The Fracas Factor

by Mack Reynolds

  “Why, no. I’ve never eaten in such places. Theoretically, an Upper can enter Middle, or even Lower, establishments, but in actuality you feel conspicuous. Why do they have to pay before hand?”

  Joe shrugged. “Snobbery, I suppose. One more status-symbol. It is assumed that an Upper wouldn’t dream of walking out on a restaurant bill. But the lower castes are suspect.”

  “How ridiculous,” Nadine snorted as he took her arm and they headed for the door.

  The cover of Dr. Lawrence Mitfield was excellent. As an M.D specializing in coronary conditions, hundreds of “patients” streamed in and out of his offices. It would have been well nigh impossible for a Category Security agent to decide who were bona fide sick people and who were members, or potential members, of the Sons of Liberty.

  The reception room was crowded and presided over by a neat, overly-smiling nurse. Most such offices, these days, had automated receptionists, but evidently Doctor Mitfield was old-fashioned.

  Nadine told the girl that she and Joe had an appointment. The other smiled apologetically and asked them to be seated.

  When they had found places for themselves, Joe asked, “How long’s it been since you practiced, Nadine?”

  “Quite a while. Not since I came in with Phil and Frank. Except when father would get embroiled in one of his corporation fracases. Then I’d rally around and help with the wounded in the field hospitals. I suppose it was my conscience. It was through the Haer family that those lads had taken their wounds.”

  Joe laughed lightly and said, “If I had known that it would have been you who would doctor me after I’d copped one, I would have signed up with Vacuum Tube Transport more often.”

  “Gallantly said, dear one,” Nadine told him. “But I’m glad I never had occasion to carve you up. The very thought of it makes me shiver. How often were you wounded, Joe?”

  He thought about it emptily, before saying, “I can’t remember. But only a half dozen times seriously.”

  She eyed him. “What do you mean, seriously?”

  “Bad enough that I could have died if I hadn’t received prompt medical treatment.”

  “Zen! Half a dozen times!”

  He brushed it off. “That’s over a period of some fifteen years, darling. On top of those, all of which kept me hospitalized for lengthy periods, I copped quite a few minor hits.”

  The nurse smiled brightly at them, proving she had perfect teeth, and said, “The doctor will see you now.”

  They filed into the office beyond, the door closing behind them.

  They found a typical doctor, complete with white jacket. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, wore old fashioned glasses, and wore his hair short. His eyes were tired, the eyes of a dedicated man who worked hard at his profession.

  “Please be seated,” he said in a squeaky voice that didn’t live up to his appearance. He obviously assumed them to be man and wife.

  Joe said, “Is there any possibility that this office might be bugged?”

  “Bugged? By whom?”

  “Possibly Category Security. They suspect you, you know.”

  Mitfield squinted quizzically at the two of them. “Yes, I know. No, the office isn’t bugged. We keep up on the latest methods of surveillance of that type and take counter measures. Yes, I know they are aware of me, but they can prove nothing. Besides, I have good contacts in the ranks of the Uppers to shelter me. Who are you?”

  “We’re two persons who are interested in the Sons of Liberty, rather than the conditions of our hearts,” Nadine told him.

  “I see. Then, you wish to join the Sons of Liberty?”

  “Not exactly,” Joe said. “We want you to join us.”

  “Or, perhaps,” Nadine added, “for our organizations to amalgamate.”

  “That would depend on our being in complete agreement,” the doctor said cautiously.

  “Perhaps not completely, at first,” Nadine said. “Just reasonable agreement. We could debate and adapt, according to which of us had the most reasonable position on this stand or that.”

  “How many do you number?”

  Joe said, “That would come under the head of restricted information, until we discuss unification in more detail, wouldn’t it?”

  The doctor said, “I suppose so. What is the name of your organization?”

  Nadine laughed. “We have none. We just call ourselves the organization, or the tendency, or the movement. All in the belief that this might confuse the Category Security a bit. Being unimaginative types, as security people so often are, they need a label to hang on us, though they have none. I imagine, as things develop, we’ll have to assume such a label as you have when the organization becomes a mass movement.”

