Her eyebrows arched. “Why not try to change the rules?”
Joe blinked at her.
Nadine Haer said, “Let’s look up that refreshment you were talking about. In fact, there’s a small coffee bar around the corner where it’d be possible for one of Baron Haer’s brood to have a cup with one of her father’s officers of Middle caste.”
VI
The following morning, hands on the pillow beneath his head, Joe Mauser stared up at the ceiling of his room and rehashed his session with Nadine Haer. It hadn’t taken him five minutes to come to the conclusion that he was in love with the girl, but it had taken him the rest of the evening to keep himself under rein and not let the fact get through to her.
He wanted to talk about the way her mouth tucked in at the corners, but she was hot on the evolution of society. He would have liked to have kissed that impossibly perfectly shaped ear of hers, but she was all for exploring the reasons why man had reached his present impasse. Joe was for holding hands, and staring into each other’s eyes, she was for delving into the differences between the West-world and the Sov-world and the possibility of resolving them.
Of course, to keep her company at all it had been necessary to suppress his own desires and to go along. It obviously had never occurred to her that a Middle might have romantic ideas involving Nadine Haer. It had simply not occurred to her, no matter the radical teachings she advocated.
Most of their world was predictable from what had gone before. In spite of popular fable to the contrary, the division between classes had become increasingly clear. Among other things, tax systems were such that it became all but impossible for a citizen born poor to accumulate a fortune. Through ability he might rise to the point of earning fabulous sums—and wind up in debt to the tax collector. A great inventor, a great artist, had little chance of breaking into the domain of what finally became the small percentage of the population now known as Uppers. Then, too, the rising cost of a really good education became such that few other than those born into the Middle or Upper castes could afford the best of schools. Castes tended to perpetuate themselves.
Politically, the nation had fallen increasingly deeper into the two-party system, both parties of which were tightly controlled by the same group of Uppers. Elections had become a farce, a great national holiday in which stereotyped patriotic speeches, pretenses of unity between all castes, picnics, beer busts and trank binges predominated for one day.
Economically, too, the augurs had been there. Production of the basics had become so profuse that poverty in the old sense of the word had become nonsensical. There was an abundance of the necessities of life for all. Social security, socialized medicine, unending unemployment insurance, old age pensions, pensions for veterans, for widows and children, for the unfit, pensions and doles for this, that and the other, had doubled, and doubled again, until everyone had security for life. The Uppers, true enough, had opulence far beyond that known by the Middles and lived like Gods compared to the Lowers. But all had security. They had agreed, thus far, Joe and Nadine. But then had come debate.
* * * *
“Then why,” Joe had asked her, “haven’t we achieved what your brother called it? Why isn’t this Utopia? Isn’t it what man has been yearning for, down through the ages? Where did the wheel come off? What happened to the dream?”
Nadine had frowned at him—beautifully, he thought. “It’s not the first time man has found abundance in a society, though never to this degree. The Incas had it, for instance.”
“I don’t know much about them,” Joe admitted. “An early form of communism with a sort of military-priesthood at the top.”
She had nodded, her face serious, as always. “And for themselves, the Romans more or less had it—at the expense of the nations they conquered, of course.”
“And—” Joe prodded.
“And in these examples the same thing developed. Society ossified. Joe,” she said, using his first name for the first time, and in a manner that set off a new count down in his blood, “a ruling caste and a socio-economic system perpetuates itself, just so long as it ever can. No matter what damage it may do to society as a whole, it perpetuates itself even to the point of complete destruction of everything.
“Remember Hitler? Adolf the Aryan and his Thousand Year Reich? When it became obvious he had failed, and the only thing that could result from continued resistance would be destruction of Germany’s cities and millions of her people, did he and his clique resign or surrender? Certainly not. They attempted to bring down the whole German structure in a Götterdammerung.”
Nadine Haer was deep into her theme, her eyes flashing her conviction. “A socio-economic system reacts like a living organism. It attempts to live on, indefinitely, agonizingly, no matter how antiquated it might have become. The Roman politico-economic system continued for centuries after it should have been replaced. Such reformers as the Gracchus brothers were assassinated or thrust aside so that the entrenched elements could perpetuate themselves, and when Rome finally fell, darkness descended for a thousand years on Western progress.”
Joe had never gone this far in his thoughts. He said now, somewhat uncomfortably, “Well, what would replace what we have now? If you took power from you Uppers, who could direct the country? The Lowers? That’s not even funny. Take away their fracases and their trank pills and they’d go berserk. They don’t want anything else.”
Her mouth worked. “Admittedly, we’ve already allowed things to deteriorate much too far. We should have done something long ago. I’m not sure I know the answer. All I know is that in order to maintain the status quo, we’re not utilizing the efforts of more than a fraction of our people. Nine out of ten of us spend our lives sitting before the Telly, sucking tranks. Meanwhile, the motivation for continued progress seems to have withered away. Our Upper political circles are afraid some seemingly minor change might avalanche, so more and more we lean upon the old way of doing things.”
