Max dropped it. He looked down into his glass. “Hey,” he complained, “what’d they give me? This stuff tastes like weak hard cider.”
Joe laughed. “What did you think it was going to taste like?”
Max took another unhappy sip. “I thought it was supposed to be the best drink you could buy. You know, really strong. It’s just bubbly wine.”
A voice said, dryly, “Your companion doesn’t seem to be a connoisseur of the French vintages, captain.”
Joe turned. Balt Haer and two others occupied the table next to them.
Joe chuckled amiably and said, “Truthfully, it was my own reaction, the first time I drank sparkling wine, sir.”
“Indeed,” Haer said. “I can imagine.” He fluttered a hand. “Lieutenant Colonel Paul Warren of Marshal Cogswell’s staff, and Colonel Lajos Arpàd, of Budapest—Captain Joseph Mauser.”
Joe Mauser came to his feet and clicked his heels, bowing from the waist in approved military protocol. The other two didn’t bother to come to their feet, but did condescend to shake hands.
The Sov officer said, disinterestedly, “Ah yes, this is one of your fabulous customs, isn’t it? On an election day, everyone is quite entitled to go anywhere. Anywhere at all. And, ah”—he made a sound somewhat like a giggle—“associate with anyone at all.”
Joe Mauser resumed his seat then looked at him. “That is correct. A custom going back to the early history of the country when all men were considered equal in such matters as law and civil rights. Gentlemen, may I present Rank Private Max Mainz, my orderly.”
Balt Haer, who had obviously already had a few, looked at him dourly. “You can carry these things to the point of the ludicrous, captain. For a man with your ambitions, I’m surprised.”
The infantry officer the younger Haer had introduced as Lieutenant Colonel Warren, of Stonewall Cogswell’s staff, said idly, “Ambitions? Does the captain have ambitions? How in Zen can a Middle have ambitions, Balt?” He stared at Joe Mauser superciliously, but then scowled. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
Joe said evenly, “Yes, sir. Five years ago we were both with the marshal in a fracas on the Little Big Horn reservation. Your company was pinned down on a knoll by a battery of field artillery. The Marshal sent me to your relief. We sneaked in, up an arroyo, and were able to get most of you out.”
“I was wounded,” the colonel said, the superciliousness gone and a strange element in his voice above the alcohol there earlier.
Joe Mauser said nothing to that. Max Mainz was stirring unhappily now. These officers were talking above his head, even as they ignored him. He had a vague feeling that he was being defended by Captain Mauser, but he didn’t know how, or why.
Balt Haer had been occupied in shouting fresh drinks. Now he turned back to the table. “Well, colonel, it’s all very secret, these ambitions of Captain Mauser. I understand he’s been an aide de camp to Marshal Cogswell in the past, but the marshal will be distressed to learn that on this occasion Captain Mauser has a secret by which he expects to rout your forces. Indeed, yes, the captain is quite the strategist.” Balt Haer laughed abruptly. “And what good will this do the captain? Why on my father’s word, if he succeeds, all efforts will be made to make the captain a caste equal of ours. Not just on election day, mind you, but all three hundred sixty-five days of the year.”
Joe Mauser was on his feet, his face expressionless. He said, “Shall we go, Max? Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. Colonel Arpàd, a privilege to meet you. Colonel Warren, a pleasure to renew acquaintance.” Joe Mauser turned and, trailed by his orderly, left.
* * * *
Lieutenant Colonel Warren, pale, was on his feet too.
Balt Haer was chuckling. “Sit down, Paul. Sit down. Not important enough to be angry about. The man’s a clod.”
Warren looked at him bleakly. “I wasn’t angry, Balt. The last time I saw Captain Mauser I was slung over his shoulder. He carried, tugged and dragged me some two miles through enemy fire.”
Balt Haer carried it off with a shrug. “Well, that’s his profession. Category Military. A mercenary for hire. I assume he received his pay.”
“He could have left me. Common sense dictated that he leave me.”
