stiffly, "Sir, my ambitions are my own business, whateverthese rumors."
"Didn't say I believed them, major. We've been together too often whenthe situation has pickled for me to judge you without more evidencethan gossip. What I was leading up to, is this. There's nothing wrongwith ambition. If you see me through in this, I'll do what I cantoward pushing your promotion."
Joe came to the salute again. "Thank you, sir. I'll consider thecommission and let you know by tomorrow."
Cogswell flicked the baton, in his nonchalant answer to salute. "Thatwill be all, then, major."
VII
Freddy Soligen wasn't at home when Joe Mauser called. The CategoryMilitary officer was met, instead, by young Sam Soligen, clothed thisday in the robes of a novitiate of the Temple. Joe remembered now thatFreddy had mentioned the boy in training in Category Religion.
Sam led him back into the living room, switching off the Telly screenwhich had been tuned in on one of the fictionalized fracases of thepast. Poor entertainment, when compared to the real thing, for anyfracas buff, but better than nothing. In fact, it was even contendedby some that if you got yourself properly tranked you could get almostas much emotion from a phony-fracas, as they were called, as for thegenuine.
"Gee, sir," Sam said, "Papa was supposed to be back by now. I don'tknow where he is. If you wanta wait--"
Joe shrugged and picked himself a chair. He took in Sam's robes andmade conversation. "Studies tough in the Temple schools?" he asked.
The teen-ager realized it was a make-talk question. He said, "Aw, notmuch. A lot of curd about rituals and all. You hafta memorize it."
"Curd, yet," Joe laughed. "You don't sound particularly pious, Sam.Come to think of it, I suppose any child of Freddy's could hardlybe."
Sam said, his young voice urgent, "Papa said you were on your way up,Major Mauser. Just like us. Gee, how come you chose Category Military,instead of Religion?"
Joe Mauser looked at the other. It was his policy to treat youngpeople either as children or adults. If he was to deal with ateen-ager as an adult, he didn't believe in pulling punches any morethan had he been dealing with a person of sixty. He said, flatly,"I've never had much regard for those categories in which a man makeshis living battening on human sorrow or fear, Sam. That includes in mybook such fields as religion, undertakers and their affiliates, andeven most doctors, for that matter." He added, to explain the lastinclusion, "They profit too much from illness, for my satisfaction."
Major Mauser was enough of a current celebrity for practicallyanything he said to be impressive to young Sam Soligen. That youngsterblinked. He said, "Well, gee, don't you believe in any gods at all? Ifyou believe in any god at all, you gotta have a religious category,and that means priests."
"Why?" Joe said. Inwardly, he was amused at himself for getting into adebate with this youngster and even a trifle ashamed of needling theboy about his chosen field. But he said, "If there are gods, I doubtif they'd intrust a priesthood to threaten their created humanity withhellfire."
Sam was taken aback. "Well, why not?"
"Gods couldn't be bothered with such triviality. In fact, I'd think itunlikely they could be bothered with priests. If I was a god,certainly I couldn't."
The boy's face was intent, its youthfulness somewhat ludicrous in viewof the dark robes he wore. He leaned forward, "Yeah, you talk aboutpriests and undertakers and all battening on human sorrow, but howabout you? How about the Category Military? How many men you killed,major?"
Joe winced. "Too many," he said abruptly. The tic was at the side ofhis mouth, unbeknownst to him. He added, "But mercenaries havedeliberately chosen their path. They know what they're going into andthey do it willingly, they haven't been drafted."
He thought a moment, and Phil Holland's talk about the Roman _ludi_came back to him. He said, "It's like the difference between throwinga bunch of Christians to some wild bulls in a Roman arena, to being atorero in Spain, a matador who has chosen his profession and entersthe bullring to make money."
Then the boy said something that gave him greater depth than Joe hadexpected. "Yeah," he said, "but maybe the torero was forced intobecoming a bullfighter on account of how bad he needed the money." Inthe heat of the discussion, he was emboldened to add, "And these newRank Privates that go into a fracas, not knowing what it's all about,just filled with all the stuff we see on Telly and all. How much of achance does one of them have if he runs into an old-timer like JoeMauser, out there in no-man's-land?"
