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 that with all the fracas fans gravitating into town and you’ll have a blowout the likes of nothing you’ve seen before.”
“Well, yes, sir,” Max begrudged. “Where’re we going now, Captain?”
“To the airport. Come along.”
Outside, Mauser led the way to his hovercraft. As soon as the two were settled into the bucket seats, he hit the lift lever with the butt of his left hand. Once they were air-cushion borne, he pressed down on the accelerator.
Max Mainz was impressed. “You know,” he said, “I never been in one of these swanky jobs before. The kinda car you can afford on the income of a Mid-Lower’s stock isn’t—”
“Oh, come off it, Max!” Mauser said wearily. “People are always griping, but in spite of all the beefing in every strata from Low-Lower to Upper-Middle, I’ve yet to see any signs of organized protest against our present politico-economic system.”
“Hey,” Max said. “Don’t get me wrong. What was good enough for Dad, is good enough for me. You won’t catch me talking against the government.”
“Hmm,” Joe murmured. “And all the other clichés taught to us to preserve the status quo, our People’s Capitalism.” They were reaching the outskirts of town, crossing the Esopus. The airport lay only a mile or so beyond.
The sarcasm was too deep for Max, and since he didn’t understand, he said, tolerantly, “Well, what’s wrong with People’s Capitalism? Everybody owns the corporations. Damn-sight better than what the Sovs have.”
Mauser said sourly, “We’ve got one optical illusion; they’ve got another. Over there they claim the proletariat owns the means of production, distribution, and communication. Great. But the Party members are the ones who control it, and as a result, they manage to do all right for themselves. The Party hierarchy over there is like the Uppers over here.”
“Yeah.” Max was being particularly dense. “I’ve seen a lot about it on telly. You know, when there isn’t a good fracas on, you tune to one of them educational shows, like.”
Joe winced at the term “educational,” but held his peace.
“It’s pretty rugged over there,” Max continued, “but here in the West-world the people own a corporation’s stock and they run it and get the benefit.”
“Makes a beautiful story,” Joe said dryly. “Look, Max. Suppose you have a corporation that has two hundred thousand shares out and they’re distributed among one hundred thousand and one persons. One hundred thousand of these own one share apiece, and the remaining stockholder owns the other hundred thousand.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Max said.
Joe sighed. “Briefly,” he said, “we are given the illusion that this is a People’s Capitalism, an improvement over democracy, with all stock in the hands of the people—evenly distributed. Actually, the stock is in the hands of the Uppers, all except a mere dribble. They own the country and then run it for their own benefit.
“True
