One of them said, “Major Mauser, may we present you to Lieutenant Bela Kossuth of the Pink Army?”
They were, evidently using Joe’s old title of rank, as if he were retired rather than dismissed from the Category Military. It meant little to Joe Mauser. The Sov officer clicked his heels, bowed from the waist, extended his hand to be shaken. His waist might be pinched in like that of a girl of the Nineteenth Century, but his hand was dry and firm.
“The fame of Joseph Mauser has penetrated to the Proletarian Paradise,” he said, his voice conveying sincerity.
Joe shook and said, “Pink Army? I thought you called it—”
The colonel was indicating a hoverlimousine with a sweeping gesture that would have seemed overly graceful, had not Joe felt the grip of the man only a moment earlier. Kossuth interrupted him politely, “The plane was a trifle late and the banquet we have prepared awaits us, major. A multitude of my fellow officers are anxious to meet the famed Joseph Mauser. Would it surprise you to know that I have replayed, a score of times, your celebrated holding action on the Louisiana Military Reservation? Zut! Unbelievable. With but a single company of men!”
Joe was looking at him blankly. Celebrated! Joe couldn’t but remember the fracas the mincing Hungarian was talking about. When the front had collapsed, Joe, then a captain, had held his position in the swamps while his superiors were supposedly reforming behind him, actually while they frantically tried to reach terms with the enemy.
One of the West-world lieutenants laughed at Joe’s expression. “You’re going to have to get used to the fact that there’re as many fracas buffs over here, sir, as there are back home.”
The Sov colonel waggled a finger at him. “But, no, you misunderstand completely, Lieutenant Andersen. We study the bloody fracases of the West. Following the campaigns of such tacticians as your Marshal Stonewall Cogswell goes far toward the training of our own Pink Army in its, ah, fracases.”
That brought up a dozen questions in Joe’s mind, but first he turned and indicated Max, who’d been standing behind, his eyes wide, and taking in the luxurious airport, the vehicles about it, the buildings, the airport workers, few in number though they be, the road leading to the city beyond.
Joe said, “Gentlemen, may I present Max Mainz?”
The faces of the lieutenants went blank, and one of them coughed as though apologetically.
The Sov colonel looked from Joe to Max, and then back again, his face assuming that expression so well known to Joe for so very long. The aristocrat looking at one of lower class as though wondering what made the fellow tick. Kossuth said, “But surely this, ah, chap, is a servant, one of your, what do you call them, a Lower.”
Max blinked unhappily and looked at Joe.
Joe Mauser said evenly, “I had heard the Sov-world was the Utopia of the proletariat. However, gentlemen, Max Mainz is my friend as well as my…assistant.”
The three officers murmured some things stiffly to Max, who, a Lower born, was not overly nonplused by the situation. Zen, he knew the three were Upper caste, what was Major Mauser getting into a tissy about? He was given a seat in the front, where the chauffeur would have once been, and the others took places in the rear, one of the lieutenants dialing the hovercar’s destination.
* * * *
Joe Mauser said, “I am afraid my background is hazy, Colonel Kossuth. You mentioned the Pink Army. You also mentioned your own fracases. I knew you maintained an army, of course, but I thought the fracas was a West development, in fact, your military attachés are usually on the scornful side.”
The two lieutenants grinned, but Kossuth said seriously, “Major, as always, nations which hold each other at arm’s length, use different terminology to say much the same thing. It need not be confusing, if one digs below to find reality. Perhaps, for a moment, we four can lower barriers enough for me to explain that whilst in the West-world you hold your fracases to”—he began enumerating on his fingers—“One, settle disputes between business competitors, or between corporations and unions. Two, to train soldiers for your defense requirements. Three, to keep bemused a potentially dangerous lower class.…”
“I object to that, colonel,” one of the lieutenants said hotly.
The Sov officer ignored him. “Four, to dispose of the more aggressive potential rebels, by allowing them to kill each other off in the continual combat.”
