Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact & Fiction March and April 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
To my loyal fans.Major Joe Mauser
FRIGID FRACAS
In any status-hungry culture, the levela man is assigned depends on what people think he is—not onwhat he is. And that, of course, means that only thedeliberately phony has real status!
by MACK REYNOLDS
ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN SCHOENHERR
I
n other eras he might have been described as swacked, stewed, stoned,smashed, crocked, cockeyed, soused, shellacked, polluted, potted,tanked, lit, stinko, pie-eyed, three sheets in the wind, or simplydrunk.
In his own time, Major Joseph Mauser, Category Military, Mid-MiddleCaste, was drenched.
Or at least rapidly getting there.
He wasn't happy about it. It wasn't that kind of a binge.
He lowered one eyelid and concentrated on the list of potables offeredby the auto-bar. He'd decided earlier in the game that it would be aphysical impossibility to get through the whole list but he was makinga strong attempt on a representative of each subdivision. He'd had acocktail, a highball, a sour, a flip, a punch and a julep. He waggedforth a finger to dial a fizz, a Sloe Gin Fizz.
Joe Mauser occupied a small table in a corner of the Middle CasteCategory Military Club in Greater Washington. His current fame,transient though it might be, would have made him welcome as a guestin the Upper Caste Club, located in the swank Baltimore section oftown. Old pros in the Category Military had comparatively smallsufferance for caste lines among themselves; rarified classdistinctions meant little when you were in the dill, and you didn'tbecome an old pro without having been in spots where matters hadpickled. Joe would have been welcome on the strength of hisperformance in the most recent fracas in which he had participated asa mercenary, that between Vacuum Tube Transport and ContinentalHovercraft. But he didn't want it that way.
You didn't devote the greater part of your life to pulling your wayup, pushing your way up, fighting your way up, the ladder of status tobe satisfied to associate with your social superiors on the basis ofbeing a nine-day-wonder, an oddity to be met at cocktail parties andspoken to for a few democratic moments.
No, Joe Mauser would stick to his own position in the scheme of thingsuntil through his own efforts he won through to that rarefied altitudein society which his ambition demanded.
A sour voice said, "Celebrating, captain? Oops, major, I mean. So youdid get something out of the Catskill Reservation fracas. I'msurprised."
A scowl, Joe decided, would be the best. Various others, in the courseof the evening, had attempted to join him. Three or four comrades inarms, one journalist from some fracas buff magazine, some woman he'dnever met before, and Zen knew how she'd ever got herself into theclub. A snarl had driven some away, or a growl or sneer. This one, hedecided, called for an angered scowl, particularly in view of the toneof voice which only brought home doubly how his planni