_Touche_, Joe thought.
* * * * *
There was the action that sometimes came back to him in his dreams. Hehad been a sergeant then, but already the veteran of five years ormore standing, and a double score of fracases. The force of which hewas a member had been in full retreat, and Joe's squad was part of therear-guard. The terrain had been mountainous, the High Sierra MilitaryReservation. Four of his men had copped one, two so badly that theyhad to be left behind, incapable of being moved. Joe, under thepressure of long hours of retreat under fire, had finally sent theothers on back, and found himself a crevice, near the top of a sierra,which was all but impregnable.
His rifle had been a .45-70 Springfield, with its ultra-heavy slug,but slow muzzle velocity. And Joe had a telescope mounted upon it, aninnovation that barely made the requirement of predating the year 1900and thus subscribing to the Universal Disarmament Pact between theSov-world and the West-world. It had taken the enemy forces a longtime to even locate him, a long time and half a dozen casualties thatJoe had coolly inflicted. The way to get to him, the only way,involved exposure. Joe could see the enemy officers, through hisscope, at a distance just out of his range. They knew the situation,being old pros. He found considerable satisfaction in the rage he knewthey were feeling. He was dominating a considerable section of thefront, due to the terrain, and there was but one way to root him out,direct frontal attack.
They had sent in Rank Privates; Low-Lowers, most of them in theirfirst fracas. Low-Lowers, the dregs of society, seldom employed andthen at the rapidly disappearing, all but extinct, unskilled laborjobs. Low-Lowers, most of them probably in this fracas in hopes of theunlikelihood of so distinguishing themselves that they would be jumpeda caste, or at least acquire an extra share or two of common stock tobetter the basic living guaranteed by the State. Rank Privates, mostin their first fracas, unknowledgeable about taking cover and not evenin the physical condition this sort of combat demanded.
They came in time and again, surprisingly courageous, Joe had toadmit, and time and again he decimated them. One by one, coolly,seldom wasting a shot. Not that he had to watch his ammunition, he hadthe squad's full supply. He estimated that before it was through hehad inflicted approximately thirty casualties. Hits in the head, inthe torso, the arms, legs. He had inflicted enough casualties to filla field hospital. And it had all ended, finally, when a senior officerbelow had arrived on the scene, took in the irritating situation, andsent a dozen noncoms and junior officers, experienced men, to dig Joeout. Joe had remained only long enough for a few final shots, none ofthem effective, at long range, and had then hauled out and followedafter his squad. He might possibly have got two or three more of hisopponents, but only at his own risk. Besides, already the irritationand hate that he had built up while on the run, and while his squadmates were copping wounds, had left him and there was nausea in hisbelly at the slaughter he had perpetrated.
Or that time on the Louisiana Reservation in the fracas between AlliedPetroleum and United Oil. Joe had been a lieutenant then and--
But he rejected this trend of thought and brought his attention backto Sam Soligen.
"Perhaps you're right," he admitted. "Some Low-Lower jerk, impressedby what he considers high pay and adventure, doesn't stand much of achance against an old pro."
The gawky tee-ager broke into a toothy smile. "Gee, I wasn't arguingwith you, major. I don't know anything about it. How about telling meabout one of your fracases, eh? You know, some time you really got i
nthe dill."
Joe snorted. He seldom met someone not of Category Military who didn'twant a special detailed description of some gory action in which Joehad participated. And like all veterans of combat, there was nothinghe liked less to do. Combat was something which, when done, you wishedto leave behind you. Were brain washing really practicable, it wasthis you would wish to wash away.
But Joe, like others before him, down through the ages, had found away out. He had a store of a dozen or so humorous episodes with whichhe could regale listeners. That time his horse's cinch had loosenedwhen he was on a scouting mission and he had galloped around andaround amidst a large company of enemy