Balt Haer was annoyed. “Well, then we see what I’ve contended all along. The ambitious captain doesn’t have common sense.”
Colonel Paul Warren shook his head. “You’re wrong there. Common sense Joseph Mauser has. Considerable ability, he has. He’s one of the best combat men in the field. But I’d hate to serve under him.”
The Hungarian was interested. “But why?”
“Because he doesn’t have luck, and in the dill you need luck.” Warren grunted in sour memory. “Had the Telly cameras been focused on Joe Mauser, there at the Little Big Horn, he would have been a month long sensation to the Telly buffs, with all that means.” He grunted again. “There wasn’t a Telly team within a mile.”
“The captain probably didn’t realize that,” Balt Haer snorted. “Otherwise his heroics would have been modified.”
Warren flushed his displeasure and sat down. He said, “Possibly we should discuss the business before us. If your father is in agreement, the fracas can begin in three days.” He turned to the representative of the Sov-world. “You have satisfied yourselves that neither force is violating the Disarmament Pact?”
Lajos Arpàd nodded. “We will wish to have observers on the field, itself, of course. But preliminary observation has been satisfactory.” He had been interested in the play between these two and the lower caste officer. He said now, “Pardon me. As you know, this is my first visit to the, uh West. I am fascinated. If I understand what just transpired, our Captain Mauser is a capable junior officer ambitious to rise in rank and status in your society.” He looked at Balt Haer. “Why are you opposed to his so rising?”
Young Haer was testy about the whole matter. “Of what purpose is an Upper caste if every Tom, Dick and Harry enters it at will?”
Warren looked at the door through which Joe and Max had exited from the cocktail lounge. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it again, and held his peace.
The Hungarian said, looking from one of them to the other, “In the Sov-world we seek out such ambitious persons and utilize their abilities.”
Lieutenant Colonel Warren laughed abruptly. “So do we here theoretically. We are free, whatever that means. However,” he added sarcastically, “it does help to have good schooling, good connections, relatives in positions of prominence, abundant shares of good stocks, that sort of thing. And these one is born with, in this free world of ours, Colonel Arpàd.”
The Sov military observer clucked his tongue. “An indication of a declining society.”
Balt Haer turned on him. “And is it any different in your world?” he said sneeringly. “Is it merely coincidence that the best positions in the Sov-world are held by Party members, and that it is all but impossible for anyone not born of Party member parents to become one? Are not the best schools filled with the children of Party members? Are not only Party members allowed to keep servants? And isn’t it so that—”
Lieutenant Colonel Warren said, “Gentlemen, let us not start World War Three at this spot, at this late occasion.”
VIII
Baron Malcolm Haer’s field headquarters were in the ruins of a farm house in a town once known as Bearsville. His forces, and those of Marshal Stonewall Cogswell, were on the march but as yet their main bodies had not come in contact. Save for skirmishes between cavalry units, there had been no action. The ruined farm house had been a victim of an earlier fracas in this reservation which had seen in its comparatively brief time more combat than Belgium, that cockpit of Europe.
There was a sheen of oily moisture on the Baron’s bulletlike head and his officers weren’t particularly happy about it. Malcolm Haer characteristically went into a fracas with confidence, an aggressive confidence so strong that it often carried the day. In battles past, it ha
d become a tradition that Haer’s morale was worth a thousand men; the energy he expended was the despair of his doctors who had been warning him for a decade. But now, something was missing.
A forefinger traced over the military chart before them. “So far as we know, Marshal Cogswell has established his command here in Saugerties. Anybody have any suggestions as to why?”
A major grumbled, “It doesn’t make much sense, sir. You know the marshal. It’s probably a fake. If we have any superiority at all, it’s our artillery.”
“And the old fox wouldn’t want to join the issue on the plains, down near the river,” a colonel added. “It’s his game to keep up into the mountains with his cavalry and light infantry. He’s got Jack Alshuler’s cavalry. Most experienced veterans in the field.”
“I know who he’s got,” Haer growled in irritation. “Stop reminding me. Where in the devil is Balt?”
