the other's neck, hacked, came back into another blurringswing, hacked again. His opponent grunted agony.
But a man does not become heavyweight champion without being able totake as well as give punishment. Joe's attacker tucked his chin intohis shoulder, fighter style, and moved in throwing off the effects ofthe karate blows. Somehow, he seemed considerably less drunk orover-tranked than he had short moments before, and there was rage inhis face, rather than glaze.
One of the blows caught Joe on a shoulder and sent him reeling back.At the same time, behind the other, Joe could see the maitre d'hotelflanked by three waiters, hurrying up. He was going to have to dosomething, and do it quickly, or be branded a boorish Middle who hadintruded into a domain of the Uppers only to participate in a brawland have to be expelled by the establishment's servants.
The former champ, his eyes narrowed in confidence of victory, cameboring in, on his toes, quick for all of his bulk. Joe turnedsideways, his movements lithe. He lashed out with his right foot, atthis angle getting double the leverage he would have otherwise, andcaught the other on the kneecap. The pugilist bent forward in agony,his mouth opening as though in protest.
Joe stepped forward, quickly, efficiently. His hands were now knittedtogether in a huge double fist. He brought them upward, crushingly,into his opponent's face, with all the force he could achieve, andfelt bone and cartilage crush. Before even waiting for the other tofall, he turned, righted his chair, and resumed his seat facingNadine, his breath coming only inconsiderably faster than before.
Her eyes were wide, but she hadn't organized herself as yet to thepoint of either protest or praise.
The maitre d' was at their table. "Sir----" he began.
Joe said curtly, "This barroom brawler attacked me. I'm surprised youallow your patrons to get into the shape he is. Please bring ourbill."
The head waiter stuttered, his eyes going about in despair, even ashis assistants were lifting the fallen champion to his feet andhustling him away.
An occupant of one of the nearby tables spoke up, collaborating Joe'swords. The action had been fast, though brief, and had won thefascinated attention of that half of the patrons of the Exclusive Roomnear enough to see. Somebody else called out, too. And it came to Joecynically, that a brawl in an establishment exclusive to Uppers,differed little from on of Middle or even Lower caste.
But it was impossible that they remain. He had looked forward to thisevening with Nadine Haer, had planned to lay the foundations for afuture campaign, when, as a newly created Upper, he would be in theposition to mention marriage. He fumed, inwardly, even as he helpedher with her wrap, preparatory to leaving.
Nadine, now that she had recovered composure, said coldly, "I supposeyou realize you broke that man's nose and injured his eye to an extentI'd have to examine him to evaluate?"
Behind her, he rolled his eyes upward in mute protest. He said, "Whatwas I supposed to do, hand him a rose from our table bouquet?"
"Violence is the resort of the incompetent."
"You must tell that, some time, to a jungle animal being attacked by alion."
"Oh, you're impossible!"
III
When Freddy Soligen entered his living room, he automatically switchedoff the Telly screen which was the entire north wall. The room'slights automatically went brighter.
His perpetual air of sour cynicism was absent as he chuckled to theroom's sole inhabitant, "What! A son of mine gawking at Telly? NextI'll be finding tranks by the bowl full, sitting on the tea table."
His son grinned at him. Already, at the ago of sixteen, Samuel Soligenwas a good three inches taller than his father, at least ten poundsheavier. The boy was bright of eye, toothy of smile, gawky as only ateen-ager can be gawky, and obviously the proverbial apple of hisfather's eye.
Sam said, the faintest note of apology in his tone, "Just finished myassignments, Papa. Thought I'd see if there was anything worthwhile onthe air."
"An incurable optimist," Freddy chuckled. "You take after your mother.Believe me, Sam. There's _never_ anything worthwhile on Telly."
"Not even when you're casting?"
"_Especially_ when I'm casting, boy. What've you been getting at theTemple school these days? Zen! I've been so busy on a special projectI've been working on, I haven't had time to keep check on whether ornot you're even still living here."
