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“A farce?” Max ejaculated indignantly, forgetting his servant status. “That means not so good, doesn’t it? Far as I’m concerned, election day is tops. The one day a Lower is just as good as an Upper. The one day how many shares you got makes no difference. Everybody has everything.”

“Sure, sure, sure,” Joe sighed. “The modern equivalent of the Roman Bacchanalia. Election day in the West-world when no one, for just that one day, is freer than anyone else.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?” The other was all but belligerent. “That’s the trouble with you Middles and Uppers, you don’t know how it is to be a Lower and–“

Joe snapped suddenly, “I was born a Mid-Lower myself, Max. Don’t give me that nonsense.”

Max gaped at him, utterly unbelieving.

Joe’s irritation fell away. He held out his glass. “Get us a couple of more drinks, Max, and I’ll tell you a story.”

By the time the fresh drink came, Joe Mauser was sorry he’d made the offer. He thought back. He hadn’t told anyone the Joe Mauser story in many a year. And, as he recalled, the last time had been when he was well into his cups, on an election day at that, and his listener had been a Low-Upper, a hereditary aristocrat, one of the one per cent of the upper strata of the nation. Zen! How the man had laughed. He’d roared his amusement till the tears ran.

However, Joe said, “Max, I was born in the same caste you were–average father, mother, sisters and brothers. They subsisted on the basic income guaranteed from birth, sat and watched Telly for an unbelievable number of hours each day, took trank to keep themselves happy. And thought I was crazy because I didn’t. Dad was the sort of man who’d take his belt off to a child of his who questioned such school taught slogans as What was good enough for Daddy is good enough for me.

“They were all fracas fans, of course. As far back as I can remember the picture is there of them gathered around the Telly, screaming excitement.” Joe Mauser sneered, uncharacteristically.

“You don’t sound much like you’re in favor of your trade, captain,” Max said.

Joe came to his feet, putting down his still half-full glass. “I’ll make this epic story short, Max. As you said, the two actually valid methods of rising above the level in which you were born are in the Military and Religious Categories. Like you, even I couldn’t stomach the latter.”

Joe Mauser hesitated, then finished it off. “Max, there have been few societies that man has evolved that didn’t allow in some manner for the competent or sly, the intelligent or the opportunist, the brave or the strong, to work his way to the top. I don’t know which of these I personally fit into, but I rebel against remaining in the lower categories of a stratified society. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well, no sir, not exactly.”

Joe said flatly, “I’m going to fight my way to the top, and nothing is going to stand in the way. Is that clearer?”

“Yessir,” Max said, taken aback.

IV

After routine morning duties, Joe Mauser returned to his billet and mystified Max Mainz by not only changing into mufti himself but having Max do the same.

In fact, the new batman protested faintly. He hadn’t nearly, as yet, got over the glory of wearing his kilts and was looking forward to parading around town in them. He had a point, of course. The appointed time for the fracas was getting closer and buffs were beginning to stream into town to bask in the atmosphere of threatened death. Everybody knew what a military center, on the outskirts of a fracas reservation such as the Catskills, was like immediately preceding a clash between rival corporations. The high-strung gaiety, the drinking, the overtranking, the relaxation of mores. Even a Rank Private had it made. Admiring civilians to buy drinks and hang on your every word, and more important still, sensuous-eyed women, their faces slack in thinly suppressed passion. It was a recognized phenomenon, even Max Mainz knew–this desire on the part of women Telly fans to date a man, and then watch him later, killing or being killed.