  “Thus far, you have not told me why you have contacted me.”

  Joe said, “Recently, a revolutionary group which had evolved separately down in Mexico City, numbering some two hundred members, joined us en masse, since they had come independently to the same beliefs we held. One of them pointed out that there must be more such groups evolving, if our position is correct. We are seeking out other sympathetic groups.”

  “Revolutionary group?” Doctor Mitfield said, frowning.

  “In a sense. Our organization foresees an overthrow of so-called People’s Capitalism and a return to progress. The nation, and indeed the world, is stagnating. We are in contact, with a similar organization in the Sov-world that wishes to overthrow the Communist Party, which has become as hereditary in its control as have the Uppers in the United States of the Americas.”

  “I see.” The doctor still had his fingertips together. “But the Sons of Liberty is not a revolutionary organization.”

  Joe scowled at him. “Then what are you? We’ve evidently been misinformed.”

  The doctor said, “I suppose that in the old days we would have been called liberal, or reformist. What we’re working for is a better People’s Capitalism. We wish to increase production in the nation so that we can raise the incomes of the Lowers and Middle. We wish a reform of the Education Category so that higher education is available for all. Above all else, we wish to make it easier to advance in caste. It is practically impossible now for someone born into the Lower caste to be jumped to Middle. It is even more imposibble for a Middle bor—I am an Upper-Middle—to be bounced to Upper. As a result, society stagnates. We wish to declare illegal the fracases and gladiator games. We also wish to declare illegal the drug, trank. And we want more freedom of speech, and less power in the hands of the Category Security. That’s our program. The Cateory Security has branded it subversive.”

  Nadine stood and said, “You didn’t mention capable Lowers becoming Uppers.”

  “They seldom have the ability,” he responded.

  “So what you are really working for is the opportunity for you to better your position.”

  “Perhaps. I suppose so.”

  “No basic change in society, just a better opportunity for you. The Uppers in power keep you and your colleagues from achieving their rank and that’s what you wish to change. Otherwise, the Ultra-Welfare State is fine.”

  Doctor Lawrence Mitfield stared at her, but didn’t answer.

  Joe had stood, too. He said, “There’s just one other example that possibly pertains. It’s been said that a tiger will defend his whiskers as ferociously as he will his life.”

  “I don’t believe I understand,” Mitfield said impatiently.

  “The Uppers will fight your attempts to merely make mild reforms in People’s Capitalism as hard as they will our attempts to completely overthrow the system. You’re not going to win any medals by being conservative in your demands.”

  “Perhaps. But that is not the way we see it.”

  Joe gave up. He and Nadine, without further words, left the office and made their way down to her hoverlimousine.

  When they had seated themselves, preparatory to dialing their destination, he said, “So, we’ve been slapped in the face twice today. The Lowers, as represente
d by Max, are too stupid, or too satisfied with their lot, to want to change People’s Capitalism. And the Middles, as represented by the Sons of Liberty, are desirous only of making it easier for themselves to become Uppers.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “Let’s face reality, Joe. Most of those who belong to our organization are Uppers with a sprinkling of Upper-Middles. Its the most fantastic revolutionary organization that’s ever been known. A segment of the ruling class that is trying to overthrow its own power.”

  “Yeah,” he said gloomily. “Nobody wants a revolution except those who will profit least by it.”

  She said, “Just a minute. That car that just passed us, the hovercab.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’m sure the man in it was Paul Warren.”

  “Lieutenan’ Colonel Paul Warren, Category Military? I’ve fought on the same side with him a few times. He’s usually a member of Stonewall Cogswell’s permanent staff.”

  “He’s also my brother Balt’s right hand man in the Nathan Hale Society.”

  “Oh, oh,” Joe said. “That’s not so good. He not only saw us together but most likely saw us coming out of the building which houses Mitfield’s offices.”

