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Joe followed the other through the press and to an inner office at which door he didn’t bother to knock. He pushed his way through, waved in greeting with his swagger stick to the single occupant who looked up from the paper- and tape-strewn desk at which he sat.

Joe Mauser had seen the face before on Telly though never so tired as this and never with the element of defeat to be read in the expression. Bullet-headed, barrel-figured Baron Malcolm Haer of Vacuum Tube Transport. Category Transportation, Mid-Upper, and strong candidate for Upper-Upper upon retirement. However, there would be few who expected retirement in the immediate future. Hardly. Malcolm Haer found too obvious a lusty enjoyment in the competition between Vacuum Tube Transport and its stronger rivals.

* * *

Joe came to attention, bore the sharp scrutiny of his chosen commander-to-be. The older man’s eyes went to the kilted Upper officer who had brought Joe along. “What is it, Balt?”

The other gestured with his stick at Joe. “Claims to be Rank Captain. Looking for a commission with us, Dad. I wouldn’t know why.” The last sentence was added lazily.

The older Haer shot an irritated glance at his son. “Possibly for the same reason mercenaries usually enlist for a fracas, Balt.” His eyes came back to Joe.

Joe Mauser, still at attention even though in mufti, opened his mouth to give his name, category and rank, but the older man waved a hand negatively. “Captain Mauser, isn’t it? I caught the fracas between Carbonaceous Fuel and United Miners, down on the Panhandle Reservation. Seems to me I’ve spotted you once or twice before, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Joe said. This was some improvement in the way things were going.

The older Haer was scowling at him. “Confound it, what are you doing with no more rank than captain? On the face of it, you’re an old hand, a highly experienced veteran.”

An old pro, we call ourselves, Joe said to himself. Old pros, we call ourselves, among ourselves.

Aloud, he said, “I was born a Mid-Lower, sir.”

There was understanding in the old man’s face, but Balt Haer said loftily, “What’s that got to do with it? Promotion is quick and based on merit in Category Military.”

At a certain point, if you are good combat officer material, you speak your mind no matter the rank of the man you are addressing. On this occasion, Joe Mauser needed few words. He let his eyes go up and down Balt Haer’s immaculate uniform, taking in the swagger stick of the Rank Colonel or above. Joe said evenly, “Yes, sir.”

Balt Haer flushed quick temper. “What do you mean by–“

But his father was chuckling. “You have spirit, captain. I need spirit now. You are quite correct. My son, though a capable officer, I assure you, has probably not participated in a fraction of the fracases you have to your credit. However, there is something to be said for the training available to we Uppers in the academies. For instance, captain, have you ever commanded a body of lads larger than, well, a company?“

Joe said flatly, “In the Douglas-Boeing versus Lockheed-Cessna fracas we took a high loss of officers when the Douglas-Boeing outfit rang in some fast-firing French mitrailleuse we didn’t know they had. As my superiors took casualties I was field promoted to acting battalion commander, to acting regimental commander, to acting brigadier. For three days I held the rank of acting commander of brigade. We won.”

Balt Haer snapped his fingers. “I remember that. Read quite a paper on it.” He eyed Joe Mauser, almost respectfully. “Stonewall Cogswell got the credit for the victory and received his marshal’s baton as a result.”

“He was one of the few other officers that survived,” Joe said dryly.

“But, Zen! You mean you got no promotion at all?”

Joe said, “I was upped to Low-Middle from High-Lower, sir. At my age, at the time, quite a promotion.”