“That, sir, is simply not true,” the lieutenant blurted. Joe couldn’t remember if he was Andersen or Dickson, even their names were similar.
Joe said, evenly, “And your alternative?”
The Hungarian shrugged. “The Proletarian Paradise maintains two armies, major. One of veterans, for defense against potential foreign foes, and named the Glorious Invincible Red Army—”
“Or, the Red Army, for short,” one of the lieutenants murmured dryly.
“… And the other composed of less experienced proletarians and their techno-intellectual, and sometimes even Party, officers. This is our Pink Army.”
“Wait a moment,” Joe said. “What’s a proletarian?”
The lieutenant who had protested the Sov officer’s summation of the reasons for the West-world fracases, laughed dryly.
Kossuth stared at Joe. “You are poorly founded in the background of the Sov-world, major.”
Joe said, “Deliberately, Colonel Kossuth. When I learned of my assignment, I deliberately avoided cramming unsifted information. I decided it would be more desirable to get my information at the source, uncontaminated by our own West-world propaganda.”
One of the stiff-necked twins, both of whom Joe was beginning to find a bit too stereotyped West-world adherents, said, “Sir, I must protest. The West does not utilize propaganda.”
“Of course not,” Kossuth said, taking his turn at a dry tone. He said to Joe, “I admire your decision. Obviously, a correct one. Major, a proletarian is, well, you could say, ah—”
“A Low-Lower,” Andersen or Dickson said.
“Not exactly,” the Sov protested. “Let us put it this way. Marx once wrote that when true Socialism had arrived, the formula would be from each according to his abilities and to each according to his needs. Unhappily, due to the fact that the Proletarian Paradise is surrounded by potential enemies, we have not as yet established this formula. Instead, it is now from each according to his abilities and to each according to his contribution. Consequently, the most useful members of our society are drawn into the ranks of the Party, and, contributing the most, are most highly rewarded. The Party consists of somewhat less than one per cent of the population.”
“And is for all practical purposes, hereditary,” Anderson or Dickson said.
Kossuth, in indignation, parroted, unknowingly, the lieutenant’s earlier words. “That, sir, is simply not true.”
Joe said, soothing over the ruffled waters, “And the…what did you call them…techno-intellectuals?”
“They are the second most useful members of society. Our technicians, scientists—although many of these are members of the Party, of course—teachers, artists, Pink and Red Army officers, and so forth.”
Max looked around from the front seat. “Well, gee, that sounds just about like Uppers, Middles and Lowers to me.”
Joe Mauser cleared his throat and said to the Hungarian who was glaring at Max. “And the Pink Army?”
But Kossuth bit out to Max, “Don’t be silly, my man. There are no classes in the Proletarian Paradise.”
“Yeah,” Max said, “and back in the West-world we got People’s Capitalism and the people own the corporations. Yeah.”
“That’ll be all, Max,” Joe said, getting in before the two lieutenants could snap something at the fiesty little man. Joe had already decided that the lieutenants were both Uppers, and was somewhat surprised at their lowly rank.
Kossuth brought his attention back to Joe. “We’re almost to our destination, Major Mauser. However, briefly, some of the more recent additions to the Sov-world, particularly in th
e more backward areas of southern Asia, have not quite adjusted to the glories of the Proletarian Paradise.”
Both of the lieutenants chuckled softly.
Kossuth said, “So it is found necessary to dispatch punitive expeditions against them. A current such expedition is in the Kunlun Mountains in that area once known as Sinkiang to the north, Tibet to the south. Kirghiz and Kazakhs nomads in the region persist in rejecting the Party and its program. The Pink Army is in the process of eliminating these reactionary elements.”
Joe was puzzled. He said, “You mean, in all these years you haven’t been able to clean up such small elements of enemies?”
Kossuth said stuffily, “My dear major, please recall that we are limited to the use of weapons pre-1900 in accord with the Universal Disarmament Pact. To be blunt, it is quite evident that foreign elements smuggle weapons into Tibet and other points where rebellion flares, so that on some occasions our Pink Army is confronted with enemies better armed than themselves. These bandits, of course, are not under the jurisdiction of the International Commission and while we are limited, they are not.”