“Coming up, sir,” Balt Haer said. He had entered only moments ago, a sheaf of signals in his hand. “Why didn’t they make that date 1910, instead of 1900? With radio, we could speed up communications—”
His father interrupted testily. “Better still, why not make it 1945? Then we could speed up to the point where we could polish ourselves off. What have you got?”
Balt Haer said, his face in sulk, “Some of my lads based in West Hurley report concentrations of Cogswell’s infantry and artillery near Ashokan reservoir.”
“Nonsense,” somebody snapped. “We’d have him.”
The younger Haer slapped his swagger stick against his bare leg and kilt. “Possibly it’s a feint,” he admitted.
“How much were they able to observe?” his father demanded.
“Not much. They were driven off by a superior squadron. The Hovercraft forces are screening everything they do with heavy cavalry units. I told you we needed more—”
“I don’t need your advice at this point,” his father snapped. The older Haer went back to the map, scowling still. “I don’t see what he expects to do, working out of Saugerties.”
A voice behind them said, “Sir, may I have your permission—”
Half of the assembled officers turned to look at the newcomer.
Balt Haer snapped, “Captain Mauser. Why aren’t you with your lads?”
“Turned them over to my second in command, sir,” Joe Mauser said. He was standing to attention, looking at Baron Haer.
The Baron glowered at him. “What is the meaning of this cavalier intrusion, captain? Certainly, you must have your orders. Are you under the illusion that you are part of my staff?”
“No, sir,” Joe Mauser clipped. “I came to report that I am ready to put into execution—”
“The great plan!” Balt Haer ejaculated. He laughed brittlely. “The second day of the fracas, and nobody really knows where old Cogswell is, or what he plans to do. And here comes the captain with his secret plan.”
Joe looked at him. He said, evenly, “Yes, sir.”
The Baron’s face had gone dark, as much in anger at his son, as with the upstart cavalry captain. He began to growl ominously, “Captain Mauser, rejoin your command and obey your orders.”
Joe Mauser’s facial expression indicated that he had expected this. He kept his voice level however, even under the chuckling scorn of his immediate superior, Balt Haer.
He said, “Sir, I will be able to tell you where Marshal Cogswell is, and every troop at his command.”
For a moment there was silence, all but a stunned silence. Then the major who had suggested the Saugerties field command headquarters were a fake, blurted a curt laugh.
“This is no time for levity, captain,” Balt Haer clipped. “Get to your command.”
A colonel said, “Just a moment, sir. I’ve fought with Joe Mauser before. He’s a good man.”
“Not that good,” someone else huffed. “Does he claim to be clairvoyant?”
Joe Mauser said flatly. “Have a semaphore man posted here this afternoon. I’ll be back at that time.” He spun on his heel and left them.
Balt Haer rushed to the door after him, shouting, “Captain! That’s an order! Return—”
But the other was obviously gone. Enraged, the younger Haer began to shrill commands to a noncom in the way of organizing a pursuit.
His father called wearily, “That’s enough, Balt. Mauser has evidently taken leave of his senses. We made the initial mistake of encouraging this idea he had, or thought he had.”
“We?” his son snapped in return. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“All right, all right. Let’s tighten up, here. Now, what other information have your scouts come up with?”
IX
At the Kingston airport, Joe Mauser rejoined Max Mainz, his face drawn now.
“Everything go all right?” the little man said anxiously.
“I don’t know,” Joe said. “I still couldn’t tell them the story. Old Cogswell is as quick as a coyote. We pull this little caper today, and he’ll be ready to meet it tomorrow.”
He looked at the two-place sailplane which sat on the tarmac. “Everything all set?”
“Far as I know,” Max said. He looked at the motorless aircraft. “You sure you been checked out on these things, captain?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “I bought this particular soaring glider more than a year ago, and I’ve put almost a thousand hours in it. Now, where’s the pilot of that light plane?”
A single-engined sports plane was attached to the glider by a fifty-foot nylon rope. Even as Joe spoke, a youngster poked his head from the plane’s window and grinned back at them. “Ready?” he yelled.