The boy shrugged, picked up an apple from the sideboard and began tomunch. His voice was disinterested. "Aw, Comparative Religion, mostly.We gotta go way back and study about the Greeks and theTriple-Goddess, and then the Olympians, and all that curd."
"Hey, watch your language, Sam. Remember, you're going to wind up apriest."
"Yeah," the boy grumbled, "that'll be the day. You ever heard of aLower becoming a full priest? I'll be lucky if I ever get to monk."
Freddy Soligen sat down suddenly, across from his son, and his voicelost its edge of good-natured humor and became deadly serious."Listen, son. You were born a High-Lower, just like your father.Unfortunately, I wasn't jumped to Low-Middle until after your birth.But you're not going to stay a High-Lower, any more than I'm going tostay a Low-Middle."
The boy shrugged, his expression almost surly, now. "Aw, whatdifference does it make? High-Lower isn't too bad. It's sure betterthan Low-Lower. I got enough stock issued me for anything I'll everneed. Or, if not, I can work a while, just like you've done, and earna few more shares."
Freddy Soligen's face worked, in alarm. "Hey, Sam, listen here. We'vebeen over this before, but may be not as thoroughly as we should've.Sure, this is People's Capitalism and on top of that the WelfareState; they got all sorts of fancy names to call it. You've got cradleto the grave security. Instead of waiting for old age, or thirty yearsof service, or something, to get your pension, it starts at birth. Atlong last, the jerks have inherited the earth."
The boy said plaintively, as though in objection to his father'ssneering words. "You aren't talking against the government, or the oldtime way of doing things, are you Papa? What's wrong with what we got?Everybody's got it made. Nobody hasta--".
His father was impatiently waving a hand at him in negation. "No,everybody doesn't have it made. Almost everybody's bogged down. That'sthe trouble Sam. The guts have been taken out of us. And ninety-ninepeople out of a hundred don't care. They've got bread and buttersecurity. They've got trank to keep them happy. And they've got thefracases to watch, the sadistic, gory death of others to keep themamused, and their minds off what's really being done to them. We'renot part of that ninety-nine out of a hundred, Sam. We're two of thosewho aren't jerks. We're on our way up out of the mob, to where lifecan be full. Got it, son? A full life. Doing things worth doing.Thinking things worth thinking. Associating with people who have it onthe ball."
He had come to his feet in his excitement and was pacing before theboy who sat now, mouth slightly agape at his father's emphasis.
"Sam, listen. I'm getting along. Already in my forties, and I neverdid get much education back when I was your age. Maybe I'll never makeit. But you can. That's why I insisted you switch categories. You wereborn into Communications, like me, but you've switched to Religion.Why'd you think I wanted that?"
"Aw, I don't know, Papa. I thought maybe--".
His father snorted. "Look, son, I haven't spent as much time with youas I should. Especially since your mother left us. She just couldn'tstand what she called my being against everything. She was one of thejerks, Sam--".
"You oughtn'ta talk about my mother that way," Sam said sullenly.
"All right, all right. I just meant that she was willing to spend herlife sucking on trank, watching Telly, and living on the pittanceincome from the unalienable stock shares issued her at birth. Butlet's get to this religious curd. Son, whatever con man first thoughtup the idea of gods put practically the whole human race on the suckerlist. You say they're giving you comparative religion in your classesat the Temple now, eh? O.K., have you ever heard of a major religionwhere the priests didn't do just fine for themselves?
"
"But Papa.... Well, shucks, there's always been--"
"Certainly, certainly, individuals. Crackpots, usually, out of tunewith the rest of the priesthood. But the rank and file do pretty wellfor themselves. Didn't you point out earlier that a Lower, in oursociety, never makes full priest? Not to speak of bishop, orultra-bishop. They're Uppers, part of the ruling hierarchy."
"Well, what's all this got to do with me getting into CategoryReligion? I'd think it'd be more fun in Communications, like you. Gee,Papa,