largely thought, gained no little support from the Communist world.” Max shot a less than military glance at him. “Hey, you’re not one of these Sovs yourself, are you?” They were coming into the parking area near the airport’s Administration Building. “No,” Mauser said, so softly that Max could hardly hear his words. “Only a Mid-Middle on the make.”
Followed by Max, he strode quickly to the Administration Building, presented his credit identification at the desk, and requested a light aircraft for a period of three hours. He made it clear that he required a specific type of aircraft. The clerk, hardly looking up, began going through motions, keying codes into a terminal and speaking into a telescreen.
The clerk said finally, “You might have a short wait, sir. Quite a few of the officers involved in this fracas have been renting out taxi-planes as fast as they’re available.” He paused as the terminal spat out a printed slip, then handed it over along with Mauser’s credit card. “And I don’t know whether you’ll get the kind of deal you’re after; it’s first come, first served today. You’ll be paged when your aircraft is ready.”
The delay didn’t surprise him. Any competent officer made a point of conducting an aerial survey of the battle reservation before going into a fracas. Aircraft, of course, couldn’t be used during the fray, since they postdated the turn of the century and hence were regulated to the cemetery of military devices—along with such items as nuclear weapons, tanks, and even powered vehicles of sufficient size to be useful.
Use an aircraft in a fracas, or even build an aircraft for military use, and you’d have a howl go up from the military attaches of the Sov-world that would be heard all the way to Budapest. Not a fracas went by but there were scores if not hundreds of foreign military observers, keen-eyed to check whether or not any really modern tools of war were being illegally utilized. He sometimes wondered if the Sov-world armies were as strict in their adherence to the rules of the Universal Disarmament Pact. Probably, since West-world observers were breathing down their necks, as well. But they didn’t have the same system of fighting fracases over there. The Neut-world, of course, didn’t figure into the equation, and Common Europe was another matter entirely. Still, observers from those blocs were to be found at every major fracas, as well.
Mauser and Max took seats while they waited, and both thumbed through the ubiquitous fracas fan magazines. Joe sometimes found his own face in such publications, probably more as a result of having been around so long than anything else. He was a third-rate celebrity; luck hadn’t been with him as far as the buffs were concerned. They wanted spectacular victories, murderous situations in which they could lose themselves in vicarious thrills. Mauser, unfortunately, had reached most of his peaks while either in retreat or while commanding a holding action. His fellow officers and superiors appreciated him, as did a few ultra-knowledgeable fracas buffs, but he was all but unknown to the average dimwit whose life was devoted to blood and gore.
On the various occasions when matters had pickled and Mauser had fought his way out against difficult odds, he was almost always off camera. Purely bad luck. On top of skill, determination, experience, and courage, you had to have luck to get anywhere in Category Military. But then, that was true of life in general.
This time, Mauser reminded himself, he was going to make his own luck.
A voice said, “Ah, Captain Mauser.”
Joe looked up, then came to his feet quickly. He started to salute out of sheer reflex, then caught himself; he was not in uniform. He said stiffly, “My compliments, Marshal Cogswell.”
The other was a smallish man, but strongly built, with a strikingly narrow face. His voice was clipped and clear, the air of command etched into it. He, like Mauser, wore mufti. He now extended his hand to be shaken.
“I hear you have signed up with Baron Haer, Captain. I was rather expecting you to come in with me. Had a place for a good aide-de-camp. Liked your work in that last fracas we went through together. ”
“Thank you, sir,” Mauser said. Stonewall Cogswell was as good a tactician as ever free-lanced, and more. He was an excellent judge of men and a stickler for detail. And right now, if Joe Mauser knew Marshal Cogswell as well as he thought he did, Cogswell was smelling a rat. There was no reason why an old pro should sign up with a sure loser like Vacuum Tube when he could have earned more shares taking a commission with Hovercraft, especially in view of the fact that as an aide-de-camp it was unlikely he would run much chance of getting into the dill.
He was looking at Mauser brightly, the question in his eyes. Three or four of his staff stood a few paces back, looking polite, but Cogswell didn’t bring them into the conversation. Mauser knew most by sight. Good men all. Old pros all. He felt another twinge of doubt.
He had to cover. At last he said, “I was offered a particularly good contract, sir. Too good to resist.”
The other nodded, as though inwardly coming to a satisfactory conclusion. “Baron Haer’s connections, eh? He’s probably offered to back you for a bounce in caste. Is that it, Joe?”
Mauser avoided the marshal’s eyes, but Stonewall Cogswell knew what he was talking about. He’d been born into Middle status himself and made it to Upper the hard way. His path wasn’t as long as Mauser’s was going to be, but long enough and he well knew how rocky the climb was.
Mauser said stiffly, “I’m afraid I’m in no position to discuss my commander’s military contracts, Marshal. We’re in mufti, but after all…”
Cogswell’s lean face registered one of his infrequent grimaces of humor. “I understand, Joe. Well, good luck. I hope things don’t pickle for you in the coming fracas. Possibly we’ll find ourselves allied again at some future time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mauser said, once more having to catch himself to prevent an automatic salute.
Cogswell and his staff strolled off toward the reservation desk, and Mauser looked after them thoughtfully. Even the marshal’s staff members were top men, any one of whom could have conducted a divisional magnitude fracas. Joe felt the coldness in his stomach again.
Even though the fracas must have looked like a cinch, the enemy wasn’t taking any chances. Cogswell and his officers were here at the airport for the same reason as Mauser. They wanted a thorough aerial reconnaissance of the battlefield before the issue was joined.
Max was standing at his elbow. “Who was that, sir? Looks like a real tough one.”
“He is a real tough one,” Joe said sourly. “That’s Stonewall Cogswell, the best field commander in North America.”
Max pursed his lips. “I never seen him out of uniform before. Lots of times on telly, but never out of uniform. I thought he was taller than that; he’s no bigger than me.”
“He fights with his brains,” Mauser said, still looking after the craggy field marshal. “He doesn’t have to be any taller.”
Max scowled. “Where’d he get that nickname, sir?”
“Stonewall?” Mauser was turning to resume his chair. “He’s supposed to be quite a student of a top general back in the American Civil War—Stonewall Jackson. Uses some of the original Stonewall’s tactics.”
Max was again out of his depth. “American Civil War? Was that much of a fracas, Captain? It musta been before my time.”
“It was quite a fracas,” Mauser said dryly. “Lots of good lads died. A hundred years after it was fought, the reasons behind it