“Come on, Max,” Joe said. “Let’s pull the canopy off this thing. We don’t want it in the way while you’re semaphoring.”
A figure was approaching them from the Administration Building. A uniformed man, and somehow familiar.
“A moment, Captain Mauser!”
Joe placed him now. The Sov-world representative he’d met at Balt Haer’s table in the Upper bar a couple of days ago. What was his name? Colonel Arpàd. Lajos Arpàd.
The Hungarian approached and looked at the sailplane in interest. “As a representative of my government, a military attache checking upon possible violations of the Universal Disarmament Pact, may I request what you are about to do, captain?”
Joe Mauser looked at him emptily. “How did you know I was here and what I was doing?”
The Sov colonel smiled gently. “It was by suggestion of Marshal Cogswell. He is a great man for detail. It disturbed him that an…what did he call it?…an old pro like yourself should join with Vacuum Tube Transport, rather than Continental Hovercraft. He didn’t think it made sense and suggested that possibly you had in mind some scheme that would utilize weapons of a post 1900 period in your efforts to bring success to Baron Haer’s forces. So I have investigated, Captain Mauser.”
“And the marshal knows about this sail plane?” Joe Mauser’s face was blank.
“I didn’t say that. So far as I know, he doesn’t.”
“Then, Colonel Arpàd, with your permission, I’ll be taking off.”
The Hungarian said, “With what end in mind, captain?”
“Using this glider as a reconnaissance aircraft.”
“Captain, I warn you! Aircraft were not in use in warfare until—”
But Joe Mauser cut him off, equally briskly. “Aircraft were first used in combat by Pancho Villa’s forces a few years previous to World War I. They were also used in the Balkan Wars of about the same period. But those were powered craft. This is a glider, invented and in use before the year 1900 and hence open to utilization.”
The Hungarian clipped, “But the Wright Brothers didn’t fly even gliders until—”
Joe looked him full in the face. “But you of the Sov-world do not admit that the Wrights were the first to fly, do you?”
The Hungarian closed his mouth, abruptly.
Joe said evenly, “But even if Ivan Ivanovitch, or whatever you claim his nam
e was, didn’t invent flight of heavier than air craft, the glider was flown variously before 1900, including Otto Lilienthal in the 1890s, and was designed as far back as Leonardo da Vinci.”
The Sov-world colonel stared at him for a long moment, then gave an inane giggle. He stepped back and flicked Joe Mauser a salute. “Very well, captain. As a matter of routine, I shall report this use of an aircraft for reconnaissance purposes, and undoubtedly a commission will meet to investigate the propriety of the departure. Meanwhile, good luck!”
* * * *
Joe returned the salute and swung a leg over the cockpit’s side. Max was already in the front seat, his semaphore flags, maps and binoculars on his lap. He had been staring in dismay at the Sov officer, now was relieved that Joe had evidently pulled it off.
Joe waved to the plane ahead. Two mechanics had come up to steady the wings for the initial ten or fifteen feet of the motorless craft’s passage over the ground behind the towing craft.
Joe said to Max, “did you explain to the pilot that under no circumstances was he to pass over the line of the military reservation, that we’d cut before we reached that point?”
“Yes, sir,” Max said nervously. He’d flown before, on the commercial lines, but he’d never been in a glider.
They began lurching across the field, slowly, then gathering speed. And as the sailplane took speed, it took grace. After it had been pulled a hundred feet or so, Joe eased back the stick and it slipped gently into the air, four or five feet off the ground. The towing airplane was still taxiing, but with its tow airborne it picked up speed quickly. Another two hundred feet and it, too, was in the air and beginning to climb. The glider behind held it to a speed of sixty miles or so.
At ten thousand feet, the plane leveled off and the pilot’s head swiveled to look back at them. Joe Mauser waved to him and dropped the release lever which ejected the nylon rope from the glider’s nose. The plane dove away, trailing the rope behind it. Joe knew that the plane pilot would later drop it over the airport where it could easily be retrieved.
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