Joe had put up mild argument. “I’ve heard the case made that the Lowers are fools and the reason our present socio-economic system makes it so difficult to rise from Lower to Upper is that you cannot make a fool understand he is one. You can only make him angry. If some, who are not fools, are allowed to advance from Lower to Upper, the vast mass who are fools will be angry because they are not allowed to. That’s why the Military Category is made a channel of advance. To take that road, a man gives up his security and he’ll die if he’s a fool.”
Nadine had been scornful. “That reminds me of the old contention by racial segregationalists that the Negroes smelled bad. First they put them in a position where they had insufficient bathing facilities, their diet inadequate, and their teeth uncared for, and then protested that they couldn’t be associated with because of their odor. Today, we are born within our castes. If an Upper is inadequate, he nevertheless remains an Upper. An accident of birth makes him an aristocrat; environment, family, training, education, friends, traditions and laws maintain him in that position. But a Lower who potentially has the greatest of value to society, is born handicapped and he’s hard put not to wind up before a Telly, in a mental daze from trank. Sure he’s a fool, he’s never been allowed to develop himself.”
* * * *
Yes, Joe reflected now, it had been quite an evening. In a life of more than thirty years devoted to rebellion, he had never met anyone so outspoken as Nadine Haer, nor one who had thought it through as far as she had.
He grunted. His own revolt was against the level at which he had found himself in society, not the structure of society itself. His whole raison d’être was to lift himself to Upper status. It came as a shock to him to find a person he admired who had been born into Upper caste, desirous of tearing the whole system down.
His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening and the face of Max Mainz grinning in at him. Joe was mildly surprised at his orderly not knocking before opening the door. Max evidently had a lot to learn.
The litt
le man blurted, “Come on, Joe. Let’s go out on the town!”
“Joe?” Joe Mauser raised himself to one elbow and stared at the other. “Leaving aside the merits of your suggestion for the moment, do you think you should address an officer by his first name?”
Max Mainz came fully into the bedroom, his grin still wider. “You forgot! It’s election day!”
“Oh.” Joe Mauser relaxed into his pillow. “So it is. No duty for today, eh?”
“No duty for anybody,” Max crowed. “What’d you say we go into town and have a few drinks in one of the Upper bars?”
Joe grunted, but began to arise. “What’ll that accomplish? On election day, most of the Uppers get done up in their oldest clothes and go slumming down in the Lower quarters.”
Max wasn’t to be put off so easily. “Well, wherever we go, let’s get going. Zen! I’ll bet this town is full of fracas buffs from as far as Philly. And on election day, to boot. Wouldn’t it be something if I found me a real fracas fan, some Upper-Upper dame?”
Joe laughed at him, even as he headed for the bathroom. As a matter of fact, he rather liked the idea of going into town for the show. “Max,” he said over his shoulder, “you’re in for a big disappointment. They’re all the same. Upper, Lower, or Middle.”
“Yeah?” Max grinned back at him. “Well, I’d like the pleasure of finding out if that’s true by personal experience.”
VII
In a far away past, Kingston had once been the capital of the United States. For a short time, when Washington’s men were in flight after the debacle of their defeat in New York City, the government of the United Colonies had held session in this Hudson River town. It had been its one moment of historic glory, and afterward Kingston had slipped back into being a minor city on the edge of the Catskills, approximately halfway between New York and Albany.
Of most recent years, it had become one of the two recruiting centers which bordered the Catskill Military Reservation, which in turn was one of the score or so population cleared areas throughout the continent where rival corporations or unions could meet and settle their differences in combat—given permission of the Military Category Department of the government. And permission was becoming ever easier to acquire.
It had slowly evolved, the resorting to trial by combat to settle disputes between competing corporations, disputes between corporations and unions, disputes between unions over jurisdiction. Slowly, but predictably. Since the earliest days of the first industrial revolution, conflict between these elements had often broken into violence, sometimes on a scale comparable to minor warfare. An early example was the union organizing in Colorado when armed elements of the Western Federation of Miners shot it out with similarly armed “detectives” hired by the mine owners, and later with the troops of an unsympathetic State government.
By the middle of the Twentieth-Century, unions had become one of the biggest businesses in the country, and by this time a considerable amount of the industrial conflict had shifted to fights between them for jurisdiction over dues-paying members. Battles on the waterfront, assassination and counter-assassination by gun-toting goon squads dominated by gangsters, industrial sabotage, frays between pickets and scabs—all were common occurrences.
But it was the coming of Telly which increasingly brought such conflicts literally before the public eye. Zealous reporters made ever greater effort to bring the actual mayhem before the eyes of their viewers, and never were their efforts more highly rewarded.
A society based upon private endeavor is as jealous of a vacuum as is Mother Nature. Give a desire that can be filled profitably, and the means can somehow be found to realize it.
* * * *
At one point in the nation’s history, the railroad lords had dominated the economy, later it became the petroleum princes of Texas and elsewhere, but toward the end of the Twentieth Century the communications industries slowly gained prominence. Nothing was more greatly in demand than feeding the insatiable maw of the Telly fan, nothing, ultimately, became more profitable.
