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That phase of the combat failed to materialize.

A voice of command bit out, “Hold it, you lads!”

The original situation which had precipitated the fight was being duplicated. But while the three Lowers had failed to respond to Joe Mauser’s tone of authority, there was no similar failure now.

The owner of the voice, beautifully done up in the uniform of Vacuum Tube Transport, complete to kilts and the swagger stick of the officer of Rank Colonel or above, stood glaring at them. Age, Joe estimated, even as he came to attention, somewhere in the late twenties–an Upper in caste. Born to command. His face holding that arrogant, contemptuous expression once common to the patricians of Rome, the Prussian Junkers, the British ruling class of the Nineteenth Century. Joe knew the expression well. How well he knew it. On more than one occasion, he had dreamt of it.

Joe said, “Yes, sir.”

“What in Zen goes on here? Are you lads overtranked?”

“No, sir,” Joe’s veteran opponent grumbled, his eyes on the ground, a schoolboy before the principal.

Joe said, evenly, “A private disagreement, sir.”

“Disagreement!” the Upper snorted. His eyes went to the three fallen combatants, who were in various stages of reviving. “I’d hate to see you lads in a real scrap.”

That brought a response from the non-combatants in the recruiting line. The bon mot wasn’t that good but caste has its privileges and the laughter was just short of uproarious.

Which seemed to placate the kilted officer. He tapped his swagger stick against the side of his leg while he ran his eyes up and down Joe Mauser and the others, as though memorizing them for future reference.

“All right,” he said. “Get back into the line, and you trouble makers quiet down. We’re processing as quickly as we can.” And at that point he added insult to injury with an almost word for word repetition of what Joe had said a few moments earlier. “You’ll get all the fighting you want from Hovercraft, if you can wait until then.”

The four original participants of the rumpus resumed their places in various stages of sheepishness. The little fellow, nursing an obviously aching jaw, made a point of taking up his original position even while darting a look of thanks to Joe Mauser who still stood where he had when the fight was interrupted.

The Upper looked at Joe. “Well, lad, are you interested in signing up with Vacuum Tube Transport or not?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe said evenly. Then, “Joseph Mauser, sir. Category Military, Rank Captain.”

“Indeed.” The officer looked him up and down all over again, his nostrils high. “A Middle, I assume. And brawling with recruits.” He held a long silence. “Very well, come with me.” He turned and marched off.

Joe inwardly shrugged. This was a fine start for his pitch–a fine start. He had half a mind to give it all up, here and now, and head on up to Catskill to enlist with Continental Hovercraft. His big scheme would wait for another day. Nevertheless, he fell in behind the aristocrat and followed him to the offices which had been his original destination.

* * * * *

Two Rank Privates with 45-70 Springfields and wearing the Haer kilts in such wise as to indicate permanent status in Vacuum Tube Transport came to the salute as they approached. The Upper preceding Joe Mauser flicked his swagger stick in an easy nonchalance. Joe felt envious amusement. How long did it take to learn how to answer a salute with that degree of arrogant ease?

There were desks in here, and typers humming, as Vacuum Tube Transport office workers, mobilized for this special service, processed volunteers for the company forces. Harried noncoms and junior-grade officers buzzed everywhere, failing miserably to bring order to the chaos. To the right was a door with a medical cross newly painted on it. When it occasionally popped open to admit or emit a recruit, white-robed doctors, male nurses and half nude men could be glimpsed beyond.