“Besides,” one of the lieutenants said, “They don’t want to clean them up. If they did, the Sov equivalent of the fracas buff wouldn’t be able to spend his time at the Telly watching the progress of the Glorious Pink Army against the reactionary foe.”
Joe, under his breath, parroted the words of the Sov officer. “That, sir, is simply not true.”
Max, who had largely been staring bug-eyed out the window at the passing scene, said, “Hey, the car’s stopping. Is this it?”
XVI
Although in actuality working on a private mission for Philip Holland, Frank Hodgson and the others high in government responsibility who were planning fundamental changes in the West-world, Joseph Mauser was ostensibly a military attaché connected with the West-world Embassy to Budapest. As such, he spent several days meeting embassy personnel, his immediate superiors and his immediate inferiors in rank. He was, as a newcomer from home, wined, dined, evaluated, found an apartment, assigned a hovercar, and in general assimilated into the community.
Not ordinarily prone to the social life, Joe was able to find interest in this due to its newness. The citizen of the West-world, when exiled by duty to a foreign land, evidently did his utmost to take his native soil with him. Even house furnishings had been brought from North America. Sov food and drink were superlative, particularly for those of Party rank, but for all practical purposes all such supplies were flown in from the West. Hungarian potables, not to mention the products of a dozen other Sov political divisions including Russia, were of the best, but the denizens of the West-world Embassy drank bourbon and Scotch, or at most the products of the vines of California. The styles of Budapest rivaled those of Paris and Rome, New York and Hollywood, but a feminine employee of the embassy wouldn’t have been caught dead in local fashions. It was a home away from home, an oasis of the West in the Sov-world.
Joe, figuring that in view of the double role, unknown even to the higher ranking officers of the embassy, he could best secure protective coloring by conforming and would have slipped into embassy routine without more than ordinary notice. But that wasn’t Nadine’s style.
From the first, she gloried in pörkölt, the veal stew with paprika sauce, in rostëlyos, the round steak potted in a still hotter paprika sauce, in halászlé, the fish soup which is Hungary’s challenge to French bouillabaisse, and threatened her lithe figure with her consumption of rétes, the Magyar strudel. All these washed down with Szamorodni or a Hungarian Riesling, the despair of a hundred generations of connoisseurs due to its inability to travel. When liqueurs were called for, barack, the highly distilled apricot brandy which was still the national tipple, was her choice, if not Tokay Aszú, the sweet nectar wine, once allowed only to be consumed by nobility so precious was it considered.
Her apartment became adorned with Hungarian, Bulgarian and Czech antiques, somewhat to the surprise even of the few Sovs with whom she and Joe associated. It had been long years since antiques were in vogue. She dressed in the latest styles from the dressing centers of Prague, Leningrad or from the local houses, ignoring the raised eyebrows of her embassy associates.
Joe, with an inner sigh, followed along in the swath she cut, Nadine being Nadine, and the woman he loved, to boot.
His being raised in caste to Upper through the easy efforts of Philip Holland, had made no observable difference in his relationship with Nadine. Of course, she was Mid-Upper, he told himself, while he was Low-Upper. Still it was far from unknown for romances to cross such comparatively little boundary. He couldn’t quite figure out why she seemed to hold him at arm’s length. Months had passed since she had told him, that day, she would marry him, even though he be a Middle. But now, when he tried to get her off by herself, for a moment of intimacy between them, she avoided the situation. When he brought their personal relationship into the conversation, she switched subjects. Joe, wedded for too long to his grim profession, inexperienced in the world of the lover, was out of his element.
His Upper caste rating also made little impression on the other embassy personnel, largely because it was the prevalent rank. In dealing with the Sovs, they came into contact almost exclusively with Party members and policy was that West-world officials never be put in the position to have to work with Sovs who ranked them. Only routine office workers were drawn from Middle caste, and largely they kept to themselves except during working hours.