And increasingly, the Telly buff endorsed the more sadistic of the fictional and nonfictional programs presented him. Even in the earliest years of the industry, producers had found that murder and mayhem, war and frontier gunfights, took precedence over less gruesome subjects. Music was drowned out by gunfire, the dance replaced by the shuffle of cowboy and rustler advancing down a dusty street toward each other, their fingertips brushing the grips of their six-shooters, the comedian’s banter fell away before the chatter of the gangster’s tommy gun.
And increasing realism was demanded. The Telly reporter on the scene of a police arrest, preferably a murder, a rumble between rival gangs of juvenile delinquents, a longshoreman’s fray in which scores of workers were hospitalized. When attempts were made to suppress such broadcasts, the howl of freedom of speech and the press went up, financed by tycoons clever enough to realize the value of the subjects they covered so adequately.
The vacuum was there, the desire, the need. Bread the populace had. Trank was available to all. But the need was for the circus, the vicious, sadistic circus, and bit by bit, over the years and decades, the way was found to circumvent the country’s laws and traditions to supply the need.
Aye, a way is always found. The final Universal Disarmament Pact which had totally banned all weapons invented since the year 1900 and provided for complete inspection, had not ended the fear of war. And thus there was excuse to give the would-be soldier, the potential defender of the country in some future inter-nation conflict, practical experience.
Slowly tolerance grew to allow union and corporation to fight it out, hiring the services of mercenaries. Slowly rules grew up to govern such fracases. Slowly a department of government evolved. The Military Category became as acceptable as the next, and the mercenary a valued, even idolized, member of society. And the field became practically the only one in which a status quo orientated socio-economic system allowed for advancement in caste.
Joe Mauser and Max Mainz strolled the streets of Kingston in an extreme of atmosphere seldom to be enjoyed. Not only was the advent of a divisional magnitude fracas only a short period away, but the freedom of an election day as well. The carnival, the Mardi Gras, the fete, the fiesta, of an election. Election Day, when each aristocrat became only a man, and each man an aristocrat, free of all society’s artificially conceived, caste-perpetuating rituals and taboos.
Carnival! The day was young, but already the streets were thick with revelers, with dancers, with drunks. A score of bands played, youngsters in particular ran about attired in costume, there were barbeques and flowing beer kegs. On the outskirts of town were roller coasters and ferris wheels, fun houses and drive-it-yourself miniature cars. Carnival!
Max said happily, “You drink, Joe? Or maybe you like trank, better.” Obviously, he loved to roll the other’s first name over his tongue.
Joe wondered in amusement how often the little man had found occasion to call a Mid-Middle by his first name. “No trank,” he said. “Alcohol for me. Mankind’s old faithful.”
“Well,” Max debated, “get high on alcohol and bingo, a hangover in the morning. But trank? You wake up with a smile.”
“And a desire for more trank to keep the mood going,” Joe said wryly. “Get smashed on alcohol and you suffer for it eventually.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” Max argued happily. “So let’s start off with a couple of quick ones in this here Upper joint.”
* * * *
Joe looked the place over. He didn’t know Kingston overly well, but by the appearance of the building and by the entry, it was probably the swankiest hotel in town. He shrugged. So far as he was concerned, he appreciated the greater comfort and the better service of his Middle caste bars, restaurants and hotels over the ones he had patronized when a Lower. However, his wasn’t an immediate desire to push into the preserves of the Uppers; not until he had won rightfully to their status.
But on
this occasion the little fellow wanted to drink at an Upper bar. Very well, it was election day. “Let’s go,” he said to Max.
In the uniform of a Rank Captain of the Military Category, there was little to indicate caste level, and ordinarily given the correct air of nonchalance, Joe Mauser, in uniform, would have been able to go anywhere, without so much as a raised eyebrow—until he had presented his credit card, which indicated his caste. But Max was another thing. He was obviously a Lower, and probably a Low-Lower at that.
But space was made for them at a bar packed with election day celebrants, politicians involved in the day’s speeches and voting, higher ranking officers of the Haer forces, having a day off, and various Uppers of both sexes in town for the excitement of the fracas to come.
“Beer,” Joe said to the bartender.
“Not me,” Max crowed. “Champagne. Only the best for Max Mainz. Give me some of that champagne liquor I always been hearing about.”
Joe had the bill credited to his card, and they took their bottles and glasses to a newly abandoned table. The place was too packed to have awaited the services of a waiter, although poor Max probably would have loved such attention. Lower, and even Middle bars and restaurants were universally automated, and the waiter or waitress a thing of yesteryear.
Max looked about the room in awe. “This is living,” he announced. “I wonder what they’d say if I went to the desk and ordered a room.”
Joe Mauser wasn’t as highly impressed as his batman. In fact, he’d often stayed in the larger cities, in hostelries as sumptuous as this, though only of Middle status. Kingston’s best was on the mediocre side. He said, “They’d probably tell you they were filled up.”
Max was indignant. “Because I’m a Lower? It’s election day.”
Joe said mildly, “Because they probably are filled up. But for that matter, they might brush you off. It’s not as though an Upper went to a Middle or Lower hotel and asked for accommodations. But what do you want, justice?”
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 105