  Chapter Ten

  Max Mainz was having himself a time. The Nathan Hale Society rally was being held in Druid Hill Park on the outskirts of Greater Washington and in the area once known as Baltimore. It was a pleasant setting, and some of the Society’s workers had erected a speaker’s stand, well decked with American flags and pennants with such organizational slogans as I Only Regret That I Have But One Life To Lose For My Country, and My Country, May She Always Be Right, But My Country Right Or Wrong.

  Max arrived early in the proceedings in the mid-afternoon, one of the first outsiders on the scene. Stands had been set up to one side, supplying the promised free beer and others with piles of Society leaflets and pamphlets on them. Members of the organization went about distributing other leaflets. Most of them wore blue shirts with a red rattlesnake sewed on above the left breast. Under the snake was-stitched in heavy white thread, Dont Tread On Me.

  Max got himself a mug of the beer and then went over to the literature stands and took one of each of the free leaflets and pamphlets. There was a plenty of them. On the face of it, the Nathan Hale Society was not hard up for funds.

  He sat on an empty steel beer barrel and went through the pamphlets, once lightly. Largely, they were devoted to extolling People’s Capitalism and the Ultra-Welfare State, the fact that everybody was provided for; food, clothing, shelter, education, medicine, even entertainment. The fact that never before in history had so many had so much. And on and on. Some of the material was devoted to all but hysterical attacks on anyone opposed to People’s Capitalism. They were reviled as anarchists, subversives, socialists, communists, traitors, mental cases, homosexuals and dope fiends. Max wondered vaguely how it would be possible to be all of these things at once. There was even the dark suggestion that most opponents of the present laudable socioeconomic system were of races other than Caucasian and largely composed of followers of other religious sects than the government approved United Temple, of Category Religion.

  Some of the reading material Max Mainz had a bit of trouble with. He was not a good reader. Who needed to read in these days of telly? But largely the free literature was aimed at people like him. In other words, the Lowers. You didn’t need much of an education to follow it. It was largely slogans and cartoons. He suspected that they had more advanced stuff for the Middles and Uppers.

  That brought something to mind and he looked around. As always, there was segregation. Most of the blue shirts were doing what work was involved in holding the rally. They were the ones dispensing the free beer, handing out the leaflets, making last minute arrangements on the speaker’s stand. About fifty of them, billy clubs in hand, stood about-the entries, through which attendants of the rally were beginning to stream. Otherwise, the area where the meeting was scheduled was roped off.

  “Who the Zen they figure on slugging with those clubs?” Max muttered to himself.

  The blue shirts, he decided, were most likely Lowers and probably Low-Lowers to boot. Their clothes, other than their blue shirts, would suggest that. He looked about some more, trying to locate some Middles. He thought that he could distinguish a few. Some of them wore the Society shirt and were officering the Lowers and giving directions. There didn’t seem to be many Middles in the group.

  He looked farther. To the right of the speaker’s stand were a small group of tables and a cluster of folding chairs. The tables were covered with snowy linen and with a lavish repast, on the order of a buffet. There were a few blue-shirted Lowers going about serving, or standing behind the tables, pouring champagne and other drinkables. But largely, those in the vicinity were, by their, clothing, Uppers. None of them wore the Society shirt. Quite a few, but far from all, wore uniforms of the Category Military. Lieutenant Colonel was the lowest rank. Come to think of it, Max couldn’t remember ever having seen an Upper with lower rank that that.

  There were women about the cluster of tables, about half as many as the men. Some kind of a women’s auxiliary, Max assumed. But they, too, had no particular Society dress or emblem. They were dressed in the very latest, held champagne glasses in their soft hands, and chatted with the men.

  In spite of the fact that this was a rally open to the public, Max Mainz knew well that if he walked up to those Upper tables and asked for a drink, a sandwich, or whatever, that he’d be given at the very least, a cold, aloof stare.

  “Well,” he told himself, under his breath. “I know bettern to try.” Max was well aware of the protocol in the caste system of People’s Capitalism.

