Part 15 (1/2)

”The fame of Joseph Mauser has penetrated to the Proletarian Paradise,” he said, his voice conveying sincerity.

Joe shook and said, ”Pink Army? I thought you called it--”

The colonel was indicating a hoverlimousine with a sweeping gesture that would have seemed overly graceful, had not Joe felt the grip of the man only a moment earlier. Kossuth interrupted him politely, ”The plane was a trifle late and the banquet we have prepared awaits us, major. A mult.i.tude of my fellow officers are anxious to meet the famed Joseph Mauser. Would it surprise you to know that I have replayed, a score of times, your celebrated holding action on the Louisiana Military Reservation? Zut! Unbelievable. With but a single company of men!”

Joe was looking at him blankly. _Celebrated!_ Joe couldn't but remember the fracas the mincing Hungarian was talking about. When the front had collapsed, Joe, then a captain, had held his position in the swamps while his superiors were supposedly reforming behind him, actually while they frantically tried to reach terms with the enemy.

One of the West-world lieutenants laughed at Joe's expression. ”You're going to have to get used to the fact that there're as many fracas buffs over here, sir, as there are back home.”

The Sov colonel waggled a finger at him. ”But, no, you misunderstand completely, Lieutenant Andersen. We _study_ the b.l.o.o.d.y fracases of the West. Following the campaigns of such tacticians as your Marshal Stonewall Cogswell goes far toward the training of our own Pink Army in its, ah, fracases.”

That brought up a dozen questions in Joe's mind, but first he turned and indicated Max, who'd been standing behind, his eyes wide, and taking in the luxurious airport, the vehicles about it, the buildings, the airport workers, few in number though they be, the road leading to the city beyond.

Joe said, ”Gentlemen, may I present Max Mainz?”

The faces of the lieutenants went blank, and one of them coughed as though apologetically.

The Sov colonel looked from Joe to Max, and then back again, his face a.s.suming that expression so well known to Joe for so very long. The aristocrat looking at one of lower cla.s.s as though wondering what made the fellow tick. Kossuth said, ”But surely this, ah, chap, is a servant, one of your, what do you call them, a _Lower_.”

Max blinked unhappily and looked at Joe.

Joe Mauser said evenly, ”I had heard the Sov-world was the Utopia of the proletariat. However, gentlemen, Max Mainz is my friend as well as my ... a.s.sistant.”

The three officers murmured some things stiffly to Max, who, a Lower born, was not overly nonplused by the situation. Zen, he knew the three were Upper caste, what was Major Mauser getting into a tissy about? He was given a seat in the front, where the chauffeur would have once been, and the others took places in the rear, one of the lieutenants dialing the hovercar's destination.

Joe Mauser said, ”I am afraid my background is hazy, Colonel Kossuth.

You mentioned the Pink Army. You also mentioned your own fracases. I knew you maintained an army, of course, but I thought the fracas was a West development, in fact, your military attaches are usually on the scornful side.”

The two lieutenants grinned, but Kossuth said seriously, ”Major, as always, nations which hold each other at arm's length, use different terminology to say much the same thing. It need not be confusing, if one digs below to find reality. Perhaps, for a moment, we four can lower barriers enough for me to explain that whilst in the West-world you hold your fracases to”--he began enumerating on his fingers--”One, settle disputes between business compet.i.tors, or between corporations and unions. Two, to train soldiers for your defense requirements.

Three, to keep bemused a potentially dangerous lower cla.s.s....”

”I object to that, colonel,” one of the lieutenants said hotly.

The Sov officer ignored him. ”Four, to dispose of the more aggressive potential rebels, by allowing them to kill each other off in the continual combat.”

”That, sir, is simply not true,” the lieutenant blurted. Joe couldn't remember if he was Andersen or d.i.c.kson, even their names were similar.

Joe said, evenly, ”And your alternative?”

The Hungarian shrugged. ”The Proletarian Paradise maintains two armies, major. One of veterans, for defense against potential foreign foes, and named the Glorious Invincible Red Army--”

”Or, the Red Army, for short,” one of the lieutenants murmured dryly.

”... And the other composed of less experienced proletarians and their techno-intellectual, and sometimes even Party, officers. This is our Pink Army.”

”Wait a moment,” Joe said. ”What's a proletarian?”

The lieutenant who had protested the Sov officer's summation of the reasons for the West-world fracases, laughed dryly.