said, “That term, ‘the old-time way,’ is strictly telly talk, Max. We don’t do things the old-time way. No nation in history ever has—with the possible exception of Egypt.

      “Socio-economics are in a continual flux, and here in this country we no more do things in the way they did a hundred years ago than a hundred years ago they did them the way American Revolutionists outlined back in the 18th century.”

      Max was staring at him, completely out of his depth. “I don’t get that, sir.”

      Mauser said impatiently, “Max, the politico-economic system we have today is an outgrowth of what went earlier. The welfare state, the freezing of the status quo, the Frigid Fracas between the West-world and the Sov-world, industrial automation until useful employment is all but needless—all these things could be found in embryo more than a century ago.”

      “Well, maybe the captain’s right, but you gotta admit, sir, that we mostly do things the old way. We still got the Constitution and the two-party system and—”

      Joe was tiring of the conversation now. You seldom ran into anyone, even in the Middle caste—the traditionally professional class—interested enough in such subjects to be worth arguing with. He said, “The Constitution, Max, has reached the status of the Bible and other religious books. Interpret it the way you wish, and you can find anything. If not, you can always make a new amendment. That trend started in the middle of the 20th century, when the old U.S. Supreme Court took it upon itself to intervene in matters best settled by lower courts, or disputes that were already covered by existing laws. The idea of ‘equality’ got pushed to the limit, Max, and our ancestors tried to legislate equality among unequals. That is, they figured that if they said all people were equal, it would make it so. Didn’t work—just gave those who were at the bottom an excuse to stay there, while getting a free ride. And it paved the way for our current system.”

      Max started to interrupt, but Joe ignored him. “So far as the two-party system is concerned, what effect does it have when the Uppers are in control of both? What is the difference if two men stand for exactly the same thing? It’s a farce.”

      “A farce?” Max blurted, forgetting his servant status. “That means not so good, doesn’t it? Far as I’m concerned, election day is tops. The one day a Lower is just as good as an Upper. The one day when how many shares you got makes no difference. Everybody has everything.”

      “Sure, sure, sure,” Mauser sighed. “Election day in the West-world, when no one is freer than anyone else. The modem equivalent of the Roman Baccanalia.”

      “Well, what’s wrong with that?” The other was all but belligerent. “That’s the trouble with you Middles and Uppers, you don’t know how it is to be a Lower, and—”

      Suddenly Mauser snapped, “I was born a Mid-Lower myself, Max. Don’t give me that nonsense.” Max gaped at him, utterly unbelieving.

      Mauser’s irritation fell away. He held out his glass. “Get me another drink, Max, and I’ll tell you a story.”

      By the time the fresh drink came, he was sorry he’d made the offer. He thought back. He hadn’t told anyone the Joe Mauser story in many a year. And, as he recalled, last time had been when he was well into his cups—on an election day at that—and his listener had been a Low-Upper, one of the hereditary aristocrats comprising the top one percent of the nation. Zen! How the man had laughed. He’d roared his amusement till the tears ran.

      However, now he said, “Max, I was born into the same caste you were—average father, mother, sisters, and brothers. My family subsisted on basic income, sat and watched telly for an unbelievable number of hours each day, did trank to keep themselves happy. And thought I was crazy because I didn’t. Dad was the sort of man who’d take his belt off to a child of his who questioned such school-taught slogans as What was good enough for Daddy is good enough for me.

      “They were all fracas fans, of course, even the girls. As far back as I can remember, they were gathered around the telly, screaming excitement as the lens zoomed in on some poor cloddy bleeding his life out on the ground.” Joe Mauser sneered, uncharacteristically. “That’s something the Roman arena never provided the mob, a close-up of the dying gladiator’s face.”

      Max missed the reference to the ancestor of the modern-day fracas, but Mauser’s attitude was not lost on him. “You don’t sound much like you’re in favor of your trade, Captain,” Max said.

      Mauser came to his feet, setting his half-full glass aside. “I’ll make this epic story short, Max. As you said, the only valid routes for rising above your caste are through the Military and Religious Categories. Like you, even I couldn’t stomach the latter.”

      He hesitated, then finished it off. “Max, there have been few societies evolved by man that didn’t allow in some manner for the competent or sly, the intelligent or the opportunist, the brave or the strong, to work his way to the top. I don’t know which of these categories I fit into, but I rebel against remaining in the lower categories of a stratified society. Do I make myself clear?”

      “Well, no sir, not exactly.”

      Mauser said flatly, “I’m going to fight my way to the top, and nothing is going to stand in the way. Is that clearer?”

      “Yessir,” Max said, obviously taken aback by the vehemence in his superior’s voice.

      Having worked himself into an unusual state of agitation with his lecture on the state of the world, Mauser found that he wasn’t quite ready for sleep. The applejack offered a cure for that problem, although he was loathe to use it. Still, by the time he went to bed, the bottle was long empty.

      * * * *

      After routine morning duties, Joe returned to his billet and mystified Max Mainz by not only changing into mufti himself but having Max do the same.

      In fact, the new batman protested faintly. He hadn’t nearly gotten over the glory of wearing his kilts and was looking forward to parading around town in them. He had a point, of course. The appointed time for the fracas was getting closer, and buffs were beginning to stream into Kingston to bask in the atmosphere of pending death. Everybody knew what a military center on the outskirts of a fracas reservation was like immediately preceding a clash between rival corporations. The high-strung gaiety, the drinking, the overtranking, the relaxation of what mores existed. Even a Rank Private had it made. Admiring civilians to buy drinks and hang on your every word, and—more important still to Max—sensuous-eyed women, their faces slack in thinly suppressed passion. It was a recognized phenomenon, this desire on the part of certain female telly fans, to date a man and then watch him later, killing or being killed.

      “Time enough to wear your fancy uniform later,” Joe told him. “In fact, tomorrow’s a local election day. Combine

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