  Not even the prospect of free beer and trank had brought out a crowd large enough to fill the rope enclosure to anything like its capacity. Most Lowers preferred trank to beer anyway, and it was government-subsidized to the point that it was nearly free. And the shows you could watch on telly were probably a damn sight more entertaining than this was proving to be. There wasn’t always a fracas in progress, of course, but there was always an abundance of reruns of old classic scraps, especially those that had provided a more than usual amount of closeups of gore and death. Some buffs even bought cassettes of the classics and would rerun them over and over. And then there were the phoney-fracases, which were no more than what amounted to movies. They were gorier than in the old days, but less realistic.

  Max wandered around a bit, beer mug in hand. The rally committee had brought in a hovertruck with a six-man band in it. The Society was certainly sparing no resources to put this over. The band started blaring martial and patriotic music, something about blessing America. Max decided that the Nathan Hale Society particularly stressed early American history, what with such slogans as My Country Right Or Wrong and Don’t Tread On Me, and calling their bully-boys Minutemen. Now the band even swung into Yankee Doodle.

  Several of the Uppers who had been gathered around the exclusive tables began to file up onto the speaker’s stand and take folding chairs there. It was beginning to get slightly dark, and some of the Minutemen who were acting as guards with their billy clubs, began lighting torches. It had been decided that firelight was more inspiring.

  Max refilled his beer mug again and sauntered up to an advantageous position.

  The chairman began, “Fellow patriotic Americans, fellow benefactors of our glorious system, People’s Capitalism…” He paused at that point, obviously for applause.

  He went on to introduce the first speaker. Max missed the name and tide, but it was some official connected with Category Security. It would appear that he was some pretty high mucky-muck. And for the first time Max noted two telly trucks, grinding away with their cameras. Must be good lenses to be able to work in this light, Max decided. And the Society must have good connections to get the coverage. He wondered whether or not Joe Mauser was tuned in.

  He was worried about Joe Mauser and that outfit he’d
gotten himself tied up with. Max was still of the opinion that you shouldn’t say anything against the government. Perhaps, after a while Joe Mauser would tire of all this subversive jetsam and settle down to enjoying life. Hell, between them they not only had Max’s shares of Inalienable and Variable Basic but Joe’s as well. Plenty to start really living it up, particularly since Joe was a Low-Upper. Max wished that Nadine Haer wasn’t on the scene. He liked her well enough, but was afraid that when she married Joe there wouldn’t be much room in his life for Max. Well, maybe Max could become his chauffeur, or some other kind of flunky. He’d once been in Doctor Haer’s lavish home. She had a whole mess of various kinds of servants.

  The speaker was going on and on, largely about subversives and how every patriotic citizen should cooperate with Category Security in bringing them to justice. He darkly hinted at the same facts that had surfaced in the leaflets and pamphlets. The malcontents were foreigners, atheists, and worse. Some of them were undoubtedly agents of the Sov-world who infiltrated into the country to overthrow People’s Capitalism and the Ultra-Welfare State, so that the Sov-world could dominate all Earth.

  At this point, the Middle standing next to Max Mainz laughed aloud. A silence fell. And the speaker stared down through the poor torch-supplied, light. He called in a threatening voice, “What’s so damned funny?”

  And the voice called back, “Sorry, it’s bad manners to laugh at somebody who’s gone drivel-happy and obviously needs mental therapy.”

  Suddenly, two of the Minutemen appeared. The man in the audience tried to turn and run, but the minutemen clubbed him. He hunched over and attempted to cover his head with his arms, but nobody came to his aid. All surrounding him fell back hurriedly, and he was beaten down. The two Minutemen grabbed him up by the arms and hustled him away.

  Max hadn’t moved.

  A voice next to him said ominously, “He a friend of yours?”

  Max looked at the speaker, another Minuteman. And then recognized him as the tough-looking committeeman who had borne leaflets earlier. He had called himself Jerry. He bore a billy club now.