Joe’s immediate superior turned out to be a General George Armstrong, with whom Joe had once served some years earlier when the general had commanded a fracas between two labor unions fighting out a jurisdictional squabble. Although Joe hadn’t particularly distinguished himself in that fray, the general remembered him well enough. Joe, recognized as the old pro he was, was taken in with open arms, somewhat to the surprise of older embassy military attachés who ranked him in caste, or seniority.
At the first, getting organized in apartment and office, getting his feeling of Budapest, its transportation system, its geographical layout, its offerings in entertainment, he came little in contact with either the Hungarians or the other officials of the Sov world, who teemed the city. In a way it was confusion upon confusion, since Budapest was the center of sovism and the languages of Indo-China, Outer Mongolia, Latvia, Bulgaria, Karelia, or Albania were as apt to be heard on street or in restaurant, as was Hungarian.
But Joe Mauser was in no hurry. His instructions were to take the long view. To take his time. To feel his way. Somewhere along the line, a door would open and he would find that for which he sought.
In a way, Max Mainz seemed to acclimate himself faster than either Nadine or Joe. The little man, completely without language other than Anglo-American, the lingua franca of the West, whilst Joe had both French and Spanish, and Nadine French and German, was still of such persistent social aggressiveness that in a week’s time he knew every Hungarian of proletarian rank within a wide neighborhood of where they lived or worked. Within a month he had managed to acquire present tense, almost verbless, jargon with which he was able to conduct all necessary transactions pertaining to his household duties, and to get into surprisingly complicated arguments as well. Joe had to give up attempting to persuade him that discretion was called for in discussing the relative merits of West-world and Sov-world.
In fact, it was through Max that Joe Mauser made his breakthrough in his assignment to learn the inner workings of the Sov-world.
XVII
It was a free evening for Joe, but one that Nadine had found necessary to devote to her medical duties. Max had been gushing about a cabaret in Buda, a place named the Bécsikapu where the wine flowed as wine can flow only in the Balkans and where the gypsy music was as only gypsy music can be. Max had developed a tolerance for wine after only two or three attempts at what they locally called Sot and which he didn’t consider exactly beer.
Joe said, only half interested, “For proletarians
, Party members, or what?”
Max said, “Well, gee, I guess it’s most proletarians, but in these little places, like, you can see almost anybody. Couple of nights ago when I took off I even seen a Russkie field marshal there. And was he drenched.”
Joe was at loose ends. Besides, this was a facet of Budapest life he had yet to investigate. The intimate night spots, frequented by all strata of Sov society.
He came to a quick decision. “O.K., Max. Let’s give it a look. Possibly it’ll turn out to be a place I can take Nadine. She’s a bit weary of the overgrown glamour spots they have here. They’re more ostentatious than anything you find even in Greater Washington.”
Max said, in his fiesty belligerence, “Does that mean better?”
Joe grunted amusement at the little man, even as he took up his jacket. “No, it doesn’t,” he said, “and take the chip off your shoulder. When you were back home you were continually beefing about what a rugged go you had being a Mid-Lower in the West-world. Now that you’re over here the merest suggestion that all is not peaches at home and you’re ready to fight.”
Max said, his ugly face twisted in a grimace, even as he helped Joe with the jacket. “Well, all these characters over here are up to their tonsils in curd about the West. They think everybody’s starving over there because they’re unemployed. And they think the Lowers are, like, ground down, and all. And that there’s lots of race troubles, and all.”
Even as they left the apartment, Joe was realizing how much closer Max had already got to the actual people, than either he or Nadine. But he was still amused. He said, “And wasn’t that largely what you used to think about things over here, when you were back home? How many starving have you seen?”
Max grunted. “Well, you know, that’s right. They’re not as bad off as I thought. Some of those Telly shows I used to watch was kind of exaggerated, like.”
Joe said absently, “If international fracases would be won by newspapers and Telly reporters, the Sovs would have lost the Frigid Fracas as far back as when they still called it the Cold War.”
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 94
